“She said she was going to the bathroom,” Breaker calls out.
“That was a while ago, though,” Delaney adds, standing to scan the area.
I jump the guard rail and race below the stands. The bathrooms and concession stands are beneath. If she’s gone to the bathroom, then she has to be down here somewhere.
Unwarranted panic sets in when I don’t see her. I open the girls’ bathroom door and yell her name. A group of women yell at me, telling me to get the hell out.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
My chin falls to my chest, and I turn to see Palmer standing with a bag of popcorn in her hands. She pops a piece in her mouth and smiles.
“I, umm . . .” For fuck’s sake, could I sound any dumber? “Where were you?”
Her eyes shift from her coveted popcorn to me. “I came down here to answer a phone call from my parents, and thought maybe I should get something to eat because I’m starving. What are you doing down here?” Her eyes narrow. “Wait a second, were you worried about me?”
“And if I was?” I shrug. “There’s still someone out there who attacked you. I’m sorry for worrying. When I didn’t see you, I thought the worst.”
“Because you like me.”
“Whatever.” I head towards the stairwell that leads to the field. “I’m glad you’re not dead, is all.” I smile to myself and pull on my helmet.
The second half of the game goes just as I suspect. We get a decent lead, and after Dillon makes a couple comments about Palmer, I have no choice.
“Don’t block for him,” I say to our largest lineman, Max Edwards.
“But . . .” he pleads.
I’m a believer in a team. He and every other person on this field wearing our school colors knows it.
“I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important,” I offer, hoping to get my point across.
“Wouldn’t have anything to do with that sweet little thing up in the stands, would it? Overheard him plotting some shit the other day in the locker room.”
“Like what?” I pat him on the back.
“I don’t know, man.” He waves the idea off. “Johnson is harmless, so I can’t imagine it would be anything worth worrying about.”
He’s right. The only thing big and bad about Dillon Johnson is his father. Lord knows that mother fucker throws that weight around campus.
I stand in the backfield, watching as Max sets up. I continue like the play is important, running my hardest route, already knowing the outcome I’ve orchestrated. When I turn, I see it. If I wasn’t looking for it, I’d miss the whole thing. Max follows through for me.
Dillon hits the turf, hard and deadly. The guy from the other team stands over his limp body, talking shit as expected. The ref shoves him away, and everyone falls to one knee, showing good sportsmanship. Only two of us know the truth.
Max turns back, and we exchange glances. I nod once, and he turns back around, focusing on Dillon’s writhing body.
No one needs to know this is a message to Johnson.
With the help of our athletic trainer, Johnson is hauled off the field, dragging his lifeless legs behind him. The game resumes as if nothing happened.
“He got thumped,” Max says before we make it to the huddle.
“It won’t fall back on you. You got my word.” I pat him roughly on his shoulder pads.
“I’m not worried.” He shrugs, dismissing my promise.
Once in the huddle, I check on my boys. They look to me for guidance on and off the field, and tonight will be no different. Our second-string quarterback joins us, fear in his eyes. After a quick speech, we clap once and play like everything is normal.
We finish the game with a closer score than I’m comfortable with.
“You almost screwed the pooch on that one, Hawthorne!” Breaker yells to me from the stands. “Palmer was biting her nails the whole time.”
“Shut the fuck up.” Palmer punches him in the stomach and turns to face me. “Good game, Marek.”
“Thanks.” I smile. “Wait for me. I want to take you somewhere.”
“I don’t know.” She shakes her head.
“Please.”
Who knew one word would make her putty in my hand?
Chapter Seventeen
Palmer
This is such a bad idea.
I sit on the hood of Marek’s truck, after begging Breaker to leave me here alone. He’s overprotective to the point I’m starting to think I need to dodge him.
Delaney is trying her hardest to understand the weird friendship between Breaker and me. I’ve begged her not to bother, when I don’t even understand it myself. Over the weeks following the boys’ orchestrated attack, Breaker’s made it his mission to prove himself to me.
On more than one occasion, I’ve asked him why he’s hell bent on proving to me he’s not a monster. At first, he didn’t have an answer for me, but then one day, he sat in front of me, sincerity in his eyes.
“We don’t prey on the weak. We acquire the strong. That was our first mistake with you. We underestimated every fiber of who you are.”
After that day, I stopped questioning everything he did for me and around me because it no longer mattered. He’d earned my trust by giving me what I’d needed, the reassurance that I’m not seen as fragile.
“What has you daydreaming, beautiful?” Marek drops his bag on the ground and hops on the hood next to me.
“You’ve never called me beautiful.”
“Well, that’s my fault, then.” His stare takes in the empty parking lot. “I should have told you before because you deserve to know.”
“That I’m beautiful.” My words are slow, as I try to digest everything Marek is saying.
“That you’re more than the sum of your parts. That you aren’t a means to an end. That you aren’t a chess piece in our game.” He slides down the hood and offers me his hand.
I reluctantly take it. That seems to be a speed lately. He’s somehow weaseled his way back into my life, after everything, and that shit will drive a girl crazy, like straightjacket insane.
“You can trust me,” Marek says, releasing my hand and opening the door for me.
Our five-minute drive is spent in silence. Marek glances over at me when we stop at red lights. Once they’re green, his eyes return to the road.
You can trust me.
Can I though? Showing up to walk me to class every day doesn’t erase everything he’s done. All the lies, the betrayal, and cruelty.
How do I trust someone who’s an emotional bomber? He dropped it right onto my chest, blowing my heart right out of my body. How do we move on from that? How do I sit next to him and not wonder if he’s plotting something new?
“Don’t think too hard.” Marek cuts the truck off and turns to me.
“All I do lately is think,” I admit, staring out the front windshield.
Marek unbuckles my seat belt, reaches over my body, and shoves open the door. “Get out and stop thinking.”
I do as he says, meeting Marek at the front of the truck. “What is this place?”
“My favorite place in the world.” He holds out his hand, wiggling his fingers like an eager kid begging for candy.