“Bass.” A body steps in my path. I peer around them. “Bass!”
I blink and see that it’s Emory standing in front of me. “What?”
“Hey,” he says, giving me a weird look. “We need to talk.”
Impatiently, I try once again to peer past him. “About what?”
“Tonight,” is all he says. “Seven. You know where.”
He gives me a meaningful look, one that suggests he’s aware I was just about to beat down a fellow Devil. He’s never approached me directly like that. Most Devil communication goes through the standard process. The fact that there’s no envelope, and he’s telling me about it plain as day in front of my teammates, means this is not a formal meeting.
Just fucking great.
“I’ve got practice.”
“I don’t care,” he says, turning to walk off. “Be there.”
I watch him go, and then glance back over at the table, catching Sugar looking at me. We hold one another’s gaze for a long beat. My heart pounds in my ears and I wait for her to do something, to show some kind of reaction, but she doesn’t.
She just turns away.
“Is that how you want to do this?” I ask, tearing off my gloves. “Is that really how you want this to go down?” My helmet is next. I throw it across the field. Peter Norton looks around at our teammates, hoping they’ll do something. They won’t, because they’re all a bunch of pussies. I step toward him and shove his chest with both hands. “Are you really going to foul me like that?”
I know I’m overreacting, but it’s like I can’t control it. I need to get out this anger before I blow completely. This isn’t even the first altercation this practice. It’s the third. But lacrosse, being out here on the field, just isn’t hitting the same way it used to. No matter how hard I run or how many of these motherfuckers I tackle, the wild, burning thing in my chest just isn’t going away.
It doesn’t make any sense. This was supposed to be it. I was supposed to come out here and get lost in the game and leave the field feeling… well, if not better, then at least not fucking worse.
“Hey!” Gus Meyers shouts, grabbing me by the shoulder. “Chill the fuck out, Wilcox.”
I look down at his hand and then slowly raise my gaze to his ugly face. Fear flickers in his eyes at the grin I give him, full of teeth, and he drops his hand, taking a step back. Touching me was a stupid fucking move on his part and he knows it.
“Wilcox!” my name echoes across the field through the bullhorn. “You touch another one of my players and you’re done for the season!”
Pete, Gus, and everyone else on the field waits to see if I believe Coach Pickford. Or maybe they’re waiting to see if I care. I thought I would. I figured once I got this back, even if I’d carved my own heart out by fucking Sugar over so, so well, that I’d be able to immerse in the violence of it.
Now, it all seems pointless and tedious.
“Fuck it,” I say. “Fuck all of this.”
I walk off the field, passing the glares of the coach and the other guys on the bench. I exit the field, yanking my shirt off and wiping off my face. When I look up again, I see Ben standing nearby, hands shoved in his letterman jacket’s pockets.
“The fuck do you want?”
He shrugs. “Just making sure you go meet Emory.”
I scoff, stepping up to him. “Or what? You think you can make me?”
“I think Meyers is right,” Ben replies, not looking intimidated in the least. “You need to chill the fuck out. You’re acting crazier than usual.”
I can take Ben. He knows I can take him. But where’s the fun in that, anyway?
“Whatever. Let’s just get this bullshit over with.”
He escorts me across the field, like some kind of fucking hall monitor. When I get to the tower, he doesn’t come in with me. He stands by the door, jerking his head at the knob in a stupidly persistent gesture.
I take a deep breath and head downstairs, stepping through the low entrance. The first thing I see is the couch where Sugar and I…
I grit my teeth and turn away.
I’d expected a full crew, but the reality is a lot more depressing. It’s just Emory and Reyn, kicked back in a couple chairs, sharing some beers.
I go ahead and help myself to a bottle. “So where are the others? I know Ben’s out there getting practicing for his career as a minimum wage bouncer. Tyson’s too nice for conflict, so I get why he’s out. But what about Carlton?” Bitterly, I guess, “I probably know what he’s doing, considering I saw him hitting on her at lunch. Didn’t take him long, did it? Bet my used condom hasn’t even made it to the landfill yet and he’s already taking a run at her. Motherfucker.”
“Jesus, dude,” Emory says, face screwed up into a glower. “What the hell is going on with you?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” he spits back. “You come into classes every day hungover, looking like crap. That is, when you decide to actually attend. All the girls are riled up about whatever went down between you and Sugar. Vandy and Aubrey were the ones who asked us to talk to you. Even Afton said something, and you know she doesn’t get involved in trivial shit. I know break-ups suck, but this has gone somewhere toxic.”
“Look,” I shrug, “they’re Team Sugar. No skin off my back. You know, Hoes before Bros.”
“They aren’t Hoes,” Emory snaps. “They’re Devils, and they’re worried. We’re all a little worried. I mean, fuck, dude, you’re not exactly…” He waves a hand at me, as if encompassing my entire being.
I raise my eyebrows, waiting for him to continue.
“Stable,” Reyn cuts in, clearly having no problem throwing punches. “You’re not stable.”
I narrow my eyes. “Is Reynolds McAllister seriously judging my character? Because that’s like the pot calling the kettle—oh wait, someone stole the kettle. And the pot. And the whole fucking stove.”
Reyn just shrugs.
“No one is judging you,” Emory insists. “In fact, Georgia is convinced this is about Heston.”
I clamp my jaw shut, eyes narrowing. “Georgia needs to shut her cakehole.”
He ignores me. “Is it? Does this have something to do with Heston?”
I shove a hand through my hair and look away. Emory’s the only one who really knows my brother. Fuck, he idolized him and Bates when they ran this joint. But I also know that Emory wanted the Devils to be better than a group of pretentious bullying assholes. He wanted to make this into something worth being a part of. Kind of funny when I think about it—the long arm of Heston, still fucking the Devils up even after he’s left.
I take a long drag from my beer before admitting, “Heston found out about me and Sugar.”
There’s a long moment of silence before Reyn says, “Uh, so what? What’s the big deal. Did you think you could keep her a secret forever?”
“Did he say something?” Emory asks, eyebrows furrowed. “Did he threaten her?”
I think about the texts he sent me. It was an entire day of them. He found her school records. He knows she’s here on scholarship. He knows she doesn’t like being touched. Fuck, that one probably gets me the most. This thing I tried so hard to teach her was good and fine, and he’s more than willing to twist it into something ugly and awful, just to get back at me for…