by Jordan Grant
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “I tend to get into sports. I’m sort of a sports nerd. I did that thing where I was really loud again, didn’t I?”
Molly and I nod while Raven continues tugging at her ear like maybe the harder she pulls, the quicker she can stop the ringing.
“Sorry,” he says again with an apologetic smile.
“Next time, warn us, will you?” Raven says, being sort of loud herself as she resorts to cocking her head and tapping the side of her skull over her ear repeatedly.
Jonah smiles. “Will do.” He holds up his hand, showing his fingers crossed together. “I promise.”
“What do you study at Stanford?” Molly asks Jonah.
Raven tosses me a look that says, Shouldn’t you be the one talking to this guy?
I shoot her one back that I hope says, No, thank you, ma’am, but is probably more like, Why are you looking at me like that?
“Biomedical engineering,” he says with a shrug like it doesn’t even interest him to talk about it. “But I’m going to add in a double major next semester in English.” He livens up with this last part, leaning in with his words. “I’m going to take a medieval languages class next fall.”
“You don’t say?” Raven says, quirking an eyebrow at me. “I know someone who loved old English.” She elbows me in the ribs.
“I…I…” I stammer, looking wide-eyed at her and then him. “Well, uh, love is a bit of an overstatement or the greatest overstatement of all time.”
Jonah laughs and says, “Cute.”
Oh, no, buddy. We can be friends, but my heart is hog-tied in the back seat of Ian’s Ferrari.
“You should totally sit with us, Jonah!” Raven offers, smiling brilliantly and moving over.
Oh, double no. Triple no. No to infinity.
I can’t lead on a nice boy when I belong to someone else.
Jonah moves into the seat beside me, and Raven makes sure to give him just enough room that he’s practically sitting on top of me. He smells like oranges and the threat of my ex-boyfriend’s rage.
“You already took old English?” Jonah asks, like he’s astounded. Trust me, I was too.
“Mm-hmm.” I nod.
Jonah snorts and takes a swig from his water bottle. “My brother is totally going to get his ass kicked here.”
I can’t help it. I laugh with Molly and Raven before Molly passes an open box of Cookie Dough Bites down the row. I accept a handful and pass it to Jonah, who declines and gives it to Raven.
“Harlow,” Jonah muses as Coach Wells calls the Vikings in for a huddle. He chews on his bottom lip. “I know that name.”
“Wait, are you, Weather…ington? Harlow Weatherington?” he asks.
Well, crap. Looks like his brother has told him about all the drama going on with the football team.
“Weathersby,” I correct him after a painful moment.
“You’re the QB’s girlfriend! The, uh…”
My head fills in the blanks for him with all the nasty descriptions of myself I’ve heard around the Academy.
The ice queen who broke Ian Beckett’s heart.
The bitch who thought herself too good for him.
The entitled senior who must have found herself a college guy.
Activate social potato status now.
“I, uh,” Jonah says. “I think my brother is like afraid of you.”
“Me?” I laugh because now that is ridiculous.
“Yeah, for real.” He places a hand over his heart. “I swear.”
“You want to meet him after the game?” he asks. “I promise the kid won’t know what to do with himself. He’ll probably pee his pants and then ask you a ton of questions about the QB. He like full-on idolizes the guy. You’ll make his day just by acknowledging his existence.”
“Oh…I don’t…”
Raven cuts me off with a well-placed elbow around Jonah and between my ribs. “She’d love to!”
“I’ll make it worth your while,” Jonah says with a wink. “Milkshakes are on me!”
“It’s a date,” Raven quips, and it’s my turn to elbow her in the ribs.
The game winds down like it normally does, with Voclain pulling into a long lead in the last half, while Jonah continues chattering on about Stanford. We talk about colleges, and he finds out I was accepted to Stanford as well, and he keeps saying how I should really go, that we could see each other next year, and he could show me all the secret hangout spots. After the win is announced, we walk back toward the exit booths near concessions, me roped into a promise to meet a freshman who’s apparently obsessed with my ex-boyfriend.
As I dump my trash in the trashcan, I spot Ian standing on the sidelines next to a chain-link fence as he gives an interview to a local TV station. His pants are field-stained with grass and dirt and his jersey is dirty too, scuffed from the game. He holds his helmet in one hand by the face guard as he smiles brilliantly at the camera, nodding his head enthusiastically as he talks about the win. His smile is so bright I doubt the viewers back home will even realize it’s fake. It sure makes for a pretty, albeit false, picture.
As we walk back, worming our way through the crowd, the interview ends, and the television station starts to wrap it up for the evening, unplugging mic cords and putting the camera in its case. I follow Raven toward the exit, squeezing past the students crowding around each other as they try to figure out where they will spend the rest of their night, but then Ian is in front of me, intercepting me on my path.
Gone is the picture-perfect smile for the cameras, the gleam of perfect white teeth against tan flesh.
Unreadable Ian has arrived, and he’s frowning at me.
“You came,” he says to me, and with those two little words, he gives me a smile that ignites a fire of hope in my soul before he turns his gaze to Jonah and adds, “And you brought your boyfriend too.”
Oh, hell.
“He’s not…” I begin, but Raven cuts me off.
“Beckett,” she warns, “behave yourself.”
“Blakely,” Ian claps back like just her last name is an insult. His tone says it all though, clipped and short, a warning to not get involved.
Raven rolls her eyes like she couldn’t care less what Ian has to say.
I stare at Ian, and Ian stares at Jonah. Jonah has the good sense to pretend like he doesn’t know what’s going on and offers his hand to Ian with a compliment.
“Great game, man,” Jonah says.
Ian glances down at Jonah’s outstretched hand and immediately dismisses it.
Raven tugs on my arm and whispers, “Let’s get out of here, sunshine. Now.”
I send my best I’m sorry look to Jonah and start away with Raven and Molly, hoping he will get the hint and follow after, but there’s a snake unfurling in my stomach and it’s made of pure dread. When I turn around, Jonah’s still in front of Ian, and Ian looks like he wants to check for himself Jonah’s blood type.
24
Ian
All right, why is this California fuckboy grinning at me, his hand outstretched in my direction like I’m actually going to shake it?
I know a “nice guy” when I see one, and I got a prime, grade-A example right in front of me. He may look like a helpless little lamb—dressed in his starched Ralph Lauren polo, skinny jeans, and spotless Wallabees—but this fucker is definitely a pretty wolf in sheep’s clothing. His get-up doesn’t fool me. I’ve seen plenty of his kind over my years of private schools and country clubs, where the rich teach even our most sick individuals how to dress up and play the part of a generic upstanding citizen.
I’ve got no respect for his kind either.
Own your shit or go the fuck away, and this guy needs to disappear.
I ignore his outstretched hand and wait for him to get the hint.
“Who are you?” I ask, frowning back at him.
“I’m Jonah,” Fuckboy says, finally withdrawing his hand. “I’m Anthony Pavelli’s brother.”
Ah, the
brother from California. I fucking called it from his beach-blonde highlights and his West Coast accent. Pavelli’s been bitching about this dude for over a month. This is the twat who got himself expelled from Stanford for doing twat-like things. I can’t remember all the details. Something went way-the-hell wrong at a sorority party and the cops were called, maybe?
Shit. What did Pavelli say? Think, Beckett! Think!
Is this the…oh, fuck no. This is the guy arrested with roofies in his possession. Yeah, that sounds…and looks…about right. Like I said, prime nice guy right here.
Wait, so why is California’s deported fuckboy hanging out with my…my Harlow? And why is he even on my damn campus? Jesus Christ, don’t we pay enough for some decent security around here?
Also, to add to his twat-like behavior, does this dude seriously think Pavelli wants anything to do with him? His brother bad-mouthed him from the administrative building down to the football field and back again. What a moron.
I scowl at his still grinning face.
“Why are you here, man?” I glance over at Harlow, whose eyes, the color of morning glories, are pinched together as she observes us. She looks concerned, but I wish she wouldn’t waste it on this prick.
Hold up. Were they leaving together?
Lightning shoots through my veins and crackles all the way to my bruised knuckles. I want to show this dude what it means to step foot on Voclain Academy property, but with the outstanding charges, I realize it’s a bad idea to start this fight in the middle of a crowded place, so I’ll deal with this the way my father taught me, ice-cold intimidation with a threat of blackmail.
A pregnant lady waddles by us, dragging a crying toddler with her. That’s good at least. I’m going to need all women and children away from this shit-stain.
Fuckboy’s grin falters. “I was just watching the game, my brother.”
Eww. My scowl deepens. Dude called me my brother. Like we are cut from the same cloth. Please, mother-fucker.
“Leave, man,” I growl, my knuckles cracking at my sides as I imagine slamming them into this douchebag’s face and making his nose look like a messed up Z.
Apparently, it is all the fuckboy can do to stand there and gawk at me, so I add, “I know what you did, asshole. Your brother told everyone on the team, so fucking leave now.”
Dude blinks at me like this is really a surprise to him, when I know for a fact Pavelli already told him to fuck off. Dude’s been a creeper for life from what I was told, and this was the last damn straw.
“No,” the idiot says abruptly.
What did this dude just say? Doesn’t he have like a self-preservation instinct at least?
I scowl at him.
“No,” he repeats, shaking his head this time before the crazy fucker smiles at me, mirth shining in his eyes like it all really is a game to him and not my fucking life.
“No?” I parrot. “Are you deaf, dude? Get off my campus now.”
He grins again, and I really don’t like whatever it is that’s happening here.
“Pfft, hell no.” He waves a hand at Harlow like they are old pals. “I literally just made new friends, and I’ve got a chick that actually likes me. From what I hear, you’re on thin ice right now anyway, man, so you can’t start shit.” Dammit, Pavelli!!! He takes a step closer, and this dude must have a death wish. “You can stand there and watch as I leave with your ex. I promise I’ll do everything but fuck her tonight, unless she begs for it, then I’m totally going to fuck her. I’m sure you get it.”
I get that I’m going to kill this piece of shit.
I get that I’m going to wipe him from the face of the planet so that he can never contaminate the gene pool.
Red clouds my vision, and I feel the rage there, boiling below the surface, bunching up in my shoulders and running down the length of my spine as I regard this waste of air.
I just got un-benched and put back onto the team.
I can’t fucking beat the shit out of him, not right now at least.
But I also can’t watch him leave with Harlow.
Fuck this! Let’s see how much the donors want a football program after all.
— Harlow —
I take two steps toward Ian, weaving through the crowd as Molly and Raven stay back and watch. There are students everywhere and staff too, but right now they all seem oblivious to the war that’s about to erupt on their battlefield and that their star quarterback is about to get into a fist fight with a parent’s offspring.
Two more steps and I wind around a group of freshman girls giggling into their iPhones as they look at GIFs.
Two more steps closer to the fray, and I’m nearly to where Ian stands, his fingers twitching with the urge to feel Jonah’s blood coat his knuckles. It certainly won’t help the court case against him, regardless of how ridiculous that case is, and it definitely won’t help his college prospects. He’ll be known as nothing more than a live wire, the guy who threatens to start a forest fire without a moment’s notice.
I see it all play out inside my broken brain. My worst fears for him rise from the dirt and blossom to life.
Jail time, probation probably too, because no amount of wealth or influence will save him from the crooked wrath of Finn’s family.
College offers rescinded. Blacklisted across the United States. No Ivy-league degree to help him live a life outside his father’s creation.
Cut off from his parents’ fortune, the black sheep of the family barely mentioned, except for hushed whispers at dinner parties.
A bright future extinguished, drenched before it could ever really begin.
I take two more steps and say my words loud and clear, so I’m certain to draw the whispers of our sniggering classmates with Dolce & Gabbana sunglasses perched atop their heads like expensive barrettes. I make sure even the gawkers in the back, the ones who will stand up on their tip-toes inside their Gucci sneakers with their iPhones held up, can hear. I stare straight ahead at Ian’s profile and the sweat-slick strands of his hair that curl around the fabric of his jersey.
“Leave it, Beckett,” I order him.
Ian goes completely still, his fists still clenched at his sides, the muscles of his back corded with the effort. He snaps his head to look over his shoulder at me, and his eyes widen for a fraction of a second like my presence just confirmed what he thought might be a hallucination. His surprise is warranted. I don’t instigate. I defend, so what the hell am I doing now?
He spins on his heel to face me, and the sight of him head-on, a few measly feet between us, is too much. He’s dirty and sweaty, and everything about him screams predatory. Dark pieces of dirt and field freckle the bronzed skin of his arms and stain his uniform. Wet strands of inky hair stick out every which way, and he looks gigantic, even taller than normal in his padded uniform.
I can’t interfere, not in the traditional sense, and face the screwed up wrath of Finn. There’s only one option really. I have to redirect his anger and give Finn what he wants from wherever he’s watching. I have to give him our misery, and that means I have to make myself a target.
I know the words I need to say, the ones that will avoid Ian fighting with Jonah, but they’ll destroy me in the process and make him hate me even more. They leave my mouth like a plague, infecting us both.
“Let the guy be,” I say. “You don’t have anything to prove here. Everyone already knows you are the fast food of quarterbacks, popular but overrated.”
Whispers sound around us as he cants his head and regards me with an expression that leaves me reeling on choppy waters, unsure of what’s next. He looks like he both hates me and pities me.
I am a single piece of paper, and he is ripping me in two.
He takes three steps forward, coming so close that I have to crane my neck to look up at him. He smirks, a glint of white, polished teeth against his golden tan, and my heart thuds against my ribcage. I breathe in the scent of grass and game and him, earth and a hint of sugar.
“Oh, sweetness,” his words flat and cold, just like his gaze, “if that’s true, then why do you keep coming back for more?”
The crowd snickers around us, and my pride takes a hit. He’s grinning, but there’s nothing nice about it. It’s pure violence, but at least I don’t think he’s going to hit Jonah anymore.
“A mistake,” I insist. “It was a mistake.”
“One time is a mistake,” he says. “Two is a coincidence. Three is a pattern.”
The sniggers of the crowd explode. They all definitely think we’re talking about sex, and my cheeks blush bright in embarrassment.
Once behind the auditorium, when he touched me and I didn’t stop him.
Again, outside in the storm, when he could have had me and we both know it.
The third in the exhibition hall, when I fell to my knees at his request.
It is becoming a pattern.
He leans in so close that every breath I take steals one from him. Goosebumps break out across the exposed flesh of my throat and down across my collarbone.
“I don’t buy your bullshit.” His lips thin before he shakes his head. “Why does your pretty mouth keep telling such ugly lies, Weathersby?”
I lower my voice, my words just for him. “Leave it, Ian,” I tell him. “Don’t do this with Jonah. Walk away.”
He blinks at me but recovers quickly.
“Give me a reason,” he growls.
“Because I want you to have a future.” I want us to have a future. I look up at him, silently pleading with him to just listen to me. He purses his lips like he knows he will never figure me out, no matter how hard he tries.
“Tell me something, Weathersby,” he hisses, “why is it that every word out of your mouth sounds like it comes from a politician? You say the words I want to hear, but your actions don’t back them up. You’re gold-plating my downfall.”
My eyes close with my sigh. “I’m trying to make sure you don’t fall at all.”
