Team Player 2: A Sports Anthology

by Paige, Rochelle

  Minutes pass, maybe an hour, until I feel like I can move, crawling slowly away from the trees and across the open meadow toward the road.

  I hear the soft rumble of a vehicle, and headlights flash in front of me, a car swinging into the field. Part of me is glad someone is here, but that is soon overridden by fear that it’s the person who—

  My anxiety ratchets up, and my muscles burn as I attempt to crawl back the way I came. The bright glow of the lights blinds me, and my head swings wildly around, looking for somewhere to go.

  Run, run, run…

  But I can’t.

  Shuffling sounds break the stillness, a car door slamming, a voice calling out.

  Broad shoulders stand over me, and I blink up. I can’t see his face, the beam of lights in my face and the darkness around him forcing me to close my eyes. He speaks in a soft voice as strong arms come down and sweep me up. Shifting around in his embrace, I try to fight, but there’s nothing left, no struggle, no girl from the inner city who knows how to fight. I’m empty, my body unable to resist him putting me in his car, snapping the seat belt around me. He says something, maybe my name, asking me questions, but I can’t think straight. I can’t do…anything.

  He pulls away from the field, the car moving fast, so fast, and my head lolls to the side on the seat, my eyes wide and anxious, staring at my captor. Who is he? Do I know him? I squint, catching a glint of chiseled jawline and furrowed brow. His head turns and his steely gaze locks with mine. I think I see anger—and just when I think I know him, just when it’s on the tip of my tongue, there’s nothing but darkness as I slip away and sink into oblivion.

  Chapter One

  Senior year

  Ava

  The sun beats down on me as I get out of my dark green, older-model Jeep Wrangler. There’s a dent on the side and the paint is rusted. I worked three summers waiting tables to buy the thing, and it’s my sole possession in the world. It’s not pretty, but it’s mine.

  Parked next to me is a sleek black Porsche, and on the other side is a red Maserati. I sigh. Almost a year since I’ve been a student here, yet nothing changes. Welcome to Camden Prep, a prestigious private school in the middle of Melrose, Tennessee, one of the richest small towns in the US, home to senators, country music stars, and professional athletes.

  Slinging my backpack over my arm, I sprint through the parking lot, carefully evading the cars. Tension and apprehension make my heart race the closer I get to the double doors of that ivy-covered main entrance, bookended by two castle-style gray turrets. The final bell for classes hasn’t rung yet, but I have exactly five minutes to get to my locker and get to class. Arriving late was my plan, hoping to avoid the peering eyes that will be waiting for me.

  As I jog, I tug at my new school uniform, a mid-thigh red and gold plaid skirt, a new requirement this year, something the administration instituted to blur the lines between the haves and the have-nots. As if. Everyone already knows who the rich kids are and who are the ones like me. Just look in the freaking parking lot.

  I stop at the door, inhaling a deep breath. Dread, thick and ugly, eats at me, even though I gave myself a hundred pep talks on the twenty-minute drive in from the Sisters of Charity orphanage where I live in downtown Nashville.

  I pat down my newly dyed dark hair, shoulder length with the front sides longer than the back, a far cry from the super long wavy blonde hair I sported last year. Cutting and dying my hair was…therapy. I did it for me, to show these assholes that I’m not going to be that nice little scholarship girl anymore. Screw that. I gather my mental strength, pulling from my past, reminding myself that I’ve seen shit they can’t even imagine. I’ve sat in a homeless shelter holding a baby. I’ve watched my mom shoot needles in her arms, in between her toes, wherever she could to get that high. I’ve watched her suck down a bottle of vodka for breakfast.

  These rich kids are fucking toddlers compared to me.

  So why am I shaking all over?

  I swing the doors open to a rush of cool air and brightly lit hallways. The outside may look as if you’ve been tossed back a few centuries, but the inside is plush and modern.

  Smells like money, I think as I stand for a second and take it all in.

  Students milling around—girls in pleated skirts and white button-downs like mine, guys in khakis and white shirts with red and gold ties—swivel their heads to see who’s coming in on the first day of classes.

  Fighting nervousness, I inhale a cleansing breath, part of me already regretting this decision, urging me to turn around and run, but I hang tough, fighting nausea that’s been bubbling since the moment I got in my car. Shit. I swallow down my emotions, carefully shuffling them away, locking them up in that chest I keep in my mind, that special place where things I hate go—and I fucking despise this place. I picture a chain and padlock on that box of memories from last year.

  I rove my eyes over them, not lingering too long on faces. Digging deep inside, I force a hard expression on my face, one I’ve been practicing for weeks.

  That’s right, Ava Harris, the bitch who went to the police after the party—although it didn’t do any good—is back.

  And I’m not going anywhere again. This school is my goal. All I need is this final year, and I might be able to swing a full ride at a state school or even Vanderbilt.

  I start walking down the hall and the crowd parts for me, more students seeing me and pausing, their eyes widening, some gasping. The air around me practically bristles with tension.

  If I were a wicked witch, I’d cackle right now and really freak them out. My fists clench, barely hanging on to my resolve.

  You’re badass. You’re brave. You’re better than any of them.

  But inside, my words of encouragement feel hollow.

  Piper, my bestie since freshman year, rushes up to me and throws her arms around me. “She’s back! My main girl is back! OMG, I HAVE MISSED YOU SO MUCH!”

  Seeing her exuberant, welcoming face is exactly what I needed. Pretty with long strawberry blonde hair pulled back with two butterfly clips, she’s been my friend since we had a chorus class together. She can’t carry a tune for shit, and well, I love to sing. She’s a scholarship student like me, and we stick together. Lines are carefully drawn here, demarcating who is popular and who isn’t. She shoves at her neon pink cat-eye glasses and smiles widely. “I’m so glad to see you.” She squeezes my hand. “Also, my parents are insisting you come to dinner soon. They miss your smart mouth.”

  I give her a wan smile, putting as much effort into it as I can. Her parents were the ones who took me to the hospital last year. Nice people. Hardworking. What a real family looks like. Damn, it’s been hard not seeing her every day like I used to.

  But I don’t let on. A brave face is my motto today.

  She jumps when she hears her name over the intercom, talking fast as lightning. “Yikes! I need to run. Can you believe I forgot my laptop on the first day? I’m such a ditz! See you in class, ’kay? We have first period together, yes?” She gives me a quick hug. “One day at a time, sister. You got this.”

  But, do I?

  I want to run away.

  Then I think about my little brother Daniel and refocus. He needs me right now, and this hellhole is perfect for him. Goals—I have them. Must stick to them.

  Before I can get a word out—typical—she’s gone and bouncing down the hall like Tigger from Winnie the Pooh. I miss her immediately, feeling the heat of everyone’s eyes on me.

  I give myself a mental shake. It’s funny how no one really noticed me during my freshman and sophomore year here. Nope. I was the girl who kept her head down and blended in as well as I could, trying to keep my upbringing off the radar…until last year when I got it in my head to be a cheerleader. I figured it would look good on my college applications, plus I assumed it would take less time than soccer or tennis—which I really suck at. Also, part of me wanted to be in Chance’s world, Friday night football games and parties with the in-
crowd.

  Yeah, we all know how that turned out.

  The lockers seem a million miles away as I push past all the onlookers, my hands clenched around the straps of my backpack. Whispers from the students rise and grow and spread like a wave in the ocean.

  And of course…

  The Grayson brothers are the first Sharks I see, holding court with several girls as they lean against the wall. Knox is my age and Dane is a year younger. It’s eerie how much they look alike.

  “She’s back,” I distinctly hear Dane say to Knox.

  I flick my gaze in their direction, keeping my resting bitch face on, taking in the brothers, both of them with muscular builds, tall with broad shoulders. They may look similar, but they’re like night and day. Knox is the cold one, never smiling, his face full of disdane, accentuated by the chilling scar that slices through his right cheek and into his upper lip, disrupting the curve of his mouth and the perfection of his face. I swallow. Fuck him.

  I refuse to spend this year afraid.

  His lips twitch as if he reads my mind, that slash on his mouth curling up in a twisted movement, and I glare at him. You don’t scare me, my face says.

  He smirks.

  Thick mahogany hair curls around his collar and his eyes are a piercing gray, sharp and intense. His scrutiny doesn’t miss much and makes me antsy—has since freshman year when I’d catch him looking at me, studying me as if I were a strange bug. And about that scar…rumor is he doesn’t kiss girls on the lips when he fucks them, them apparently being any girl he wants at Camden. Because no matter how bad that scar screws up his face, he’s still the head Shark, and everyone wants to be in that group.

  He’s wearing a fitted white button-up, his tie loose as if he’s already annoyed with it. He spends a lot of time in the gym, I imagine, working on that muscular body, maintaining that quarterback status. He holds my gaze for several seconds before dropping his cold eyes and looking down at his phone—as if I’m no one, just another girl who isn’t worthy of his recognition.

  Some things never change.

  Dane is a near replica except his face is perfect, his hair longer and shoulder length, brushing his shoulders. He’s the same height as Knox, about six three, but his jawline is more angular, thinner. And his eyes? They’re road maps, bloodshot with a hint of wildness.

  Yeah, they were both at the party.

  Fear brushes across my spine and my body tenses as I recall that night. After the party, someone (the person who picked me up, I assume) placed me on one of the couches on Piper’s front porch. Then he’d rung the doorbell and left before Piper’s mom came to the door.

  My feet stumble when I see who’s next to Knox: Chance Winston, my old crush, Mr. Boy Next Door. I get a good look at how he pales, his blue eyes flaring as he shoves his hand into his sandy-blond hair. It’s clear he had no clue I’d be showing up today.

  That’s right, dickhead, here I am. Ava, version 2.0, and this time, I’m not holding back shit.

  Gone is that girl who wanted to be part of his world.

  Gone is the girl he begged to kiss.

  Was it him?

  His alibi was he left early with Brooklyn, another cheerleader.

  Familiar shame rises up inside me, and I battle it down. What happened was not my fault. Even though the drug test said I didn’t have any drugs in my system (only alcohol), I refuse to believe it. Or maybe it was just the alcohol. I don’t know and it drives me insane.

  I also had a rape kit performed—I cringe at that humiliating memory, the questions. Are you sexually active? Yes, I’d had sex before. How long has it been since your last consensual intercourse? Six months. Who was he? A guy from Sisters of Charity who is now living in Texas. What kinds of medications do you take? None. They examined me from head to toe, collecting evidence from my mouth to my lower body. They took photos of the bruises on my thighs. They took my clothing and put it in a paper bag. They asked me details about what led up to the assault, wanting me to tell them step by step what happened—and even though the nurse was kind, so incredibly kind, I wept when I told her I couldn’t remember who it was or what happened once he pushed me down.

  And in the end…

  There was evidence I’d had sex, rough sex, but no semen or reliable DNA had been found.

  Whoever he was, the motherfucker knew exactly what he was doing…

  And Chance? His last text after I went to the police: Stop lying about the party. You aren’t the person I thought you were. You’re just a slut.

  God. Just the memory of that nasty word slices into my heart, cutting deep. I’m not promiscuous. I didn’t screw around at Camden; I was too busy studying and taking care of my brother. Besides, it shouldn’t freaking matter if I had screwed every guy here. Throwing that label at me does not give anyone license to hurt me.

  I must be insane because I stop in front of the three of them and study the lines of Chance’s face, his square I’m-gonna-be-a-lawyer-someday chin, the dimples on either side of his mouth, the ones that grow when he smiles.

  There’s a frown there now.

  Good. Fucking good.

  Yes, I mentally whisper, my mouth tightening. I hope seeing me pisses you off. I’m not here for you, jock. I’m here for me.

  With that fake smile back in place, I move on. I’m almost to my locker, number 102, when two girls appear in front of me, blocking my path.

  Geeze. At least I’m getting it ALL over with at once.

  A long exhalation leaves my chest as I take in Jolena and Brooklyn, my former cheer pals. My lips twist. They were never really my friends, and we’d only cheered together for four games before everything happened. Not once have they called or texted me in the past ten months.

  And isn’t that enough to know exactly where they stand?

  Jolena, the clear queen bee, is in red heels, her dark auburn hair twirled up in a high ponytail that accentuates high cheekbones and ruby lips.

  She left you at the party runs through my head and my teeth grit.

  “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Ava Harris. I can’t believe you have the nerve to show your face here. Please tell me you aren’t going to try out for cheer.” The sly words are said with a perfect fake smile.

  I sigh. I’m not surprised she approached me right off the bat. It’s what I expected—anger and resentment. By going to the police, I ratted on the popular kids and their kegger. To me the party was a meaningless side note compared to what had happened, but to some here, I committed an act of treason.

  Plus, there’s the video of me dancing with her boyfriend—and several other football players—at the party.

  She’s shorter than me, even in her high heels, and I tower over her, thankful at least for my five feet, eight inches. I’ve never met my dad—someone who got my mom pregnant, ran off to work on an oil rig, and never came back—but I figure I get my height from him since my mom is petite.

  “Move out of my way,” I say, keeping my voice low, laced with sharpness.

  “Oh, it has claws. Make me.” She takes a step closer until I can smell the cloying scent of her perfume.

  I put my hand on my hip, battling my jumpy stomach. “Trust me, I’ve known meaner girls than you. Wanna try me, bitch?”

  Her lips curl. “I’m so scared of the little orphan girl.”

  My first gut reaction is to just…dart away and ignore her. It’s what I would have done if I’d had an interaction with her in the past, because I just wanted to make things easy for myself here. Blend in. Don’t make waves.

  But today—today I’m stronger than I was ten months ago. I won’t let her intimidate me. I’M STRONG. I am, goddammit. “I have nothing to lose, Jolena.” My finger pushes at her shoulder as I shove past her and go to my locker.

  I hear her muttering from behind me, calling out a juicy name, but I tune it out, focusing on deep breathing. My hands tremble as I fumble with the locker combination I received in the mail with my registration packet last week.

  �
�You look different,” are the words I hear from my left. My eyes dart to the guy who said them, taking in the clipped light brown hair on the sides, the top longer and swept back, the dark brown eyes. About six foot and muscular with a hint of mischief in his gaze, he flashes a grin. “You used to have light hair. The black is wicked cool. Saw you when you parked your car.” His accent is obviously Bostonian, maybe Southie, with the R sound missing. Pakked your cah.

  He arches a brow, and the silver piercing there glints from the florescent lighting. “Name’s Wyatt. I’m new since last January, but I heard all about you. I’ve seen your picture in the yearbook. We’re locker neighbors.” Locka neigbahs. Another grin as he leans in closer to me. “People are staring at you like crazy. You’re like…a celebrity. Welcome back.” Welcome bakk.

  I hadn’t expected anyone to be nice. I turn toward my silver locker, gripping the lock. The combination doesn’t work, and he watches me try it a third time until it finally gives. I fling it open, blocking his face. It’s not that I’m not open to making new friends, but my heart is made of armor now, hard and steely, impervious to the politics here.

  Wyatt shuts his locker and shuffles away in my peripheral vision. My eyes move down to a sealed envelope on the bottom of my locker. I frown. How did this get here? I check the outside and take in the small vents where someone must have pushed it through.

  For Ava is scrawled across the envelope, and chills ghost over my neck, imagining who would have left it. Plus, how did someone find out my locker number? I chew on my lips and stuff my lunchbox inside the space, tempted to just leave the letter there. What if it contains anthrax? I roll my eyes at my own ridiculousness. I’m smart enough to know anthrax spores released into the air could harm not only me but several people, including the person who delivered the letter. Okay, fine, but I’m still not touching it. I’ll grab some gloves from the science lab later and then toss it in the trash.

  I’m putting my lock back on when I change my mind and fling the door open once again, pick up the letter, and tear at the flap. What if it’s someone who knows about the keg party? What if it’s from Piper?