Reese
I called him from the haven of my dorm room about an hour after the bombshell dropped, hating to text about something so deeply personal.
“Hey,” he answered, his voice low and raw.
I hesitated, not sure how to broach a subject he’d purposefully avoided around me. “Laird…”
“I know,” he paused, a rasp filling the silence as if he’d blown out a hard breath, “I know I should’ve told you about him. And I will. But not right now, not while I have this damn project hanging over my head. I need to focus on getting it done. No distractions.”
I blinked, not saying anything, because suddenly I fell under the distraction category.
“Look, this project is my whole fucking grade for this class, and—”
He kept talking, some justification about needing the elective to graduate on time, but it was just noise in my ear at that point.
That word—distraction—echoed in my head.
“Okay? We’ll talk later.”
I didn’t get a chance to reply before he hung up.
I hadn’t heard from him since.
Not later that night. Not this morning, and not once during classes today.
The rejection stung and jagged insecurities swamped me.
I was in the middle of wiping the sticky crumbs from my peanut-butter-and-honey sandwich off my hands when the phone buzzed after dinner on Wednesday. My anxiety bubbled up and I grabbed it, ignoring the honey I smeared across the screen in the process, both hoping and dreading it was Laird telling me he’d finished up early.
While part of me couldn’t see past the hurt and humiliation, the other, bigger part argued that he deserved a chance to explain his side of the story. To tell me why he kept such a huge part of his life a secret from me for months.
But the text on the screen wasn’t from Laird.
Marco: Extra practice tonight because somebody didn’t have their shit together yesterday. 7 @ Shark Tank. No drums. We’re just going over choreo.
Marco: Laird won’t be there, he’s got that project due, so I’m handling this one.
I pinched my lips with a flash of irritation. It was already after five. And a quick glance out the window confirmed heavy, gray clouds were rolling in from the west side of campus, covering the sky and making it seem later than it really was. Frowning, I typed out a response.
Me: There’s a storm coming.
His answer came swiftly, almost as if he’d been anticipating it.
Marco: Scared of a little water, hotshot? Gonna melt?
I bristled, but refrained from texting back a snarky reply. Instead, I sighed and spent the next hour flying through my calc and biology homework before changing into running tights and tank top. I dug out my oldest tennis shoes, since sandals weren’t allowed for practices and whatever I wore was going to get soaked.
By the time I reached the stadium on the far side of campus, the clouds had moved firmly into the offensive position, angry and squatting over the field, which was fine by me because it matched my mood perfectly.
This was going to suck.
As I emerged from the North archway, entering the field near the end zone, it became clear this was either a private practice or everyone else was late.
Instantly wary, I slowed, pausing to stow my bag with my phone where it’d stay dry under an overhang. Wiping my sweaty palms on my thighs, I reminded myself that I could handle Marco. I’d dealt with him since the season started and there were only a few weeks left. But my eyes flickered everywhere, searching for anything out of the ordinary.
I’ve got this.
Marco leaned against the opposite goal post, looking tiny and inconsequential in comparison, and watched me from under straight dark brows as I walked closer. The rain started with a hiss, small, prickling drops that lowered the temperature a handful of degrees.
I shivered as I approached, wondering what fresh hell he intended to dish out tonight.
“You sucked yesterday at practice. I noticed. Laird noticed. Everyone fucking noticed.”
“I’m sorry.” It made something twist and pinch inside me to apologize to him for anything—but he was right. And damn if that didn’t sting to admit.
“I think you’re weak, Holland. I don’t think you can keep up. I don’t think you belong on the line, yet here I am, taking time out of my busy-ass schedule to come down here just to help you.” The drizzle dotted his gray shirt.
I sucked in a breath, purposefully keeping several feet between us. There was venom in his voice. Not just simple dislike, but something that went deeper than that. I threatened his fragile masculinity, had made him look like a fool in front of his peers—his friends—at the party. And I’d known he couldn’t just let that go.
“I had a bad day.” I internally grimaced at the defensiveness of my tone. “I practiced the snare part for an hour earlier, I’ve got it down now. I’ll be ready for the game.”
He curled his lip. “We’ll see.” Straightening, he indicated the damp field in front of him with a tilt of his head. “I’ve got the music on my phone. Get out there and show me you know the movements.”
My brow furrowed. This—this wasn’t standard, not that Marco had ever followed the rules unless it suited him. To some extent, I memorized the drill by my relative position to the drummers next to me, to the rest of the band flowing around us. The whole idea of marching the song solo seemed awkward and wrong and doomed to fail from the start.
I took my mark on the midway point of the thirty-yard line and looked over to where he’d positioned himself on the fifty.
“Ready.” I pitched my voice to be heard over the rain that was falling steadily now, making my clothes cling to my torso.
He pressed his screen and I could barely hear the end of the previous song over the wind.
5, 6, 7, 8, and move.
I kept my shoulders back and rolled my feet as I crossed to the forty and then shifted back along the painted line. I normally stopped when I was even with the trumpets, who of course weren’t there to use as a landmark. I fumbled through the rest of the song, marching with confidence at times, and haphazardly at others. How did I mime weaving in and out of the other snare players when they weren’t here?
When the last note of the song faded out, I was two steps off the thirty-five, closer to the sidelines than the middle of the field. Right where I was supposed to be.
He stalked over to where I stood, my ponytail dripping down my back and water squishing in my socks.
“What the fuck was that?”
“A new Bon Jovi classic stunningly reimagined by the Rodner University marching band?”
He didn’t appreciate my smartass answer, if the glower darkening his face was any indication.
“You seem out of breath, NAD. Is stamina the problem?” He reached out to wipe the precipitation off my cheek, a useless attempt considering the full-on storm we were standing in.
I recoiled, not missing the way his eyes dipped down, assessing the way the cold had made my nipples bead behind my sports bra. Hunching my shoulders, I tugged at my sodden shirt.
Thunder echoed in the distance like a timpani, and bursts of lightning lit up scattered fragments of the sky.
I licked my lips, tasting the sweetness of the raindrops, knowing it was pointless to deny his accusation.
He smiled, an earnest, magnanimous smile. “Maybe running some stadiums would help? A little extra cardio for missing practice last week?”
My eyes skipped up the endless rows of seats. While the Shark Tank wasn’t as steep as Death Valley at Clemson, it was still a long way to the top.
A bone-jarring boom of thunder crashed nearby, making the hair on my arms stand up. I ducked reflexively. Marco stood stoic, as if he didn’t feel the wind or the storm pelting us, as if the clouds were an audience he was performing for.
Then he shrugged indifferently, turning toward the end zone. “I’m just trying to help you, hotshot. I’d hate for you to lose your spot on the field this week too.”
The threat hung between us despite his nonchalant posture, the implicit dare that I couldn’t hack it.
Fuck that.
And fuck him.
Yeah, I could leave, but then what? Lose my spot because of a bully who was threatened by a girl? I’d never been one to back down from a challenge, if for no other reason than for years people gave me a pass, an exception.
Oh, Reese. The cancer girl. Well-intentioned teachers offering breaks on homework, more time to take the test or run the mile, giving me a different—easier—version of the exam everyone else was taking.
Everyone treated me differently and I was fucking sick of it.
If nothing else, Marco’s scorn was refreshing in a sense. Not only was he not cutting me any slack, he pushed me harder than everyone else. And I refused to back down, the same way I’d refused to be held to different standards in school.
Watch me prove you wrong might as well have been my motto since I’d been declared cancer-free all those years ago.
I wrung out my ponytail uselessly. “Stadiums, huh?” I indicated the closest staircase with my chin. “How many?”
He shrugged, like he suddenly didn’t care anymore, but his eyes glittered with challenge. “I normally do the whole West and South sections myself. Since you’re a girl though… maybe just the West?”
Oh, hell no, he did not just go there. The smirk twisting his face had my hands clenching into fists and my elbows stiffening at my sides.
“The West and South. Got it.”
Without looking back, I took off at an easy lope, knowing I needed to warm up my muscles before I ratcheted it up to a faster pace. The seats rattled as lightning hit closer. I faltered, but kept climbing. All the way up, and all the way down. Over and over and over.
As I splashed up and down the steps, my mind drifted to Laird and what he’d think of this whole evening. No doubt he’d be furious and would’ve put a stop to things long before now. But I couldn’t bring myself to tattle to him, to ask for help in dealing with Marco.
No special privileges.
If I was going to make it on the drumline, I was going to make it on my own.
I clenched my jaw and kept climbing.
By the time I’d finished the West and halfway through the South, the storm raged as if it had a personal vendetta against empty college football stadiums. My sweat mixed with the downpour, the combination burning my eyes, and I concentrated on where my feet were landing, the sky dark and the steps slick.
Marco lounged near the bottom of the section I was on, watching me from beneath the soaked brim of a Rodner Sharks baseball hat. He seemed bored with the whole thing, but I refused to stop, to allow him the satisfaction of me giving up.
I was about two dozen stairs from the bottom when it happened.
My right foot slid right out from under me, and I threw my arms out instinctively to catch myself as my momentum sent me hurtling down the unsympathetic concrete steps. I cried out once, sharply, before my jaw smacked the ground, silencing me.
I rolled and tumbled to a soggy stop at the bottom, pain radiating from everywhere at once. The horizon wavered through a curtain of water. I blinked, and shoes stopped in front of me. I followed the legs up, pausing when I reached Marco’s face, split with a smile and shining brighter than a Christmas tree.
“I warned you. Drumline isn’t a place for girls.”
He reached down and patted my head, the same way you would a dog. And not just any dog—a motherfucking poodle, like I was a harmless ball of fluff. As I lay there, stunned and gasping, he sauntered away as if he was just going to grab a beer and he’d be right back, leaving me a crumpled mess at the base of the stands.
My pride wouldn’t let me call out to him.
When the reality set in that he’d left—really and truly just left me here, I took stock of my injuries.
My jaw ached but I could open my mouth. My hip, the same one I’d bruised before, was tender, as were a few other spots that had taken direct impact. But my left wrist was the worst—already turning purple and swelling. While I could wiggle my fingers okay, bending it forward brought tears to my eyes, and a gasp of agony escaped only to be swallowed by the storm, unheard by anyone.
I pushed carefully to my feet, relieved to see that I could walk okay. Blood dripped in places, running in watery pink tendrils down my limbs, superficial scrapes that looked worse than they felt.
But my wrist, I couldn’t ignore the throbbing pulse of pain there. I cradled it to my chest as I made my way to the exit.
Dear sweet gilt-winged guardian angels on call on this shittiest of nights, please don’t let it be broken.
Marco had ignored my bag as he left. My phone was there, salvation delivered in the form of an Apple. Who said God didn’t have a sense of humor?
But my smile of relief wobbled as I dug the phone out.
I needed a damn ER.
And a ride. Driving myself wasn’t an option. Plus, I knew the drill. The lawsuit-cautious doctors would only dispense the good pain meds if I had a driver. And, tonight, I needed the good stuff.
I dug my phone out. Despite everything, my first inclination was to call Laird for help. The thumb of my good hand hovered over his contact info in my phone, hesitating. Last week, I wouldn’t have thought twice about it, but now I second-guessed my instinct. Things between us still felt serrated and brittle.
And his project. Shit, his project. He couldn’t work on it in a noisy ER. And again, I knew from experience, nothing about an ER visit was fast. It’d be at least three or four hours from now, minimum, before I’d be discharged.
Fuck.
I tapped on the screen, waited while it rang twice, three times.
“Hello?”
“Robin?” My voice cracked, and a sob broke through. “Batman needs help.”