Laird
After a forty-hour marathon where I reprogrammed my video game from scratch, stopping only to attend the few lectures I couldn’t get away with missing, I slept.
I slept like a rock.
I slept right through all my classes on Thursday, mandatory or not, and woke up an hour before band practice, with just enough time to brush my teeth, shower, and rush to campus.
But, damn, it felt good to finally have my app working properly—knowing not only would I ace my class, but I could finish developing the back-end business aspects and release it commercially over Christmas break.
My classmates might have felt like it was stupid of me to fixate over it so much, that I should’ve taken a C in the course and moved on, but I couldn’t ignore the pressure of my looming graduation and my pending entrance into the real world.
The bitter reality where my dad had disowned me, my mom was long gone, and I was essentially alone.
So, yeah, maybe it made me a nerd, but I wanted to be taken seriously as a responsible adult in a few short months—be my own boss, pay my own bills, and tick off the boxes of my five-year plan.
But mostly, I wanted a certain brown-eyed, dark-haired freshman to know I could provide for her.
For us.
Reese was my motivation, my end goal, and not fucking it up was pretty damn high on my priority list, especially after that mess at the last practice.
I needed to apologize for the way I rushed out, when her innocent question about Garrett had caught me off guard, and explain why I didn’t talk about his death very often, even though I had no qualms reminiscing over his good years.
It was one thing to talk about Garrett with her—and I owed her that much—but it was not a topic I wanted to go into detail about in front of all the guys. While his death was relatively common knowledge for those who lived in the area due to the news coverage and fundraising we did for him back then, it still hurt like a motherfucker to discuss.
That said, I was wrong for running out the way I did, for not staying long enough for her to realize I wasn’t upset with her. And I should’ve put Marco in his place immediately for his dumbass comment mocking her for her innocent question. I was just in too much of a hurry to escape to think things through at the time.
It wasn’t Reese’s fault I hadn’t told her about all the baggage in my past.
An eager smile lifted the corners of my mouth as I approached the auditorium to grab my snare, just knowing I’d get to see her in a few minutes, because, damn, I’d missed talking to her the last two days.
I wonder if she wants to grab dinner tonight?
My pace increased.
I wonder if she’d let me have her for dinner tonight?
You know, after we’d had our talk and kissed and made up.
A flash of tan skin and whipping ponytail caught my eye through the glass door to the building, and I ran up the steps to catch her, but by the time I yanked open the door, she had already disappeared into the equipment room.
Damn. I’d really been hoping to snag her in the hall, to have a private minute with her before practice started without attracting a lot of attention.
When I pushed through the door of the room, Smith was already huddled next to Reese, talking in hushed tones. She had some kind of black brace strapped on her left wrist, and it looked like she was trying to tug it off while Smith adamantly refastened the Velcro she’d just loosened.
As I approached, he jabbed a finger at her arm, pointing, and whispered words I couldn’t make out. His face was scrunched in anger or frustration or some weird combination of the two and my hackles rose in automatic response.
“What’s going on? Reese? Did you hurt your wrist?” I reached for her arm, but she finished removing the apparatus, flung it into her bag, and hid her arm behind her back, out of my sight.
“Nothing.” She shot a loaded glance at Smith. “It’s nothing. Just a little tendonitis flaring up. I’m fine for practice.”
Smith swore under his breath and stalked away after throwing her one last dark look.
“Reese?” My tone had her reluctantly shifting until I could see her hand.
She held it up and wiggled her fingers, but she pulled back when I tried to touch her.
That stung, but I kept my expression neutral.
“Are you okay for practice or not?” My brows furrowed as I studied her arm. It looked a little swollen, but otherwise okay.
“Of course!” she answered quickly, her tone a little too bright.
I hesitated. Reese knew her own limits better than me, and if she said she was okay, who was I to argue?
“Would wearing the brace help?” I prodded.
She licked her lips, and her eyes flicked down to her bag for a second. “I’m good.”
From behind me, Smith snorted and shook his head. I watched him a second and raised my eyebrows. “Anything I need to know?”
Smith opened his mouth, taking a step forward, but when Reese elbowed him not so subtly, he clamped it shut again, frowning. “No,” he muttered sourly.
“All right then, grab your gear and hit the field. Reese, can I have a word with you after practice? And if your wrist starts acting up out there, sit out for a few minutes or let Heath take your place.” I pinned her with a stare that would’ve made my dad proud. “Got it?”
She nodded, stooping down and avoiding eye contact.
I wavered for a minute. Something about this whole situation just seemed off, but I couldn’t pinpoint what.
The feeling didn’t go away during practice. She was slow, stiff, and off the beat more than on.
And Marco noticed, riding her harder than normal until I shut him down after he called out her mistake for the third time.
“Shut the hell up already, man.” I got in his personal space, blocking his view of Reese, who was wincing after a particularly upbeat section. “She heard you, she told me her wrist hurt, and you screaming at her isn’t going to change things. Why don’t you go help Heath in case he needs to take her place this week, huh? His performance wasn’t so hot the other day, if you need to micromanage someone.”
Marco held his position, our drums flush between us. “You don’t even know what you’re talking about, Laird. Me and Reese, we have an understanding. I’ve wondered about the two of you—what y’all do off the field, but I promise you, you’re not the only one she’s spending time with. She likes it when I’m rough. If you don’t believe me, maybe you should ask her why she has a key to my room? Or ask her where she was last night. I bet you anything she lies, doesn’t mention me at all. But check her phone. I met her for a little one-on-one practice session, if you know what I mean.” He waggled his eyebrows and licked his lips before blowing me a lewd kiss.
My eyes flew past him to Reese, who was trying to pretend she hadn’t been watching the confrontation between me and Marco.
Would she…?
No. She hates him.
But that niggling feeling of unease came back from before practice. That something wasn’t right.
Doubt curdled in my gut, sharper than a sucker-punch.
The rest of practice was a blur. I don’t remember whether our lines were on point or our stick work tight—it was just two hours of noise and movement until the drum major blew the final whistle, signaling the end.
Not even waiting for the relief of the air-conditioned auditorium, I beelined straight for Reese.
“Follow me,” I snapped, harsher than I intended.
I forced myself to walk normally over to the edge of the field, and when I reached the deserted sideline, I spun back around so fast, my snare slammed into my hip. Impatient, I yanked it over my head, and set it on the ground near my feet. I removed Reese’s rig too, setting her drum next to mine, and when I saw a third snare hitting the grass, I realized Smith had joined us.
Sweat from the harness had my shirt sticking to my chest, and the breeze felt cool as it drifted over us, but I barely appreciated the sensation.
My head was all over the place, thoughts zinging from one extreme to the next. I took a deep breath, trying to figure out where to even start.
“Do you have a key to Marco’s apartment?” I asked without preamble, praying she’d say no, that Marco was just talking his fool head off like normal.
“I—” Her startled gaze flew to mine, and it was obvious that wasn’t the question she was expecting. “Y-yes.”
“Why?” I snapped before she even had a chance to continue her earlier answer.
“To clean his room.”
“Why the fuck are you cleaning his room?” What kind of bullshit was that?
“He-he said it was a drumline thing. That all NADs were assigned to a vet. You know,” she lowered her voice a bit, even though no one else was around us except Smith, “a hazing thing.”
I whipped my head back, trying to make sense of her answer. That had never been a drumline thing since I’d been on the line. “Why didn’t you tell me? That’s bullshit.”
She gave me a tiny shrug, cradling her wrist against her stomach. “It wasn’t anything I couldn’t handle. I had it under control.”
“That shit ends now,” I ordered, knowing I sounded ridiculous and possessive, but unable to stop myself.
A dark spot on Reese’s arm caught my eye, and without giving her a chance to pull back, I captured her hand and gently ran my thumb over the purple mark.
“Okay,” she agreed hastily, attempting to free her hand.
I held it tighter.
The discoloration spread, the purple growing with each pass of my thumb. “What the fuck?” I looked at my thumb. It was covered in a beige cream. “Makeup?”
I whipped my shirt off, and Smith watched grimly beside me as I wiped the remaining concealer or whatever the hell it was from her skin.
An enormous bruise covered the medial aspect—thank you, Anatomy class—of her wrist from mid-forearm to mid-palm. It had to hurt like a bitch.
And now that I’d seen that one, I noticed other smaller, more superficial scrapes. On her knee, her shin, her elbow. What the fuck happened?
I wanted to strip her down, right then and there, and check the rest of her, run my hands over every inch of her body just to assure myself that she wasn’t still hiding a bigger, more serious wound.
“You played like this today? Why? What happened?” I growled as I traced the margin of her injury, where the purple bled into green. “And why didn’t you tell me?”
The last question was the one that mattered the most to my rattled brain.
“It was rainy last night, and things were slippery. I lost my balance on some steps and fell. No big deal.”
I pointed to her wrist. “This is not something minor. This needs medical attention.”
“She had it,” Smith interjected quietly. “I took her last night.”
My gaze swung to him wildly, even as I refused to release Reese’s hand. “You were there?”
“Yes. No. Kinda.” The snarl on my face must’ve had the desired effect, because he rushed to explain. “I wasn’t there when she got hurt, but she called me, and I took her to the ER downtown. She sprained it.”
“Jesus, Smith, just tattle on me, why don’t you?” Reese muttered, frowning at him.
“But. What. Happened?” My pulse throbbed in my neck as I stared between the two of them.
Reese yelped, and I realized I’d inadvertently tightened my grip on her. I let go immediately, and she hugged her arm to her lower abdomen.
“Are you okay?” I softened my voice. “Did I hurt you?”
She lowered her chin, but not before I saw the sheen of tears in her eyes.
“Fuck.” I ran my hands through my hair, pulling at the short strands in frustration. “Smith. Give me the short version before I go crazy here.”
“She was doing cardio at the stadium last night and slipped down a bunch of steps. Caught herself on her wrist. She called me, I took her to the ER, they did x-rays and everything. She’s supposed to be wearing that brace until she sees the orthopedist.”
Last night…
“Was Marco there?” My voice cut the air like a knife.
“No.”
“Yes.”
They replied simultaneously, then Reese turned and glared at Smith. “Traitor,” she whispered.
I caught Reese’s chin between my thumb and forefinger and lifted it until she was forced to meet my gaze. “Would you be willing to show me your last texts from him?”
Her eyes widened, and her lips trembled. I barely heard her reply. “He was there.”
“Was this his fault?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
They spoke in unison again. I wanted to find Marco and use him as a punching bag, bury my fists in him until this rage inside me was sated.
“Where was this?” My hands clenched repeatedly by my sides. “The bleachers? Or the back stairs by the food stations?”
Reese wrinkled her brows, as if she didn’t understand why that mattered. “The bleachers. The South ones.”
I filed away the information for later. “And were you going to tell me?” My tone was dangerously soft.
Reese squared her shoulders, dropping her arm from its protective cradle. She took a step forward, so close I could’ve bent down and kissed her, and answered in the same tone I’d just used. “And who would I have told? My snare captain? The one who told me NADs should do whatever a vet tells them to? Or the guy I’ve been sleeping with? The one who’s lied to me this whole time about his brother?”