8. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
Levi
The smell of garlic and tomato sauce hits me as I push through the front door to Mario’s. I’d rather not be here, but it’ll probably do me some good to get away from the house for a while. I’ve been trying to give Sunny her space, but it’s getting more and more difficult.
The place is packed, mostly with my teammates and what seems like half the cheerleading squad. Their voices bounce off the brick walls and mix with the tinny sounds coming from the ancient arcade games in the corner. It’s annoying, loud, and does nothing for my mood.
I slide into a crowded booth, the vinyl seat sticky against my bare arms in the summer heat. Zack holds court from the opposite side, lounging back with his arm draped over a cheerleader who looks like she'd rather be anywhere else.
"Do these freshman girls get hotter every year or what?" Zack's eyes are laser focused on a table of girls who are obviously way too young for him to be looking at the way he is. His voice carries over the din.
A memory surfaces—hits me hard out of nowhere. Standing in the doorway of my father's office, frozen, as he pushed his barely out of high school secretary up against his desk. He had the same look on his face as Zack does now when he told me to leave. He pulled me aside later. Clapping me on the shoulder, he'd leaned in like he was about to reveal one of the world's greatest secrets.
"Son, men like us don't get to be where we are by hesitating. We see something we want, we take it. Don't ask, don't apologize. It's who we are. It's what separates us, puts us on top."
I grip my water glass harder, forcing myself back to the present.
"Jesus, Zack, that's Sarah's little sister you're talking about," Ryan says from beside me, his voice tight, tinged with disgust.
"Even better." Zack winks, reaching for his soda. "Remember how Sarah was before she graduated?"
A few guys laugh, but it's strained. I watch them avoid eye contact, pushing pizza around their plates. No one wants to challenge him, but that doesn't mean they like it. Zack doesn't notice though, he's too focused on the girls sitting at the other table. He's clearly mistaking the silence around him for admiration and approval. That can be dangerous.
"So, new guy," he turns his attention to me, eyes glinting. "How you liking being QB? You settling into it okay? Must be quite the change from... where was it you said you were from again?"
"I didn't." I keep my voice neutral, even as my pulse picks up.
"Gotcha. Working the mysterious stranger angle. I'll tell ya a secret though." He leans in a bit, with a smile plastered on his face that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "The girls around here? Let's just say, you're working too hard if you're working at all. They don't need all that." He stops to shove half a slice of pizza in his mouth. His eyes flit around the table as he chews. "You sure managed to impress Coach though, and most of these losers. Some of us put in years for our spots. Earned it, you know?"
The way he emphasizes 'earned' makes my jaw clench. It's the same tone my father used when he'd talk about 'earning' things. It screams entitled. Asshole.
"Sounds like you’re having a little trouble letting go," I say, matching his stare. "Maybe I’m not the one who needs to worry about settling into their new… position. I hear the bottom isn’t so bad once you get used to it."
A few guys snicker. One of the linemen smirks into his drink. Even Ryan looks down at the table, trying to hide his grin.
Zack notices. His shoulders tense, jaw tightening as his face flushes red. His grip on his soda tightens like he’s imagining throwing it in my face.
He opens his mouth—probably to say something stupid, something threatening—but before he can, the waitress approaches. She can't be more than sixteen and seeing how much she's struggling with the tray she's carrying, she's pretty new to the job.
"Welcome back, sweetheart." Zack's voice drops to what he probably thinks is a seductive tone.
She starts setting down pizzas, trying to ignore him. My stomach turns as Zack leans forward, deliberately sliding his finger down her arm as she works. She jerks away from him.
"Come on, don't be like that," he says when she steps back. "I'm only trying to be friendly. When do you get off? I could take you out. Show you a good time."
"Don't be difficult, dear. " My father's voice, smooth as oil. "Most women would kill to be in your position." The memory of my mother's face, tight with fear and forced politeness, makes me grip the edge of the table.
"She's not interested," I say, the words coming out harder than intended.
"What's your problem?" Zack's attention snaps to me. "White knighting for some random piece of—"
"My problem," I cut him off, "is sitting here watching you act like some entitled prick. No one here owes you anything, Zack."
The table goes silent. Even the cheerleaders seem to sense the shift, their chatter dying down.
"Oooo, big words from the new guy." Zack leans forward, all pretense of friendliness gone. "You might want to watch yourself. You don't know how things work around here yet."
"Oh, I think I've got a pretty good idea." I stand up, tossing some cash on the table. The rage is building, familiar and dangerous. If I stay, I might do something I can't take back.
"Running away?" he calls after me.
The jab hits hard. Harder than it should. My hands shake as I dig my keys from my pocket, and push through the doors. Memories of midnight escapes and my mother's tears threaten to overwhelm me. It was a mistake to come tonight.
In my truck, I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white. The engine's rumble does nothing to drown out the echo of Zack's words, my father's voice. Three months we've been here. The longest we've stayed anywhere is a year. Just long enough to start feeling normal before something happens and we have to take off again.
I watch through the window as Zack returns to holding court, already acting like nothing happened. He's laughing, surrounded by people who smile and nod while silently cringing. It's disgusting.
As I pull out of the parking lot, my father's words from that day in his study come back to me. "Son, you'll learn. The world, and everything and everyone in it belongs to men like us."
I press the accelerator harder, trying to outrun the sick feeling in my gut. The streets blur past as I drive aimlessly, through unfamiliar neighborhoods. My thoughts drift to Sunny, wondering if she's out on her deck tonight. The image of her sitting there is a sharp contrast to the chaos in my head.
I drive aimlessly until I end up parked in the empty school parking lot near the football field. I kill the engine. The silence feels heavy, oppressive. My phone shows three texts from Ryan asking if I'm okay, and one from Coach about tomorrow's practice. I ignore them all, and step out into the cool night air.
The field is quiet. And dark. I hop the fence easily—a talent I’ve gained from years of sneaking into places I shouldn't. I tighten the laces of my sneakers and start stretching. Running has always helped clear my head, and right now my head is a mess.
The first lap is easy. The second is automatic. By the third, the ache starts creeping into my calves, and my lungs burn with every inhale. Good. It needs to hurt.
By the time I hit my tenth lap, my body is screaming at me to stop, but I don’t. I can’t. Pain is good. It’s better than thinking. Better than remembering. Better than the twisted satisfaction I felt when Zack flinched at my words.
I push myself faster, harder, until the edges of my vision blur and my heartbeat drowns out everything else. Until there’s nothing left but the rhythm of my feet. Physical pain is one of the only things that can chase me out of my head when it starts to spiral backwards. The sharpness of it shaves off the hard, brittle edges of memories I wish weren't mine—my mother arms covered in bruises, my father's lessons in being a "real man".
Zack reminds me too much of all the things I want to forget.
Collapsing on the fifty-yard line, I stare up at the stars. The same stars I've seen from a dozen different cities, each time wondering if this place would be different. If this time we'd be able to stay. My phone buzzes—mom checking in. I text back that I'm fine, knowing she'll worry otherwise. She's always worrying about me.
She'd never admit it, but I know she thinks about how much like my father I am. She's always watching me, hoping she didn't stay too long—that he didn’t rub off on me and that I'll turn out different than what he wanted and expected.
The truth is, I worry about that part of me too. It's always there. I can feel it sitting right under my skin. The anger that surged through me at Mario's— that was his anger. The desire to hurt Zack, to make him pay for being all the things I hate the most? Those feelings are tapped straight from my father’s side of my family tree. He’d destroy someone like Zack just to prove he could and never think twice about it. The difference between me and my father is that I can make myself walk away. I’ll never allow myself to become him.
Standing up, I dust off my pants and head back to my truck. Tomorrow I'll have to face them all again—Zack, the team, the expectations. But, for tonight, I'm done.
As I drive home, I take the long way, past Sunny's house. Her light’s still on. We're a lot more alike than she knows. Maybe that's why I can't seem to stay away from her, despite her warnings. Kindred spirits or some bullshit.
I pull into my driveway, finally feeling level enough to think about sleep. I'm still pissed. That never goes away completely. But, it's under control again. For now.