Chapter 1 Cross
CROSS
SIX MONTHS LATER
“Thank you for meeting with me.” My advisor ushers me into her office. “Are you all squared away on your classes for this semester?”
I take a seat across from her and kick my legs out. “I am. Your email sounded urgent…”
“Right.” She lifts the glasses hanging around her neck and puts them on then directs her attention to her computer screen. It’s at an angle, so she still has line of sight on me, but I can’t see it. I do, however, see the reflection in her glasses as she clicks around painfully slow.
She is probably the oldest employee in the financial aid office, so the lack of technological skill is…understandable.
Her email was urgent. She listed off times for today and tomorrow that she had available, saying that we needed to resolve a matter before classes start on Wednesday.
So here I am, bright and early on Monday morning.
It’s barely eight, but I’ve already been up for hours.
I snuck in a session with my trainer at the gym to prepare for an upcoming fight, and that somewhat lessened my anxiety surrounding this.
I’m in the best shape of my life, and lacrosse season will be starting next month.
Honestly? I hate finance stuff. I wasn’t exactly raised with the best role models when it came to finances.
I know how to make food out of the random shit in the pantry and fridge, and how to stretch a dollar, but when it comes to…
I don’t know, building wealth? That’s a phrase the new stepdad throws around a lot, and I haven’t been able to admit I have no fucking idea what he’s talking about.
So being in the financial aid office…
“Ah, yes, here we are.” She clears her throat and glances my way. “I’ll just dive right in, shall I?”
I gesture for her to continue, my stomach knotting.
“Your GPA has dipped below the requirement for some of your scholarships. Most importantly, the athletic one.” She faces me. “We’re a Division I school, which means our GPA requirement is a 2.3. As of the end of the fall semester, you have a 2.2.”
I swallow. I knew I wasn’t doing so hot in those freaking business classes, but after the final, I tuned everything out. I didn’t want to know how much I sucked.
Clearly, I should’ve done some extra credit.
In order to make Shadow Valley University work with my nonexistent funds, I received a handful of scholarships. My tuition is completely covered by the athletic scholarship, while smaller, academic ones go toward housing.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “How do I fix it?”
Her expression melts into one of pity. “If you can raise your GPA above a 2.3 by the end of the semester, you will be eligible to renew the scholarship for your senior year. You should’ve been made aware of this by your academic advisor last semester.”
I press my lips together. Last semester…nope. I vaguely recall some emails, but I figured it was about picking classes. I was all set in that department.
“So…do I still have a scholarship?”
“You do,” she says. “I was able to do some finagling. As long as you meet with a tutor for your classes this semester, the athletic one remains in place.”
“In other words, I need to pay for housing.” My voice comes out wooden.
She nods. “We can give you a week if you’d prefer to stay in the same dorm, but there are some other options.” She plucks a brochure from a stack off to the side and slides it across the desk to me.
“Anything else?”
“That was it, hon. My email is always open if you have any questions. Otherwise, we’ll see you next week.”
Fuck.
I get up and stride out of the financial aid office.
I force my body to remain loose, the same way I do before a fight, but it’s really just trying to hold off the internal panic.
Housing… Shit, it’s not even remotely affordable.
I could try to find a roommate for some off-campus apartment, but my fights wouldn’t cover rent.
I get paid good money when I win, but there’s no guarantee. Plus, it’s not exactly inconspicuous. When lacrosse season rolls around, I need to focus on that. Even if fighting is my first love, lacrosse is what keeps me in school.
Shaking out my limbs, I leave the administration building and climb into my car. I’ve been spending the last week with a teammate, essentially couch surfing, because my mom and her new husband are entertaining the other one.
Scarlett.
Since the wedding, I’ve managed to avoid being in the same room with her for longer than a few minutes. And she’s managed to tone down the disgusted looks. She had no problem showing me her true colors as my mom and I walked down the aisle.
The sick part is, I was happy for my mom. She seemed to have found a genuinely good guy, and he’s still as into her as he was before he put a rock on her finger. Too bad he has baggage in the form of a prissy, holier-than-thou daughter.
Well, maybe she’s not so holy. The dress she was wearing left nothing up top to the imagination. She probably had to use tape to give herself that sort of cleavage. It was just tacky, you know?
Anyway, I’m more of an ass guy, and she was a bit lacking in that department.
That’s not the point. I’m grateful Miss Yale hasn’t been around, because my mother doesn’t need that negativity. Her new husband, Robert, took her on a Greek island-hopping honeymoon, and she came back practically glowing.
But when Robert told us his daughter was coming home for the holidays, I started planning my exit. I stuck around through New Year’s then packed my bags and hit the road.
My phone chimes with a new email. I click on it as I start the car then drop my cell on my thigh to rub my hands together.
Winter is not my season. It’s always fucking cold. It’s kind of funny how much the hockey guys seem to relish it. You can always spot them because they never wear jackets. Maybe a puffer jacket if it’s below zero, but that’s rare.
I saw them all in a snowball fight on campus a few weeks ago, and not a single one was in anything thicker than a sweatshirt.
Crazy.
The email finally loads, and I scan its contents. It’s from my advisor in the financial aid office, where I just came from.
Hi, Cross!
Just following up from our conversation. I’ve attached the invoice for our residential housing, to be paid on January 20th—one week from today, as discussed. Please don’t hesitate to reach out with any questions.
Here is a link for tutors. We recommend finding one for each class.
Sincerely,
Maureen Bladwell
I open the attachment and gawk at the amount. There’s no way. I drive back to my teammate’s house slowly, wracking my brain for a solution that doesn’t involve my mother. But, like her ears were burning, she calls just before I pull into the driveway.
“Morning, Mamá,” I answer.
“Mijo. I got an email from your financial aid office yesterday…”
My smile fades. “Oh. I just left her office–”
“Why didn’t you tell us you were struggling?” She sounds hurt that I didn’t open up to her.
“I–”
“The important thing is that they’re being lenient,” she continues. “But it seems like the housing is a situation. Is that right?”
I cover my face. “I didn’t want you to have to deal with this. I’m going to figure something out.”
“Escuincle, you know better than to keep things from me.”
She just called me a brat, which is pretty familiar. Growing up, I heard escuincle come out of her mouth more than my name. I drop my hand and roll my eyes, but her tone warns against argument.
“Robert has already fixed it,” she declares.
I sit up straighter. “What? How?”
“He’s been looking to invest in a property in Shadow Valley, and he bought a house recently. It’s been undergoing some repairs, but it’s vacant—soon to be fully furnished. And since you now need somewhere to stay…”
“Mamá, I can’t accept that.”
She scoffs. “Robert just texted you the address. There’s a delivery truck coming today, so you’d be helping out a lot if you were there to receive it. And…”
I hear Robert in the background but can’t make out what he’s saying.
“There’s a key under the mat,” she finishes. “Okay?”
Damn.
“Okay. Yes. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, mijo. Robert says he’ll call you about the details of the house later this afternoon.”
My head hurts from the whiplash of the morning.
Inside, my teammate Nate is in the kitchen, making some sort of green smoothie. He grins when I enter and offers me a glass.
I shake my head and take a seat at the breakfast bar. “You’re never gonna guess what happened.”
He pauses a beat, withholding my smoothie just out of reach. “You tell me right now.”
I laugh then dive into the story. By the time I’m done, we’ve both drained our glasses, and I’m getting antsy to check out this house Robert bought.
“It kind of sounds too good to be true,” Nate comments. “But, hey, maybe my couch will recover from your imprint from the last few weeks.”
“Fuck off, dude.”
I’ve been living out of a bag, so there’s not much I need to collect. Nate reemerges in workout clothes just as I’m loading my car.
“Don’t be a stranger,” he says. “Good luck with your stepdaddy’s house.”
I flip him off. His laughter reaches me just as I slam the door shut and start the engine. I go to my messages with Robert and click on the address, which auto-populates in my maps app. It’s only five minutes from here. And, zooming in, it seems like it’s about a similar distance to the school.
Maybe this won’t be so bad.
I repeat that thought when I pull up to the curb in front of it. The house is two stories, white with dark-blue shutters and a matching dark-blue front door. There’s an attached garage, even. The front lawn will probably look nice in the spring when the grass comes back to life.
The spare key is easy to find. I let myself in and wander around, whistling under my breath. It seems half-furnished…in progress. I imagine whatever’s being delivered today will have the rest of Robert’s vision.
Or whatever assistant he assigned to the job, I should say.
It’s kind of nice, though. Quaint and definitely not my style. Although, as a twenty-year-old dude, my style is, like, black sheets and no headboard. Ha. Maybe this experience will get me over that. I hear headboards are in.
I go down the main hallway that opens up into the kitchen and dining area.
“Damn.”
It’s being renovated. What looks like new cabinets have been installed, sans countertops. They’ve laid plywood across to make due. The stainless-steel appliances are installed, but there’s plastic on the floor. There’s not even a sink.
At least my mom wasn’t exaggerating.
There are two bedrooms upstairs, both furnished.
With headboards, even.
The mattresses are still covered in plastic, and tags hang off the dressers.
It’s like it was all stocked in a hurry.
After examining both rooms, I take my pick and drop my bag on the bed. It crinkles loudly, but that will be a problem for later.
Downstairs, the front door opens. The hinges kind of squeal–probably the next thing on Robert’s to-do list. But it’s weird that a delivery guy would just let himself in…
I tense. My instincts take over, alarms going off in my head. I step lightly, creeping across the room.
Heavy footsteps on the stairs make me go still.
“Shit,” someone swears.
Not the voice of a delivery guy.
“Damn this heavy suitcase.” It’s a girl, followed by the distinct thump-thump-thump of something hitting every step.
What the fuck?
I go into the hallway just as a familiar blonde-haired bitch reaches the top step.
My good mood tanks. She’s lugging a huge purple suitcase behind her, struggling to get it up beside her, and she doesn’t immediately spot me. I’m not sure what the fuck she’s doing or why she’s here, but I can guarantee this circles back to Robert.
Can’t I just have one win?
But no.
It is satisfying watching her wrestle with that suitcase. There’s a chance she’s about to drop it and send it sailing back to the bottom. Maybe put a dent in the nice drywall her daddy will have to pay to fix.
So, scaring her is just the icing on top. This will be good.
I open my camera on my phone and hit record.
In my deepest voice, I boom, “What the hell are you doing here, Wallace?”
The scream she gives me is guaranteed to go viral.