Chapter Two
My fist connects with his smug face right before I tackle him onto the wood flooring.
Every time my knuckles crash into his skin, a shiver of delight ripples through my arm and down my spine.
Fuck, what I’d give to never stop. To keep pounding the smirk cemented on his face until his blood coats my hands and his last breath rings in my ears like the purest melody.
I jab his ribs hard enough to bruise but hold onto the last sliver of restraint not to break a bone.
Even before my two-year stint in the Juvenile Detention Center, labeled the JDC, I was accustomed to violence.
Born in the slums and raised on scraps and survival.
Fighting is part in my DNA, so if I wanted this asshole dead, he’d already be a goner.
And as much as I hate the entitled shithead he is, I’m not about to get myself expelled because he seems to be in an even more irritable mood today than usual.
He slips out from under me on the slick, polished court and lands his elbow square on my jaw. I use my forearm to pin the squirmy fucker back in place. He tries to jerk his knee up into my balls. The cheap-shotting, over-privileged, cop-out motherf–
“I said, that’s enough!” Coach bellows. I’m yanked into the air by several sets of hands and thrown aside like the trash they think I am.
Coach’s face is the color of a goddamn beetroot as he helps Smirky-McShit-Face to his feet, even brushing off his jersey as if my germs might still be clinging to it.
Once he’s satisfied I haven’t caused any real damage, Coach turns to me and jabs a finger into my heaving chest.
“Clayton! On this court, we’re a team. Leave your personal shit at the door or you won’t make it to your first game!” My jaw clenches and I refuse to be pushed back into line. Standing firm at two inches taller than the coach, my chest pushes against his.
“He shot from outside the line and you won’t call him out because his family signs your paycheck.
He doesn’t even have a shred of talent,” I seethe, holding Coach’s hard stare.
In my peripheral, the rest of the team steps away from me like I’ve grown horns, a sharp inhale cutting through the silence.
I don’t give a shit how well-bred Rhys fucking Waversea is.
If I had to earn my spot on this squad, then so should he.
Coach starts shaking with fury, bringing his whistle up to blare it in my face, and I can’t stop the roll of my eyes. “That’s it! Report back here after your classes today. You can run drills alone until you learn to be a valued team player!”
I shrug, making every effort to mask my annoyance. I guess I can kiss goodbye to my pre-booked slot in the boxing ring this afternoon. It’s always fully booked out on weekends, so I’ll have to wait an entire week, strung tighter than a lonely nymphomaniac who’s run out of batteries.
Maybe I could coax Coach into a little one-on-one as punishment, though for me, it’d be the exact opposite.
The throbbing of my flesh after a decent pounding is the only time I feel remotely alive anymore.
Still, beating my coach within an inch of his life probably isn’t the best long-term strategy.
He may be bulky, but he’s slow and clumsy, too easy a target to be any fun.
On his command, the rest of the team jogs back to the center of the court and fall into line like the obedient lapdogs they are.
The ball moves back and forth between black and yellow jerseys, only the occasional bounce echoing through the empty gym like a thunderclap.
Over his shoulder, Rhys lifts his busted lip into another smirk, reminding me exactly why I smashed it in the first place. My fists clench on instinct.
I drop heavily onto the side bench, dragging my gym bag closer and tugging my sports jacket over my shoulders.
I’ve only been on the basketball team officially for two weeks, and already I’m over these five a.m. drills.
The fact that we have to wear the matching uniforms this early in the morning is a whole other level of stupid.
Coach says they’re supposed to ‘unite’ us.
Well, I say screw that. I don’t want to be united with any fucker who has as much privilege as Wavershit.
Just being in the same room as him pisses me off.
He and I have clashed and fought ever since our first semester.
The bastard seems to show up wherever I go, somehow always managing to scribble his name on every sign-up sheet right below mine.
He’s goading me. I’m sure of it. Our hatred sparked immediately.
Well, that, and the fact that on day one, I caught him pinning another scholarship student to the ground while he rubbed dirt into her face.
So yeah, I took it upon myself to knock him off his diamond-studded pedestal.
Rhys is my polar opposite in every way. Where my hair is shaggy and sun-bleached, his is dark brown and cropped short on the sides and back.
Where I’m six-two, muscled and broad, he’s an inch shorter and lean.
From his knuckles to his jawline and every inch in between, his skin is inked in shitty black lines that hold no meaning.
A silver ring clings to the side of his bottom lip, matching the one in his eyebrow.
Rhys might have a high pain tolerance, but he still punches like a little bitch scared to chip one of his manicured nails.
The fourteen players left on the court run back and forth at Coach’s whistle, dropping at the back line for sets of push-ups like clockwork.
My eyes track them, not envious in the slightest to be watching from the sidelines.
Wait a minute…why am I watching from the sidelines?
Coach has his back to me and it seems the only reason I’m sitting here like a wounded puppy is because I’m an idiot.
Sliding down the bench, I sling my bag over my shoulder and wait for the next whistle to mask the sound of my sneakers squeezing against the lino as I dart for the sport’s hall exit.
In the far corner of the hall, a pair of sophomores lounge against the bleachers.
It’s a joke really, us down here busting our asses each morning whilst they stick to their private practices, only to be the star players on the court whenever we have a match.
Rumor is they are scouting new talent, seeing who can take their place once they leave.
Their gazes trail after me in silence, the one with hazel eyes and blond hair quirking a brow. I look straight ahead and keep walking.
I don’t do friends, and I definitely don’t have the patience to be part of the group he keeps trying to recruit me into.
I have one goal here and one goal only, to make a better future for my mom.
That’s why I’m starting at the academy a year late, thanks to my cell-block vacation.
That’s why I have to bust my ass to maintain my scholarship.
That’s why I can’t beat the life out of the guy whose family owns the same school that offered me a second chance.
All I can do is keep quiet and keep acing my classes. Otherwise, it’s game over.
Stepping outside, the cold air slaps me across the face, goosebumps prickling my arms within the jacket.
I stall long enough to pull a gray beanie over my head, and then head down the hill to cut across the deserted campus.
I pass silent buildings and locked doors, their windows blank like watching eyes.
The sky overhead is heavy and ominous, promising another unforgiving winter’s day.
Crossing the central quad, flanked by towering stone buildings, my thoughts drift to those back home. The ones who won’t be able to afford heating, who’ll line up outside the soup kitchen hoping for a hot meal to carry them through another frozen night.
I stuff my hands deep into my pockets and force the guilt down.
Guilt is a pointless emotion when I’ve worked this hard to claw my way out of a dead-end, but my loyalty to the streets still runs deep.
Deep enough that catching the first bus home is always sitting at the back of my mind.
Back where people actually look out for one another.
Back to where gratitude exists. Not like at Waversea, where students only care about getting high, partying hard, and scraping by on the bare minimum. Not me. I need to focus.
As I enter the main courtyard, I glance toward the giant fountain that marks the center of campus.
The lip around the base is wide enough to sit on, and I imagine in the summer, students flock here, cramming around the tiered sculpture praying for a little mist to cool off.
Four neatly paved paths branch out from the fountain in all directions, cutting through perfectly maintained lawns.
Massive buildings stand on each side, a concrete ribcage protecting the pulsing heart of the campus.
The cafeteria, the main hall, and the library are all buried within them, meaning every student will pass through this quadrant at some point today.
To my left is the grand entrance to the Dean’s and faculty offices, guarded by a proud, bronze statue of the academy’s founder. Great grandaddy Waversea.
Instead of taking the usual path, I veer off across the grass beside it, leaving a trail of flattened blades behind me. Maybe it’s the only trace I’ll ever leave here, but it makes my chest feel a little lighter anyway.
Exiting through a gap in the upper corner, Bolton Halls comes into view.
My dorm lies within the long rows of windows and aged brick.
It’s one of nine freshman dorm buildings on campus, but the only one reserved for scholarship students or those with grants covering their housing.
In other words, if you live here, you’re poor as shit, and everyone knows it.
Taking the nearest door, I slip inside as the motion-sensor lights flicker on to greet me.
I’m on the fifth floor, same as back home, but here that’s only halfway up instead of the top floor.
My footsteps echo off the stairwell as I take the stairs two at a time, wanting just a sliver of time to myself before another long-ass day of lectures.
Most of the residents are already up, light seeps under doors, and the frantic tapping of keyboards filters into the hallway.
Grabbing my key from my bag, I hear the telltale shuffling of my assigned roommate and let out a quiet sigh.
I pause, key poised in the lock, and lean my forehead against the wood.
On second thought, maybe I’ll just skip the nap I’d had in mind. Head straight to the cafeteria, stay in my sweat-soaked jersey all day instead. At least then people will steer even further away from me than usual.
The door swings open before I can decide, and I stumble forward, catching myself on a wide-eyed Kenneth Dockerson. His glasses sit crooked on his freckled nose, and his fiery red bedhead sticks out in every direction like he lost a fight with a hairdryer.
“Hey, Clayton! I saw a shadow under the door and I was like mmm who’s that? Then I thought maybe you forgot your key again but then I was like no way, it’s way too early for practice to be done, but I figured I’d check and–”
I cover his mouth with my hand, ignoring the way his lips feel too wet with spittle.
Kenneth always talks a thousand miles a fucking hour and never leaves time to swallow or breathe.
Lifting my free index finger to my own lips, I signal for him to shh, eyebrows drawn tight in warning.
When he nods quickly, I slowly peel my hand away and shut the door, keeping my gaze locked on his until I’ve lowered myself onto my bed and closed my eyes.
A metallic crash sounds a second later, jolting me upright with clenched fists. Kenneth freezes, turning an impossible shade paler as he hovers over the pile of empty soda cans he just knocked off my desk. I’d been working on that can tower for weeks.
Pressing my fingers to my temple, I will myself to find some shred of inner strength.
This kid is going to be the death of me.
Back home, I would’ve been the first to protect people like him from the vicious world outside.
But this isn’t the cutthroat streets. He made the choice to come here, just as I did, so I’m not about to fall into the role of his bodyguard. Or his friend.
“Kenneth, either leave or shut. The. Fuck. Up.”
He nods like a rabbit on crack, grabbing his backpack, shoes, and coat and bolting from the room, without putting any of them on first.
I stretch out, hands tucked behind my head, and let out a long breath. Finally, peace and quiet. Well, aside from the morning workout DVD blaring from upstairs and the vocal warmups from a music undergrad down the hall. But that’s nothing compared to sirens or gang fights outside my bedroom window.
My mind conjures up my mother as I start to drift into a light doze, her beautiful smile that is always in place.
I get my coloring from her. The blonde hair and eyes so dark they look black.
I inherited her tenacity and unwavering inner strength too.
I’m lucky in that aspect. We were happy once, the three of us.
That was before Mom got sick. Before the weight of everyone else’s burdens landed on my shoulders.
But I can’t think about any of that now.
This is my chance to fix everything. I just have to keep attending my classes. Keep my head down, get my degree, finally clean up the mess my worthless old man left behind, and make my mom proud.
That’s all that matters, and I won’t let anything, or anyone, distract me.