Chapter 11
eleven
“Ainsley, you coming with us to grab smoothies?” Sarah asked, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder as she zipped her duffel.
“Can’t,” I said, trying to make my voice sound normal while my stomach executed a series of backflips that had nothing to do with ballet. “I have... plans.”
“With Imogen?”
“No. Just... a thing.”
I didn’t wait for her to pry further. I shoved my pointe shoes into my bag, grabbed my bulky duffel, and practically bolted down the hallway toward the small, tiled bathroom at the back of the studio.
My heart was hammering against my ribs. I locked myself in a stall and unzipped my bag, hauling out the clothes I’d stuffed under everything else as if I thought someone was going to be checking my bag for contraband.
A thick, oversized knit sweater in a shade of deep crimson that was dangerously close to Crofton High’s primary red and a pair of denim cutoffs.
I peeled off my leotard and damp tights, shrugging into the sweater.
It swallowed me whole, the sleeves dragging past my knuckles.
I pulled my hair out of its tight ballet bun, shaking it out until it fell in soft, loose waves over my shoulders.
As I stared at myself in the cracked mirror above the sink, I felt a sudden, terrifying wave of cognitive dissonance.
I looked like a girl going to support her boyfriend at a rival school’s soccer game.
“You’re acting,” I told my reflection sternly. “It’s a game. You’re doing this so Kelcey doesn’t suspect anything.”
My phone vibrated violently against the porcelain sink.
That Guy
She’s outside. White BMW. Don’t make her wait or she’ll complain about it for the next three hours.
I rolled my eyes, shoved my phone into my back pocket, hauled my duffel over my shoulder, and marched out of the studio like a woman walking toward a firing squad.
The spring evening air was cooler than it had been the last few days and it hit me like a slap as I pushed through the glass doors.
The parking lot was mostly dark, but idling right by the curb was a sleek, white BMW with its headlights cutting through the twilight.
The passenger window rolled down with a smooth, silent hum, revealing Kelcey’s sharp profile.
She was wearing a cropped brown leather jacket and had a pair of designer sunglasses pushed up onto her head.
“Get in,” she said, not even turning her head to look at me. “We’re going to be late, and if Rhys misses his pre-game warm-up routine because he’s too busy looking for you, he’s going to be impossible.”
I swallowed down a sharp comeback, yanked the heavy passenger door open, and climbed in. The interior of the car smelled overwhelmingly of expensive vanilla perfume and brand-new leather.
Kelcey put the car in drive and pulled out into traffic with a sudden, aggressive jerk that sent my bag sliding against my ankles.
Her eyes flicked over to me, taking in the red sweater, the black shorts, and the bright lipstick.
A faint, razor-thin smile touched her lips, though it didn’t reach her eyes.
“Well,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “Look at you. Full team spirit.”
“Rhys said it was mandatory,” I replied, leaning back into the heated leather seat and crossing my arms.
“Did he?” Kelcey tapped her manicured nails against the steering wheel in a fast, frantic rhythm. “Funny. When we were dating, he used to hate it when I dressed up too much for his games. He said it was ‘cliché.’ I guess people change when they get desperate.”
The jab was subtle, but it hit with the exact precision she intended. I felt my jaw tighten.
“Maybe he just didn’t like the way it looked on you,” I said smoothly, turning to look out the window so she wouldn’t see the sudden flush on my cheeks.
“Or maybe he wants you to seem way more into him than you really are.”
“No, I think it was probably the way you looked in maroon.”
Beside me, I heard Kelcey suck in a sharp, quiet breath. The silence that followed was so thick you could have cut it with a skate blade. For three miles, the only sound was the low hum of the engine and the quiet click of her indicator as she wove through the evening traffic toward Crofton High.
She glanced pointedly at my backpack at my feet. “Please tell me you brought makeup that isn’t, like, a single tinted lip balm.”
“I brought a full face of makeup, thank you very much,” I said, unable to hide the snottiness from my voice. Kelcey scoffed, and I grabbed my bag, ready to do my makeup in the car to prove a point now.
I did my best with what I had, balancing an eyeliner pencil against the dashboard every time we hit a pothole, squinting at my own warped reflection while Kelcey wove in and out of cars at a speed that would have even Sebastian panicking.
Crofton Academy was massive—a sprawling brick building surrounded by manicured athletic fields and illuminated by towering stadium lights that cut through the light May sky.
The parking lot was already jammed with cars, teenagers milling around in clusters, wrapped in heavy coats and draped in Crofton’s red and gold colors.
Kelcey parked in a spot near the stadium entrance, killed the engine, and immediately reached for her lip gloss in the rearview mirror.
“We’re here,” she said, her bright, fake persona. “Try to look like you’re having fun, Ainsley. It’s a high school soccer game, not a funeral.”
The stadium was loud when we got to it. The bleachers were packed with screaming students, a brass pep band playing off-key fanfares from the top row, and the smell of concession-stand popcorn and damp grass hanging heavy in the cool air.
As soon as we stepped past the ticket booth, Kelcey spotted Justin standing near the fence at the edge of the field, surrounded by a few other guys.
She immediately abandoned me, strutting over to him on her platform boots and throwing her arms around his neck with an exaggerated squeal that made me want to retreat into my sweater.
I stood alone near the bleachers, clutching my small purse and feeling glaringly out of place.
And then I saw him: Rhys was on the field, down near the far goalpost, taking warm-up shots with the rest of the Crofton varsity squad.
He was wearing his red-and-gold match kit—number four printed in bold white across his back—and his hair was damp with sweat, clinging to his forehead in curls.
He moved with a relaxed, fluid grace that made it look like he wasn’t even trying, casually striking a ball from thirty yards out and sending it straight into the top right corner of the net.
As if sensing my eyes on him, he turned. His gaze swept past the crowd, over the fence, and locked onto me. Then he jogged over to the chain-link fence separating the pitch from the spectator area.
“You actually showed up,” he said, leaning his forearm against the top bar of the fence and looking down at me.
“As if I had a choice.” I stepped closer to the fence so I didn’t have to shout over the band. “And I’m wearing your ridiculous colors. Satisfied?”
Rhys’s eyes dipped down to my sweater, taking in the way the sleeves covered my hands, before rising back to my face. His gaze lingered on my lips for a beat too long.
“Red suits you,” he said softly, his voice lower than usual.
My heart did a traitorous, unprompted flip. I scowled to cover it up. “Don’t get used to it. If my brother sees a picture of me in this sweater, he’s going to disown me.”
“Sebastian’s in Parkhurst right now, probably doing extra conditioning reps to make up for the fact that he’s not as fast as me,” Rhys said smoothly.
He reached through the diamond gaps in the chain-link fence, his index finger lightly hooking into the cuff of my sleeve and tugging me a fraction of an inch closer. “Thanks for coming, Ainsley.”
The touch was brief, but the heat of his skin against my wrist sent a shockwave straight up my arm.
“Just play well,” I mumbled, pulling my arm back out of reach. “I didn’t suffer through a car ride with Kelcey just to watch you lose.”
“I don’t lose,” he said, turning back toward the pitch with a wicked grin. “Watch me.”
The game was brutal. Crofton was playing against Oakridge, a physical, high-pressing team known for playing dirty, and the referee was letting almost everything slide.
I sat in the front row of the bleachers with Kelcey, trying to keep my head down in case anyone recognized me—though why anyone would, I had no idea.
Rhys played with the terrifying intensity I’d come to expect from both him and Sebastian, though it was weird to be watching him play a team other than Parkhurst. On the ball, he was impossible to catch—switching directions in the blink of an eye, dropping his shoulder, and leaving defenders scrambling in the dirt.
But off the ball, he was aggressive. Every time Oakridge tried to build an attack, Rhys was there, tracking back, sliding into tackles, and physically imposing himself on the game.
At the thirty-minute mark, the Oakridge center-back shoved Rhys hard from behind during a corner kick, sending him crashing onto the turf. The referee blew his whistle, but didn’t issue a card.
I stood up before I could stop myself, my hands gripping the cold metal railing in front of me. “Hey! That was a foul! Are you blind?”
Kelcey shot me a cold, evaluating look, but I ignored her, my eyes fixed entirely on Rhys as he pushed himself up off the grass. He wiped a streak of mud off his chin, caught my eye in the crowd, and gave me a subtle, knowing nod.
Two minutes later, Rhys got his revenge, intercepting a pass and executing a move so smooth, the goalie didn’t even seem to notice what was happening until it was too late.