Chapter 28 - Aleksey #2
“I will tell him,” she said softly. “I love you, Lekha.”
“Love you too, Mama.”
After the call ended, I dropped the phone onto the stripped mattress and sat there in the quiet. Telling Mama everything—the contract, Karter, and the whole truth about what I felt for him—made the air in the cramped attic feel lighter.
A few hours later, we had traded our sweatpants for team blazers and sat in a banquet hall that stank of wilting flowers and expensive steak.
Round tables packed the low-ceilinged room, every seat filled with teammates and parents and donors, forks clinking cheap ceramic over the dull roar of conversation.
Mama couldn’t make the trip. A Greyhound ticket from Detroit wasn’t in our budget, not just yet, especially with the nursing home cutting her hours again.
Karter walked in beside me and pulled out the chair to my right. Didn’t hesitate. Didn’t glance around to clock who might be staring. Just sat down and reached for the basket of bread rolls in the center of the table. His leg pressed against mine under the tablecloth and stayed there.
I leaned back in my chair. The room was packed with players and parents and guys in Ridge Cross blazers who’d written checks big enough to get their names on plaques.
A few months ago, I’d have scanned every table for Trenton’s crew, clocked where the AD was standing, and tracked the exits for a reason to leave early without even thinking about it. Those were habits I’d learned from four years of knowing exactly how fast things could turn.
But tonight, none of it mattered. Trenton was gone. The investigation was dead. The rumors still floated around, sure, but they’d lost their teeth.
Karter’s hands rested on the white tablecloth, easy and loose. He wasn’t stuffing them in his pockets. Wasn’t angling his body away from mine. Whatever the guys wanted to whisper about us, he’d stopped giving a shit.
Still, the table behind me was packed with freshmen who hadn’t learned to keep their voices down yet.
“Dude, Trenton’s expulsion went through yesterday,” one of them whispered, loud enough for half the room. “My dad said his father tried to write another check and Hastings wouldn’t take it.”
“Brutal. Guess the Wright money finally ran out.”
A short, sharp breath left my nose. Not quite a laugh.
Across the room, Perez caught my eye and lifted his water glass. I raised mine back, just a few inches. That was enough.
Five minutes or so later, Elliot climbed onto the small stage at the front and grabbed the mic off the stand. Somebody at the back hooted. A few guys banged their forks on the table.
“Alright, shut up,” Elliot said, grinning. “Parents are here. Act like you’ve been in public before.”
A low ripple of laughter moved through the tables. I noticed Coach Corby, seated near the stage with the other staff, cross his arms and give Elliot a look that clearly meant ‘keep it moving’.
Elliot cleared his throat. “Well, this season was a mess. Half of us wanted to kill each other at the start of the season. By midway through, we actually tried.” He paused, scanning the room.
“But the guys who stuck it out, the ones who kept showing up when everything was falling apart... that’s why we’re standing here with a trophy. ”
He didn’t glance at me and Karter right away. He let the words hang. Then his gaze shifted, just for a second, to Karter. Then to me.
I didn’t move. Didn’t nod.
“Anyway,” Elliot said, raising his glass. “To us. And to never having to run Coach’s bag skates again.”
The room erupted. Glasses clinked. Somebody shouted, “Hear, hear,” and another freshman knocked over a water pitcher. Coach Corby shook his head but didn’t bother hiding the smirk.
The meal wound down an hour or so later. Plates cleared, chairs scraped back, and donors started collecting their coats. I stepped into the hallway outside the banquet room, waiting for Karter to finish a conversation with one of the trainers. That’s when Elliot walked up and caught my arm.
“Hey,” Elliot lowered his voice. “A word.”
I stepped aside, letting a cluster of parents squeeze past us toward the coat check. “What’s up?”
He didn’t answer right away. Just stood there with his arms crossed, jaw working like he was chewing through a sour gummy. The polished captain from the speech earlier was gone. What was left looked tired and a little wired.
“Take care of Karter,” he said.
“I plan to.”
“That’s not what I asked.” He stepped closer, close enough that his shoulder blocked out the noise from the banquet room.
“His relationship with dad is all screwed up, and he did that for you. Dad’s still raging.
The only reason Karter still has tuition is because Mom’s holding Dad back from going completely nuclear. ”
“So, Karter’s not cut off?”
“For now.” Elliot’s eyes narrowed. “Which means you don’t get to screw this up. Or get to decide it’s too hard and bail. And you definitely don’t get to be another thing that hurts him.”
I met his stare and didn’t blink. “I’m not gonna hurt him.”
“Good.” He held my gaze another beat, testing, then let out a short breath through his nose. His arms uncrossed, hands now shoved into his pockets. “I heard about the AHC spot. From Karter.”
“Of course you did.”
A beat of silence. Elliot’s mouth twitched, half a grin he clearly didn’t want to give me. “Congratulations. Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He snorted and turned back toward the banquet room.
Walking back into the main room, I found Karter standing near our table, waiting for me. Catching his eye, I gave a quick tilt of my head toward the exit. He understood immediately.
I had one final stop on campus to make before break started: grabbing my last bag and leaving the attic behind for good.
The Ice House was dark when Karter and I pushed through the front door. No voices bleeding through the walls. No shoes thudding overhead. The grandfather clock in the foyer ticked into the silence.
The attic stairs groaned under our feet one last time.
My boots stopped on the bare floorboards. Karter leaned against the doorframe behind me, arms loose at his sides.
My room now had nothing left in it but dust and my last duffel bag.
I’d stood in this exact spot months ago, fresh off a midnight shift, convinced the legacy kid in the next room over was just another asshole.
Karter’s first night, I’d stood outside his locked door and told him locks didn’t last here. Meant it, too.
I glanced sideways. Karter leaned against the doorframe, watching me.
“When I first got here, I had a perfectly good plan.” My tone sounded deadpan.
Karter tilted his head. “Is that right?”
“Yeah. Keep my head down, survive this shithole, and get drafted.” Meeting his gaze, the snare of a smile pulled at my mouth. “Then you had to move in here and fuck my whole life up.”
Karter let out a short, dry laugh. “You’re welcome.”
He didn’t wait for a response. He just reached out, grabbed the front of my jacket, and hauled me in. I caught the shift in his eyes, hazel flooding dark, right before his mouth met mine. Then I stopped thinking.
My hand found the back of his neck, fingers sliding into his hair. I kissed him hard enough to shut us both up, because saying the rest out loud—about how Karter felt like home to me—still felt like pulling teeth. But he got it anyway, the way he always did.
Breaking apart a moment later, I grabbed my duffel and slung the strap over my shoulder. And then, slinging an arm over Karter’s shoulder, we left the attic and headed down the narrow stairs.
Fresh air blew into my face as we stepped outside. I didn’t say goodbye to the Ice House, or touch the walls one last time. I simply walked out, with Karter beside me, and let the draft pull the door shut.