Chapter 11 Easton
Easton
“Wings or pizza?” Deshaun asks from the back seat of Marcus’s Jeep, feet pressing against the back of my passenger seat.
He and Gabe are debating the best post-practice snacks.
“Bro, it’s gotta be wings,” Gabe says, chewing a protein bar. “Nothing better than some spicy wings after working your ass off.”
Deshaun snorts. “Nah. Wings are messy as hell.”
Marcus turns to look at him, surprised. “You don’t like wings?”
I tune them out; their banter is just…noise. I rub a hand over my jaw, exhaling through my nose. My knee bounces, restless energy buzzing through me, and I clench my fists to stop it.
A sigh leaves my throat before I can help it, and Gabe leans forward to prod me. “You good, dude?”
I school my expression before he can dig any deeper. “Yeah.”
“Doesn’t sound like it,” Marcus says, glancing over at me. “You’ve been weird since practice. And why didn’t you say hi to Harper like I told you to? You were straight-up cold to her when we were at the lockers afterward. Macy says she’s totally into you!”
Was I being weird? This is news to me—but no surprise.
I feel like I’m being weird.
Deshaun makes a noise of agreement with a protein bar in his mouth, gnawing around its wrapper. “Bruh, you’re quiet as hell. That’s not like you.”
I roll my shoulders. “Just tired.”
It’s a weak excuse, but no one pushes.
I stare out the window some more, watching the blur of landscaping streak past. Marcus is right. I was being a dick…My fingers twitch with the urge to reach for my phone, to text Harper, to just say something.
But what the hell am I supposed to say?
Hey, sorry for acting like you were invisible?
Hey—I didn’t mean to make you feel like shit?
I wasn’t purposely being avoidant but now I can’t stop thinking about it?
I drag a hand down my face, frustrated with myself.
Harper has all the evidence of my crimes. I need to keep her on my good side, or our deal might blow up in my face. She could turn me in to the principal, and I’d lose everything: my scholarship, my future…all of it. And yet I chose to ignore her. Why? No idea.
Well, that’s not totally true. It’s just that I’ve never had a girl come watch me practice before and had no idea how to react to it. Seeing her there, staring at me behind the glass, it made me feel the same type of nerves as when the college scouts used to come to my games.
Something about her eyes following me as I skated across the ice just set me on edge. Probably because she’s blackmailing me. But still…
I need to fix this. Before she calls off our bargain for good.
“Can you drive me to Harper’s house?” I blurt the question out before I can think it through. Frowning, my best friend glances over from behind the wheel.
“What for?”
I shift uncomfortably in my seat. “I feel like I need to talk to her. Clear some stuff up.”
“What stuff?” Marcus pauses. “Is something going on with you two?”
I glare out the windshield. “No. I just…You guys are right. I should have said hi to her at practice. I was being rude.” And I need her to like me so she doesn’t rat me out to the cops.
Marcus shakes his head. “You think showing up at a girl’s house unannounced is a good idea?”
He has a valid point, but I see no way around it.
“What’s the worst thing that could happen?” I waffle, unsure.
“Literally everything terrible is the worst thing that could happen. A girl’s house is like her sanctuary. You don’t just walk in there,” he counters, focused on the road ahead of him while everyone snacks on protein bars. “How will you get home if I drop you off?”
“She has a car.” I blow out a puff of air. “Okay, fine. Don’t do anything yet. I’ll text her.”
My head tilts back against the headrest and I sigh, the Jeep falling silent except for the reverberating sound of the engine, along with my buddies chomping on food, as we get farther away from the ice rink and closer to the suburbs where I live.
I watch the scenery blur by, my mind racing with things to say to Harper. Excuses for my idiotic behavior at the rink. Like the moment I first saw her, when I looked to see who was watching practice tonight—people (parents) usually come to watch—then forced my eyes past her.
The more I think about it, the more I feel like absolute shit.
I shift again, jaw tight, the image of her face stuck in my dumb brain. The way her shoulders dropped, like she’d been waiting for me to acknowledge her. Like she expected something from me.
How am I going to apologize for ignoring her like an asshole? There was literally no reason not to say hi.
Not only that, this was one of the rare nights my dad wasn’t in the stands watching practice so he could show me videos of my playing and lecture me about it later.
Before I can second-guess myself any further, I open Harper’s contact and start typing.
Me: You home?
I hit send, the message disappearing into oblivion. No take-backs, no deleting it.
A sense of unease settles in my chest as I wait for a response, not sure if I’m hoping for an immediate reply or dreading it. The thing about Harper: She doesn’t hold back her feelings. If she’s pissed at me, I am going to know it.
Minutes tick by.
Finally, my phone buzzes, and I nearly drop it in my haste to see her reply.
Harper: Yes.
Ouch. A one-word response.
“You know what? What the hell, why not—take me to her place,” I tell Marcus, my fuck-it attitude propelling me toward this unwise decision.
He raises an eyebrow. “So…turn around? We already passed her neighborhood.”
I nod. “Sure.”
He comes to a full stop on the side of the road, glances in his rearview then side mirrors. When the coast is clear, he whips the Jeep around with dramatic flair, pressing the gas and sending us hurtling in the direction of Harper’s house, as we all white-knuckle the “oh shit” bars above our doors.
It’s a short drive that takes forever.
With each passing second, my nerves knot tighter—and I’m pretty sure Marcus senses this, because he’s throwing smirks my direction as he navigates the neighborhood.
Finally, we pull up in front of Harper’s driveway. I sit frozen, hand on the door handle.
“You got this, bruh.” Deshaun slaps my shoulder from the back seat with way too much confidence for someone who’s not about to walk up to her door himself.
“Thanks.” I don’t feel like I got this.
I push the Jeep door open before I can doubt myself again. The air outside is crisp, but it doesn’t do much to cool the heat crawling up my neck. The guys are still watching, which makes it worse.
I don’t need an audience for this.
Marcus rolls down his window. “You sure you don’t want us to wait? In case she slams the door in your face?”
I shoot him a glare over my shoulder. “Go home.”
Raking a hand through my hair, I do my best to shake off the nerves in my gut, forcing my feet forward. Up the porch steps. One deep breath, then one knock.
The house is quiet. Behind the door, there’s a shuffle, the sound of heavy footsteps moving closer.
Then.
The door swings open, and Harper’s dad stands framed by the dim hallway light, his broad shoulders filling the space like a barricade.
His gaze lands on me, sharp and assessing, and my stomach drops, despite the fact that he seems friendly and not like he’s about to bite my head off.
Shit.
I clear my throat, shifting awkwardly under his scrutiny. “Uh. Hi, Mr. Conrad.”
“Can I help you?”
Crap, that’s right—I’ve met her mom at school things before but not her dad. I introduce myself awkwardly. “I’m Easton Westermann. A friend of Harper’s.” I clear my throat, nervous enough to crap my pants. “Is she home?”
After a brief pause, he nods. “Upstairs in her bedroom. You can go up if you want.”
“Really?”
Dang. I’m not allowed to have girls in my room, even though I’ve never had the opportunity to have girls in my room.
“Sure. Just keep the door open.”
For a second, I just stand there, thrown off by how chill he is about this.
“Uh—thanks,” I say, hesitating before stepping inside.
Mr. Conrad nods, already turning toward the kitchen like he has better things to do than interrogate the guy showing up unannounced for his daughter.
It’s weird. I don’t know what I expected—maybe a warning, maybe a don’t try anything stare—but this?
An open invitation to gallivant up to Harper’s bedroom?
I step into the house, shutting the door behind me as I move toward the stairs.
I shouldn’t be nervous.
It’s not like I haven’t been alone with Harper before. But something about climbing the stairs to her bedroom feels way more intimate than hanging with her in the garage.
I find her door, knowing which one it is by the pink heart taped to it.
Cute.
Girlie.
Raising my hand to knock, I pause, listening.
Soft laughter filters through the door. Muffled giggles.
Macy? Maybe. Hard to tell.
I exhale, rolling my shoulders back. Here goes nothing.
I knock—three firm taps against the wood—then take a step back, pulse kicking up.
“Harper?”