Chapter 21. Ethan
I can't stop watching his hands. Liam's fingers shuffle the cards with his bitten nails, his tiny tattoo on his right middle knuckle.
The rest of the room doesn't exist. Harry's smug face, Jack's laughter, Miles' silence, all noise next to Liam.
I've been staring at his hands too long.
This is what it's come to: me, sitting cross-legged on the floor during Quiet Time, breaking at least three rules by allowing them to play forbidden cards instead of ‘thinking about our actions,’ transfixed by another boy's fingers.
"Deal already," Harry says, impatient as always. "Some of us want to actually play before Quiet Time ends."
Liam deals quickly, five cards sliding across the thin blanket we've laid on the floor to muffle the sound.
Our makeshift poker chips form piles in front of each player: ramen flavor packets, cigarettes Harry smuggled in, candy, small personal items like a comb, pens, even a ring. Useless stuff. Just to play pretend.
My pile is pathetically small. I don't care about winning, which makes me a terrible poker player. I'm only here because Liam asked, his eyes bright with excitement, and I've lost the ability to tell him no. Not that I ever had it.
"I'll open," Harry says, pushing forward two cigarettes. That annoying smirk. "Two smokes."
Jack matches without hesitation. Miles considers his cards, then folds silently. Liam bites his lower lip and studies his hand. A strand of black hair falls across his forehead, and my fingers twitch with the urge to brush it back.
"Come on, fresh meat," Harry says. "In or out? Or is your allowance running low?"
"I'm in," Liam says, pushing forward two cigarettes from the small pile Harry gave him earlier. He doesn't smoke cigarettes, just wants to play, but I'm sure Harry will collect later. I hate that Harry's already dragged Liam into this. I hate that I'm sitting here allowing it.
Everyone's waiting for me. I glance at my cards. Garbage, as usual. I fold.
"Boss has no spine today," Harry comments. I roll my eyes. I should shut this down, report Harry for the cigarettes, confiscate the cards, send everyone back to their bunks. But that would mean seeing disappointment in Liam's eyes, and I'm becoming pathetically averse to that expression.
The betting continues. Cards exchanged. My gaze keeps drifting: Liam's throat as he swallows, his Adam's apple moving, his lips parting in concentration.
"Raise," Harry says, sliding forward his last cigarette and what looks like a hand-drawn coupon. "One smoke and one cleanup duty swap."
"Too rich for me," Jack says, tossing his cards.
Liam hesitates. "I don't have any more cigarettes."
"So bet something else," Harry suggests. "Something Ethan gave you. I'm sure the supreme leader gives great gifts to his little whore."
I freeze. For a second, I think he might know about the radio.
"What do you want, Harry?" I ask, trying to control my temper.
"Just raising the stakes," he says with mock innocence. He probably doesn't know anything. Probably. "Betting makes the game interesting. So, what'll it be, Liam? Fold like a little bitch or put something real on the table?"
Liam's face flushes. "Fine. I'll bet my desserts for the next week."
I relax a fraction. Proud of him for not falling for it.
Harry laughs. "Weak, but I'll take it." He flips his cards. "Full house."
Liam's expression falls as he reveals his hand. Two pairs. Not enough.
"Tough luck, newbie." Harry reaches across and snatches Liam's pile with unnecessary force. "Maybe stick to activities more your speed. Like being Ethan's slut."
Something snaps in me.
I surge to my feet, sending cards and prizes scattering across the blanket. "Game's over."
"What the fuck, man? You can't…!"
"I said it's over." My hands curl into fists. "This isn't even allowed. Do you want me to confiscate the cards?"
Jack starts gathering items, moving carefully, like he's trying not to spook a wild animal. I hate seeing him like that because of me. Miles hasn't moved. Just shrugs.
Harry looks up at me. That smirk. "Can't handle a little fun, asshole?"
I lean down, getting in his face. "One more word and you'll be eating those cards."
For a second, I think he might challenge me. Something in my expression makes him reconsider. He leans back, hands raised in mock surrender. The smirk stays.
"Whatever you say, boss."
I want to grab him by the throat. But Liam's hand on my arm stops me.
I straighten. Deep breath. "Clean this up," I tell Harry, then turn to Liam. "Come on."
I lead him to my bed, sit down, pull him beside me so he's lying against my chest. Across the room, Jack rolls his eyes, but he's smiling. Miles has returned to his book.
"You didn't have to do that," Liam murmurs in my ear. Low enough that only I can hear. "I don't care what he says."
I look at him. His jawline. Those blue eyes.
"Yes, I did. He was being an asshole to you," I say, and kiss the top of his head.
I don't even care anymore.
■
Two days later, Griff nearly kills us with his MMA drills. By the time we're done, my shirt is soaked through and every muscle screams. But instead of dismissing us, Griff stands at the center of the mat, clipboard in hand, and announces the start of selections for the inter-academy tournament.
It happens every year. He selects eight to ten of us. A chance to compete against other facilities, and more importantly, a few days away from Aspire. I went once, my second year, but I don't care about it the way some of them do.
I flex my hands inside my gloves and wait.
I scan the room, find Liam near the back. He wouldn't compete, he's barely started. His eyes meet mine, and he gives me that smile. Having him watch makes me nervous and stupidly happy at the same time.
"Ethan," Griff calls. "You're up next."
I step forward, rolling my shoulders. Before Griff can assign me an opponent, a voice cuts through.
"I'll take him."
The room goes silent. Reed steps onto the mat. That grin, the kind that could land him in a psych ward. We haven't spoken since the fight over Liam. The bruise on his jaw has faded to sickly yellow. My split lip has barely healed.
My stomach drops. I keep my face neutral.
Reed is the best fighter at Aspire. Undefeated in three years of tournaments. He wants my neck. I'm good, but not that good, and we both know it.
"Alright," Griff says, eyeing us with suspicion. "Remember, this is a demonstration match."
Reed nods without looking at Griff. Barely contained violence in every line of his body.
He's been waiting for this, a sanctioned chance to hurt me without consequences.
The guy is massive. Spends all day working out.
I wouldn't be surprised if he takes steroids, it'd be easy enough for him to get his hands on some, since no one touches him.
I can't back down in front of everyone.
We touch gloves. A formality. The last time I touched Reed, it was my fist on his jaw because he couldn't keep his hands off Liam. Now he's going to make me pay, and there's nothing I can do except try to stay on my feet.
We circle each other. I keep my guard high, Reed favors overhands and elbows. He feints, testing my reactions. When the first combination comes, I'm ready. Block the jab, slip the cross, counter with a quick leg kick that connects with his thigh.
Surprise crosses Reed's face. Replaced immediately by something unhinged. His next combination comes faster, harder. I block most of it, but a hook slips through and catches my jaw, snapping my head sideways. The shock reverberates through my system. I recover. Circle away.
His next attack is blistering, a series of strikes pushing me toward the edge of the mat.
I block what I can, absorbing impacts with my forearms, shoulders, returning fire where possible.
A knee slams into my ribs with far more force than any demonstration requires.
The air leaves my lungs. I struggle to maintain my guard as Reed presses forward.
An elbow cracks against my forearm. Then another slips past, connecting with my eyebrow.
Hot wetness trickles into my eye. Blood.
The salt-copper taste fills my mouth as Reed lands another blow to my chest. I gasp, vision narrowing to just Reed's fists, the mat beneath me, blood dripping onto the surface.
"Reed! Ease up!" Griff's voice cuts through. "This is a demonstration, not a street fight!"
Reed doesn't glance at Griff. His focus is absolute. I launch a desperate counter, spinning elbow that creates space. For a second, I think I've bought myself room.
Wrong.
Reed charges forward, abandoning any pretense of control. A right hook rocks me, legs suddenly unsteady. I try to clinch, slow the onslaught. Reed breaks away, drives another knee into my ribs. I hear a crack. Pain so sharp it whites out my vision.
"Reed! That's enough!" Griff is moving toward us.
I'm still on my feet. Somehow. Guard faltering, blood from my eyebrow running into my eye, turning everything red.
Reed's face swims in and out of focus, his smile growing wider with each strike.
He lands a final punch square on my face.
Pain explodes. I land on my knees. The mat vibrates through my body.
Griff is between us instantly, arm extended. "Back off, Hoffman. Now!"
Reed stands over me, chest heaving, eyes wild with satisfaction. Blood drips from my face onto the mat. Small, perfect circles of red.
"Ethan, go to the nurse," Griff orders, voice softening. "Jack, help him."
"I can walk myself," I say. A drop of pride is all I have left.
Griff gives me a look that might be respect or pity, I can't tell through the blood. "Nurse. Now."
I push to my feet, fighting the dizziness. Reed watches with that predatory smile. Victorious. As I limp toward the door, I catch Liam's face in the crowd. Pale. Blue eyes wide with shock.
That hurts worse than anything Reed did.
It turns out I can't walk myself. My knees buckle halfway down the hallway, adrenaline crashing. Liam appears at my side, arm sliding around my waist, holding me upright.
"I've got you," he murmurs, and despite everything, the blood, the fire in my ribs, the shame of being carried off the mat, something warm fills my chest. His shoulder is under my arm, his hip against mine, bearing more of my weight than I want to admit.
I focus on him beside me as we make our slow, painful way to the nurse's office.
Each step sends a spike through my ribs. Something's cracked, maybe broken. My face feels twice its normal size, the cut over my eye throbs with my pulse. Blood trickles from the split eyebrow, dripping onto my collar. Copper and salt with every swallow.
"He really went for you," Liam says. Very quiet. Full of guilt. "I'm sorry. He hurt you because of me."
I want to tell him it's fine, that I've had worse, that I kind of deserved it. Speaking takes more energy than I have. Instead, I lean into him a little more.
The nurse's office door is propped open. Glenn looks up from her station. She’s wearing penguin-print scrubs, round glasses, orange hair in a bun. She jumps to her feet.
"What happened?" she demands, though the blood makes it obvious. She guides me to the examination table.
"MMA practice," Liam answers.
"Who did that to him?"
"Reed Hoffman."
Glenn clicks her tongue. "That boy. One of these days, Griff is going to have to do something about him before someone gets seriously hurt. I don't even know why they allow you all to do MMA."
"They say it channels violent energy into something productive and controlled," Liam says quietly, still watching me.
She works fast: vitals, cleaning the worst of the blood, then probing my ribs.
I hiss through clenched teeth. "Bruised, maybe cracked," she pronounces.
"Nothing to do except wrap them. Take it easy for a few weeks.
" She eyes Liam hovering at the edge of the table, then turns back to me. "You won't need stitches, but barely."
"Can I help?" Liam asks.
Glenn looks at him, frowns, suspicious, looks back at me. Smiles. Shrugs.
"Sure. Basic first aid, clean the cuts, ice the swelling." She passes him a tray of supplies: gauze, antiseptic, ice packs. "I've got paperwork next door. Can you manage fifteen minutes without me?"
"Yes, ma'am," Liam says.
"None of that ma'am nonsense." She chuckles and disappears into the next room.
"I can handle this myself if you want to go," I say, even though the thought of him leaving tightens my chest.
"Don't be stupid," he replies, picking up gauze and wetting it with antiseptic. "Hold still."
He steps closer, standing between my knees as I sit on the edge of the table. His face inches from mine, brow furrowed in concentration, as he gently dabs at the cut above my eye. I wince at the sting, but don't pull away.
"Sorry," he murmurs. His breath warm against my skin.
"Nothing I can't handle, baby," I say, and the pet name comes out so easily it surprises me. He looks up, startled. Then chuckles.
He works in silence. I watch his face, lower lip caught between his teeth when he concentrates as he focuses on my injuries. His eyelashes are lighter than his hair. I can't stop watching him.
"You didn't have to let him beat you like this," Liam says softly. Making fun of me. Adorable. He presses a cold compress to my jaw, fingers brushing my skin.
I manage a painful smile. "Wasn't exactly letting him."
"You knew he'd destroy you. Why did you fight him?"
His eyes meet mine. Blue and questioning. He's so close to me.
"What was I supposed to do? Back down in front of everyone?" My voice is rough. My eyes are stinging. Again. And it’s not because of the pain. It's hard for me to be taken care of.
Liam's fingers pause against my cheekbone. Feather-light. "You could have gotten seriously hurt."
"I'm fine," I insist. We both know it's a lie.
"He was punishing you, and you kind of let him. Masochist much? I thought I was the masochist here."
"It doesn't matter. I kind of deserved it for how I treated you."
Liam's hand moves to clean a cut on my lip, his thumb brushing the corner of my mouth. The touch sends a current through me that makes me forget the pain. My hand comes up, catching his wrist.
"I can't think straight anymore," I say. Barely audible. "When it comes to you, I lose control."
"I know," he whispers. "Me too."
"It scares me." It kills me to hear myself say that.
"No need to," he says. "We're together now. Everything is good."