Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Zayden
Ijust wanted to play.
Escape the confines of my room and breathe.
I should have known that there’s no such thing as peace in a place that harbors so many secrets.
If it’s not one thing, it’s always another.
Villalargos is the gift that keeps on fucking giving, and this time, I’m actually not mad.
The internal satisfaction of not being wrong has the corner of my lip lifting slightly.
I’ve never trusted any of these assholes, and Ezra…
to me, he is no different than the donors.
It’s something about him that makes me feel uneasy, makes the alarm bells in my head go off.
Alerting me that he’s not what he appears to be.
My gaze roams between the boys, and everyone looks at Ezra—waiting for an answer.
I don’t give a shit. All I wanted was a distraction from the conflicting emotions that swim inside me.
Resentment and grief wrestle for the spotlight within my heart, unable to decide which one of them is winning.
One always comes with the other, and maybe that’s exactly what I’m supposed to be feeling. After all, my father is dead.
The field is a war zone, and the tension is so thick it’s almost suffocating.
Adrenaline and testosterone run high, and not the way it surges before a game, but the kind that demands violence.
I can see the disgust written all over Nico’s face.
My eyes momentarily land on Thiago, who looks at Ezra like a puzzle he’s trying to decipher.
Could it be that, for once, Safra wasn’t aware?
Which makes me wonder about the timing of all this?
Why now? It’s been months, so what is the goal?
If all these secrets are beginning to be exposed, what secret comes next? I bite the corner of my nail, eyes darting between Nico and Ezra, as my friend demands answers.
“You’re not gonna say anything.”
Ezra doesn’t speak, not even when Nico steps forward, every intentional step filled with anger. I move with him, and my hand meets his chest.
“Back off, Zayden…” he snaps, and still, I remain where I am, meeting his glare with nothing but a warning.
“It’s not worth it.” Nico's eyes narrow into thin slits, his brows drawing together as he looks at me in disbelief.
“Not worth it…” He chuckles as he mockingly echoes back my words, shaking his head before swiping away my hand in one swift movement. “All of you are so fucking full of shit.” With that, he shoves past me, beelining straight towards Ezra. Thiago moves fast, stepping between them.
“Nico, Stop.”
Of course, Nico does the opposite.
Instead, his fist flies, giving Ezra barely any time to dodge it.
Once again, his fist pulls back and surges forward.
This time, Thiago catches the second swing…
with his face. What a beautiful, yet punchable face.
The blow lands hard, causing Safra to stumble, his hand flying towards the spot where Nico’s fist connected.
His gaze flicks up to Nico, blood blooming at the corner of his mouth.
I don’t think… I just move, grabbing Nico by the collar and dragging him out of the chaos before he digs himself into more shit. He fights me at first.
“Let me the fuck go,” he snarls.
I don’t, and once he realizes I’m not letting up, he gives up. We move deeper into the fields, towards the storage unit outside the locker rooms. Still holding on to his collar, I pop open the metal storage unit and grab one of the soccer balls.
Right now, Nico doesn’t need words. He needs an outlet, and for as long as I’ve known him, this has been ours.
Field therapy.
I drop the ball to the ground. Eyeing it curiously, his feet move towards it before one lands right above it.
The ball is nestled safely beneath the sole of his shoe; he's not in proper cleats, but for now it will do.
The field is half frozen, the grass brittle beneath our feet.
The wind bites into my bones, but neither of us complains.
Nico’s foot continues to hover over the ball, and for a moment, I think he’s going to kick it straight into my chest. But he doesn’t, he just taps it forward, and well, I chase it.
Without a word, we fall into a familiar feeling.
This is how we’ve always dealt with shit—by moving.
The ball skids across the frost, my shoes slip when I kick, and my knees collapse into the grass.
Nico is fast, already cutting through the field with sharp, controlled strides.
He traps the ball with the inside of his foot, pivots, and drags it back with the sole before flicking it forward again.
A smile tugs at my lips, seeing his midfielder mode activated.
Nico isn’t playing pretty; he’s playing angry, and every touch is aggressive.
I quickly recover, pushing off the ground and drifting wide, waiting for him to pass it my way.
He doesn’t; instead, Nico keeps the ball close, weaving through invisible defenders.
I cut across his path, trying to intercept, only for him to feel it coming, shielding the ball with his hip before he spins, dragging it behind him with the inside of his foot.
I lunge—toe out and fast—poking the ball free.
We both watch it skitter across the crunchy grass, and I chase it down. Trapping it with my right foot, I flick it up with the tip of my shoe. Nico’s already on me, breath hot, small clouds leaving our mouths as I volley it forward with the outside of my foot, moving quickly past him.
It doesn’t take Nico long to catch up; we collide shoulder to shoulder, both of us slipping on the frost. I lose control of the ball, and Nico successfully steals it with a clean tap and then drives it forward. Cutting left, then right, the ball and him moving in sync as if it’s glued to his foot.
The asshole is attacking now.
I drop back, tracking his movement. He swings his leg back, ready to shoot towards the goal. That’s when I slide, just enough to know the line of the ball, my foot connecting with the frozen ground, sending a shock up my leg. Nico stumbles, catching himself and laughing breathlessly.
“Gotta play harder than that to beat me,” he teases.
I flip him off, and once again, we go after it.
Of course, Nico gets there first, tapping the ball lightly, then he cuts sharply to the right.
I follow, slipping again because fuck these shoes.
Before I hit the ground, I catch myself with a hand, and he slows.
I let myself fall, and the ball just rolls between us, losing momentum when we both stop.
Breathing heavy. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do here, Z.”
Nico looks up at the sky, his chest rising and falling fast with each breath. “I don’t even trust myself at this point. This all seems pointless. Fernanda is dead. June is dead.” He snorts, but it sounds more like a chuckle. “And still I have no idea how to help myself or her.”
My throat tightens, and the cold air burns my lungs with each inhale.
I don’t answer, even though I know that he’s looking for reassurance, anything.
I give him none, because I’m one of those people he can’t trust. Even though I tell myself excuses for why I need to do this, it's all a lie that I feed myself to make the betrayal digestible.
“Fuck, I’m such an asshole, Zayden… Fuck, how are you?”
I scoff, waving my hand, trying to get him to stop before he gets going. I didn’t need pity; my dad had been dead long before his body got the memo. I wasn’t grieving…
All I feel is rage, resentment, and I guess everything in between. I stare into the horizon, trying not to focus on the look on Nico’s face. “Talk to me, bro.”
“There’s not much to say,” I reply honestly.
I didn’t have a burial for him. I didn't go to the memorial our neighbors threw together. Something lodges in my chest. I spent my entire life grieving a man who wasn’t there, and now that he’s really gone, the only difference is that I now have a bag full of ashes.
Nico sits beside me, and I turn to look at him, noticing all the bruises and the dark circles that permanently shadow his under eye.
I hate how much this place has taken from him, and I hate knowing that it was all pointless because the girl he’s trying to seek justice for is the same one who holds me hostage to this deception. What a hard pill to fucking swallow.
“You should really lay low, man. I know you love Shiloh, but that’s gonna get you killed.”
Nico drags a hand down his face, and with a sideways smile, he just says, “I’ve been dying slowly since I got here, Z.” Playfully, I punch his shoulder; there’s no real power behind it.
“Think about your grandma and your little brother. You still have a lot to lose. Don’t throw it all away.”
This time, Nico doesn’t respond, and I’m thankful for the comfortable silence that settles between us. The cold continues to bite into my flesh, my extremities growing numb.
“It’s cold, man.” Nico shoots up to his feet, shaking off his limbs to get his blood pumping, and I do the same. Then footsteps crunch across the field, causing us both to turn toward the source of the sound.
Shiloh fucking Johnson.
“You gotta be kidding me,” I snarl, shaking my head in disapproval. Shiloh doesn’t budge, holding her head up with no shame, wrapped in a thick coat with her hair pulled back and eyes locked on Nico.
“I need to talk to him,” she says in a low voice.
I quickly stand between them, brushing ice off my pants. “No, what you need to do is stay away, Johnson.” Her lip quivers, and I can feel Nico glare a dagger into the back of my head.
“Zayden,” he murmurs softly as I snap my gaze towards him.
“Don’t Zayden me. This is gonna end badly.”
He shrugs. The asshole fucking shrugs, then moves past me and towards Shiloh. “I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t choose this for me.”