Chapter 3
BECK
My pulse hasn’t returned to normal since orientation ended.
I pretend to listen while Coach splits the team into groups. The freshmen are herded off for paperwork and presentations, while the upperclassmen are left to mingle and explore some of the upgrades around the facility. But all I can see is him.
Brody Miller. Standing here. In my gym. With my team.
This isn’t real. It can’t be real. How? Why?
I force my eyes away from him and walk away, angling myself towards whoever happens to be on the opposite side of the room from him. Sean and Roman peel away to help Coach organize the first-years.
Everyone is in high spirits, breaking off into smaller groups to catch up with old friends and discuss the year ahead.
Cade and Fish run off to race up the new climbing ropes in the corner of the gym.
There’s chatter and laughter all around me.
I’m considerably less excited, and by the looks that my friends and teammates keep giving me, I’m not hiding it well enough.
I’m on edge, trying to mask my nerves with a flat expression and indifference.
I might throw up. My lungs feel like they’re on the verge of collapse.
Why is he here?
What does he want?
Is he talking about me right now? Is he going to tell anyone about what really happened that day, why I lost so spectacularly?
Is he going to tell everyone my secret?
Brody’s grin looked awfully knowing when he saw me. And his eyes… The spark of recognition left no question that he knew who I was. He remembered every humiliating second of that match.
My stomach drops so violently I almost crumple to the ground.
He knows what happened to me that day. And now he’s here, not just in the same building, but on my fucking team.
I hover near the edge of the mats, pretending to check my phone just to look busy.
Across the room, I hear him being introduced to more of my friends and teammates.
His laugh is warm and easy, like he’s known everyone for years.
He’s clearly the friendly, charismatic, never-met-a-stranger type.
He doesn’t even have to try to get everyone to like him right off the bat.
The tension in my neck and shoulders bleeds up into the back of my head, a headache throbbing to life.
I force myself to breathe as I listen to him laugh and joke around while other guys gossip about the new guy.
I drink it all in greedily, because I need to know everything about him.
More importantly, I need to know everything he’s saying without getting close enough to tempt fate.
So far, all I’ve overheard are discussions about where he moved from and his impressive stats.
No one seems to know why he transferred, but they’re all excited to have another heavyweight champion on the team.
I home in on their conversations while I do an internet search for his name.
If he has better stats than I do, I’m going to be pissed.
There’s a ripple of laughter, and it feels like a reaction to my thoughts, like everyone here can sense my weakness. His laughter is the loudest. It grates on my nerves and makes my head throb harder.
I close my eyes, and instantly I’m back there. Flat on my back in the championship match, staring up into those blue eyes as every muscle in my body locked and betrayed me.
The pressure of his weight. The warmth of his breath. The sound I made. God, that sound. That unbelievable, humiliating sound that gave me away more than my body ever could.
A strong shoulder bumps mine. I jolt.
“Beck,” Jay Norman says gently. “You good?”
No. I am absolutely not good.
“Fine,” I lie, and quickly turn away. “Just a bit of a headache.”
He gives me a look suggesting he knows there’s more to it, but he leaves it alone. His best friend Aaron calls him away, and I drift towards my roommates, needing a distraction. They’re huddled near the lockers with Pierce Jamison, who is being predictably douchey about something.
“I’m surprised they even let him enroll here, much less gave him a scholarship.
I thought Huntston had better standards than that,” Pierce says loudly.
Everything this douche says is loud and pompous.
“But I suppose brawn and a few good stats are enough to overlook the stench of cheap beer and stale cigarettes if it gets us another championship.”
Cade snorts, but Fish doesn’t look amused.
I lean against the lockers, arms crossed. “What are you talking about?”
Pierce puffs up like he has exclusive information. Of course he does. Guys like him live to gossip. “The new guy, Brody Miller. I know him from high school. Grew up on the wrong end of town, if you know what I mean. Total trailer trash.”
Cade winces. Fish whispers under his breath, “Really?”
“What?” Pierce shrugs. “You can say it right in front of him, and he just laughs. He knows it’s true.”
I doubt that, but I keep my mouth shut, saving every scrap of information for the potential threat. I need to know who Brody is. What he wants. Whether he’s planning to ruin me. Or how I can ruin him first.
“Get this—There were rumors that he was gay, too…”
“Dude.” Fish’s voice sounds like he’s warning Pierce, which gets my attention. “I don’t want to hear that shit.”
My shoulders are stiff. I’m not sure what to think about Fish’s reaction to that bit of gossip, but I wonder if it’s true…
Before I can process Pierce’s information, I hear whistling. A low, deliberately cheerful whistle to the tune of It’s A Small World. My neck aches with how stiffly I’m holding my posture, and a cold chill trickles over my skin as he strolls up behind me.
Brody has his hands tucked behind his back like a child feigning innocence. He smiles too widely when he reaches us.
“Speak of the Devil,” Pierce sneers.
Fish elbows him. “Hey Brody, meet our other roommate–"
“Lincoln Beckett,” he finishes for him, eyes locked on mine as he reaches out a hand to shake. “Fancy meeting you again.”
I bristle immediately and stare at his hand like it’s a loaded gun. My skin prickles hot and cold at once.
“Nice to meet you, I guess,” I say curtly, ignoring his proffered hand.
Turning away from him and my friends’ curious expressions, I make excuses about needing to tend to my captain’s duties and walk towards the offices.
When I chance a quick glance over my shoulder, I see Brody studying me with a confused expression, maybe curiosity with a tinge of amusement.
This can’t really be happening.
Coach McCoy stands over the digital scale with his arms crossed, face blank and stern.
He seems unimpressed with the results of the first team weigh-in so far.
Hopefully, he’ll chill out now that he’s made his way through the freshman and sophomore wrestlers and is starting with the veteran athletes who are less likely to have slacked off all summer.
Marcy, our athletic trainer, stands next to Coach McCoy with a clipboard, calling each of us forward to assess our weight class potential.
The team stands around half naked, waiting for their turn to either be reamed or teased by Coach.
The majority of us left to be weighed aren’t nervous the way the freshmen were, although Pierce looks like he might have tried sweating off some pounds this morning considering he showed up huffing and wearing too many layers.
Most of us will stay in the same weight class we were last year or move up.
I’m a little jittery, but not because of my weight.
I’ve kept on top of my strict diet and exercise regimen all summer.
My father wouldn’t have let me slack even if I wanted to, not that I ever do.
I didn’t sleep well again last night and can’t seem to kick the throbbing headache that’s been bothering me since yesterday.
Once I’ve shown the underclassmen where to go for the next stage of our first team physicals, I pull off my t-shirt and step in line.
I’m doing a good job keeping my eyes forward and not worrying about anyone else until the door opens and Brody Miller walks in. Late. Not that Coach says anything about it.
Brody peels off his hoodie and drops his athletic pants right there in the corridor.
Someone, probably Cade, whistles, and I roll my eyes to cover the way they automatically drift toward his body.
He’s thick everywhere. His chest, his back, his fucking thighs that look like they could crush a person to death.
The tight compression shorts ride high on his hips, the fabric stretched tight over the firm globes of his ass.
Jesus.
He's a couple inches shorter than me, but he’s bigger and broader by far. He’s solid. Probably at least one weight class higher than me, if not two. At least we aren’t likely to be paired up for training.
Not wanting to be caught staring, I snap my eyes away from Brody’s body, but I’m not sure I’m fast enough. In my periphery, I can see his lips quirk.
“Looking good yourself, Lincoln,” he says, moving just behind me and dropping his voice low so no one else can hear him.
“Don’t call me that,” I deadpan, blatantly ignoring his acknowledgement that he did, in fact, catch me looking.
“What? Your name? What else am I supposed to call you, then?”
“Nothing,” I say, my voice sharp. “You don’t call me anything.”
He tsks. “Are you really this butthurt over losing one match to me in high school?”
My gaze darts to his, finding his blue eyes assessing me teasingly. I scoff, because he knows very well what I’m butthurt about. He cocks his head, but I turn away, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of talking about it. He just wants to make me say it out loud, but I won’t do it.