Chapter 4 Brody
brODY
For the second time, Lincoln Beckett pivots on his heel and storms away from me. The doors to the main wrestling floor slam so hard the frame rattles. For a long moment, nobody moves. Everyone looks around and then at me, flat on my ass on the mat, staring after him like an idiot.
They’re all probably wondering what it is I did to set him off. What I continue to do, since he’s very obviously hated me since the moment I got here.
But does he really hate me that much?
I get that my playful attitude rubs him the wrong way.
I admit that I may have pushed it a little too far just to rile him up, but the running away is concerning.
He’s not fighting with me, cursing, or shoving.
He just runs. And people don’t run like that unless they're afraid of something. Or hiding something.
I have a theory about what he might be hiding. A thought I’ve pondered since I pinned him to the mat just over two years ago. A theory he all but just confirmed.
Because the way he reacted? The way he looked at me, back then and again today? The silent panic radiating off him every time our bodies brushed against each other?
I’ve seen it before. Not often, but enough to recognize it.
It speaks loudly of a guy who is trying very, very hard not to get caught wanting something he’s been taught not to want. A guy who thinks his whole life will implode if anyone sees him for what he is.
It would explain the hostility and obvious nerves, the toxic show of masculinity. The intensity of his vitriol for someone he doesn’t know. Someone who might know something about him that no one else does.
Not that I’d ever out someone like that. But he doesn’t know me, and I don’t know him.
What I do know is that calling him out or cornering him won’t help him. Threatening his sense of control won’t help him.
So I don’t go after him. Instead, I exhale slowly and peel myself off the mat, smoothing my shorts down and pretending what just happened is normal, despite the way everyone is staring at me.
If Lincoln is closeted—or scared, or confused, or something else entirely—that’s his business.
I understand the fear. Being anything other than straight, especially in a sport like this, can be daunting.
But that doesn’t excuse his behavior. It doesn’t give him the right to lord his power as a future leader of the elite class over me and try to make a fool out of me.
I need to figure out how to stop scaring him without backing down. I’m not going anywhere. I’m here to finish my damn degree and take care of my family. Wrestling is what’s affording me that ability. It’s the only reason I’m here.
Still… I can’t help but be intrigued.
My skin prickles remembering the way he shivered when he pinned me.
The way his breath caught.
The way something soft and vulnerable flickered behind his anger.
I don’t know exactly what’s going on with him, but I’m curious enough to try to find out, and maybe try to help. Quietly, and without blowing up either of our lives.
I don’t want to be his enemy. But I’m not going to roll over and show my belly, either.
“Alright, spill. What the fuck is up with you and Beck?”
Fish drops his tray on the table and stares at me like he’s waiting for some big news that would explain the icy cold shoulder and behavior their captain has shown me since I arrived at Huntston.
He’s a moody jerk whenever he’s around me, and seems to go out of his way to avoid me outside of practice.
I shrug. “He’s just intense.”
Fish raises an eyebrow. “It’s unusual for him to be this hotheaded.”
I shrug and dig into my eggs.
“How do you two know each other, exactly?” Aaron asks.
I keep my tone light, feigning indifference. “We wrestled once in high school.”
“No, there’s got to be more to it than that.
I can see him being competitive if you won, but he’s acting like your presence here is a personal vendetta against him.
” Fish cuts his eyes to a nearby table, where Pierce is telling a story—probably about me—to a table of mostly freshmen athletes.
His voice is loud and self-satisfied. “Not to mention whatever Pierce’s issue is. ”
I groan. “It’s too early for this crap.”
“Pierce is just intimidated that someone he deems below his social status might show him up,” Aaron mutters. “But he and Beck seem to be getting along better than usual. That’s concerning enough.”
“Does anyone else get the impression that Pierce is up to something? He’s been more annoying than last year,” Fish.
Jay nods. “I assumed he’s feeling cockier because he’s not the youngest anymore. Would explain why he’s buddying up to all the freshmen the way he is.”
“I heard he’s getting them to do stuff for him, like his homework and laundry,” Aaron says, lips turning down in a disapproving grimace. “I don’t get it.”
I’m not surprised. He and his brother always had their own little cult of assholes that followed them around.
The smaller a mind is, the easier they are to impress and control.
And when you’ve been born into the kind of privilege most can’t comprehend, it comes with the kind of confidence that makes even the weakest person believe you’re worth more than their deeds.
“Doesn’t explain why Beck is suddenly tolerating him though,” Fish says quietly, almost to himself.
My breakfast suddenly isn’t very appetizing. “Whatever it is,” I say carefully, “I’m not interested in drama.”
Fish gestures vaguely. “Too late. This could only be more interesting if you were prettier and had boobs.”
Smirking, I lift my arms to pull my hair loose from its top knot and flex my pecs. Fish wolf-whistles, and Aaron bites back a laugh.
Jay nudges my tray. “For real, though. You settling in okay?”
I look around at the chaotic dining hall, at the team scattered between tables, and the guys around me that have been welcoming despite multiple members of their team acting like I’m some kind of pariah.
“Yeah, I am,” I say, and mean it. Despite yesterday’s mess of a practice and the discomfort of knowing Pierce is up to something, I had a great first week of school.
I like all my classes, at least a few of my teammates seem cool, and I feel better knowing that I’m closer to home if my mom and brother need me.
I’ll just have to make the best of the rest of it, and hope that everyone else gets used to my presence.
Still, I keep my guard up, especially as I notice more and more of my teammates and classmates watching me with curious and judgmental eyes. I hope I’m just paranoid, but the way some of them watch me reminds me of what it was like in middle and high school.
By the time I get to the wrestling building for afternoon practice, I’m more tense than I want to admit to even myself. I don’t know if it’s anticipation or instinct, but my body feels braced for impact in a way I can’t quite explain.
The locker room is mostly empty when I walk in. I’m early, but I head to my locker to get dressed and do some extra lifting before practice. I almost slip in a puddle of something on the ground. I frown and look down. A dark, foamy puddle spreads from the bottom seam of my locker door.
For a second, my brain doesn’t compute what it is. Until the smell hits.
Beer.
The pungent smell of stale beer is strong enough to make me think it could have been here all day, maybe since just after morning lift when I was last at my locker. The stench makes my stomach roll.
I open my locker slowly. A mostly empty can of Miller Lite lies on its side on the top shelf, tipped just enough to let the last of it drain down over my uniform, my shoes, and my towel. The label is facing outward in case I don’t get the punchline.
I stare at it for far too long, forgetting to school my features. The room is quiet around me. I can hear the hum of the overhead fans, the distant thud of someone dropping weights outside the locker room doors. My hands go a little numb from the way I’m clenching my fists.
This is stupid. Really, it is. It’s completely juvenile. And it’s also obvious who’s behind this stupid prank, considering it’s not the first time Pierce has done this sort of thing. And just like every time before, I resolve not to let them see how much it upsets me.
But sometimes it really sucks being the bigger man. My first instinct is to take the can and crush it in my fist. The second is to breathe. So I do the second.
Then I remove the can, set it on the bench, and start pulling things out.
The shoes are thankfully salvageable, and everything else is washable.
But of course I’ll be late for warm-ups on the first day of real practice with the coaches, considering I’ll need to run back to the dorm to get some new workout clothes.
Even when Pierce’s voice slithers up behind me, I don’t turn around right away. I keep moving, like this is a normal inconvenience.
“What’s wrong, Miller?” He asks with an insincerity that wouldn’t be funny even if this weren’t such a tired script.
I finally look over my shoulder. His grin is casual.
He’s expecting me to react, to make a fool out of myself so I’m the one who looks bad.
But he should know better. I’ve never given it to him before, and I’m not going to give it to him now.
The only difference is that I can’t find it in myself to laugh.
“Real funny,” I say. “Did you get it out of your system?”
His eyebrows lift. “What? We thought you’d appreciate a free beer.”
“Well, I don’t drink. So, thanks but no thanks.”
For a moment, something flickers on his face. Surprise, maybe? He probably expected me to laugh along like I normally do. I’m not showing how much it got to me, but I’m also not ignoring what he’s done here.
“Relax, man. It was just a little team joke.” He claps a hand on my shoulder like we’re old friends. “Welcome to Huntston.”