Chapter Ten
Someone’s fucking with me. The question is, who?
Twice over the weekend, I’ve responded to an invite in my calendar, only to discover the meeting is a fake.
Both myself and the Subject Leads I woke up at eight in the morning were less than happy with wasting our time.
In fact, when the Dean summoned me this afternoon, I was in half a mind to ignore it. In a way, I wish I had.
Everything was set up for a smooth-sailing semester.
My parents were pleased with my choice of extra curricular that would ‘keep me out of trouble’.
My frat house is working like a fine-tuned machine, with those I permit residence knowing their ranks and the tasks expected of them.
My social standing is cemented thanks to a personalized cheer the cheerleading squad performed as I entered campus last week.
Due to my professors knowing how I like to be prepared, I received the reading syllabus last semester. I was perfectly ready.
But there’s something no one can anticipate, and that’s Meg.
Of course, I had accounted for her return in my academy risk assessment, which yes, I did type, print, procrastinate over, tear to shreds and rewrite.
I’ve been writing risk assessments since I was a boy, sorting my toys in order of those who are most worthy to be played with to the least.
Meg isn’t a toy, and she certainly isn’t sulking through the hallways as predicted.
She’s back with fire in her blood and steel in her spine, as if nothing has changed.
But I know her better than she thinks. The cracks are seeping through, and now it’s on my shoulders to make sure she doesn’t crack completely.
My status as team captain and reputation in general are now hanging in the balance.
I shove open the side doors of the Hollowbrook Athletics Complex, the familiar scent of rubber mats, chlorine, and sweat slamming into me.
It’s oddly comforting, in the way only repetition and routine can provide.
This building has its own kind of regiment.
The same students come at the same times, pitting themselves against each other like adversaries, measuring their strength in numbers and their progress in pain.
It’s a battle of brawn, yet a brotherhood of muscle.
I breathe in the atmosphere, plastering a smile on my face. Every bench is claimed, all of the free weights are in use, and the basketball court overhead echoes with the sharp squeak of trainers pivoting and the rhythmic thud of the ball hitting polished wood.
Heads turn when I walk in. A few nod, a few smile but mostly everyone is consumed by exertion.
As a standard, unsaid rule, every guy pointedly ignores the girls stretching near the mirrors.
We wouldn’t mind if they picked up a weight and joined in, but they’re too busy holding their phones out in freshly manicured hands and posing in butt-cinched leggings.
“Yo, Everest,” Liam calls from the squat rack.
I raise two fingers in a salute and duck on by, heading straight to the back.
He’s a second-year with a man bun and too many opinions about protein powders.
In the corner, I set my bag down and shrug off my leather jacket near the punching bags.
Pulling my cargo trousers off, I unpick the chronic wedgie my sports shorts were giving me and shake out my T-shirt.
Next, I push my headphones in and grab my wraps.
A lower-level jock from my ranks scurries forward to take my empty water bottle and darts off to refill it.
Stretching out, I crack my neck and roll my shoulders.
I like this spot. No mirrors. No dumbbells.
No distractions. Just me, a bag, and whatever I need to vent from my system.
A rock-meets-screamo playlist blares in my ears as I finish tying my wraps and get into the right stance.
The first punch lands with a satisfying crack.
That one was for Meg, sliding in to fuck up all of my plans.
The second is harder, and for my parents.
Their expectations weigh on me like a constant strain I can never shift.
But one day, one day soon, I’ll free myself.
I just have to keep them appeased until then.
My breath is steady, and my movements are practiced. This isn’t about aesthetics or proper poise. This is about regaining control. The third is an uppercut that jolts up my arm like an electric current, and that one was for me. Because no matter how I spin it, I’m the one who let this happen.
I let my family string me along with promises of legacy, ownership, and inheritance. I let them dangle my future in front of me like a reward, and now I’m stuck co-captaining a unisex team with the one girl who sees right through me and doesn’t flinch. And there lies the problem.
Meg never flinches. She never begs or bows out.
She doesn’t bend, not even when she should.
She will just stand there, that razor-edged mouth of hers locked tight, her defiance louder than any scream.
She’ll call me out on my bullshit, she’ll meet me head-on with every challenge.
That silent, burning kind of power doesn’t disappear. It festers.
Another hit lands, and another grunt escapes me.
I keep hitting for all of the people and things that try to control me, for everything I wish was true and simply isn’t.
I’m caged, trapped in a world ruled by others and all the while, pretending I’m the one in charge.
My knuckles start to throb beneath the wraps, but I keep going.
I keep punching the bag, dealing with the ugly parts of myself I can’t voice. I barely understand them.
A group of girls walk past behind me as my song ends, and the next is yet to begin.
They linger, giggling in a way that is probably supposed to get my attention.
I keep my back to them, catching my reflection in the glass window near the treadmills.
Sweat glistens on my temple, my T-shirt clinging to my chest, and for a second I barely recognize the man staring back.
I frown, needing to get a handle on myself.
I need to claim back the order I need to live by.
“Did you see how he ran into that fire for her?” One whispers far too loudly.
“Maybe I’ll set a building on fire as well if it means Everest will run in to save me.” Another chimes in, and they giggle some more. I stop still, pausing my music on my phone. I know that voice. Lifting my chin, I slowly turn in a smooth circle, plastering a fake smile on my face.
“Cynthia Farndon,” I drawl far too casually.
“I didn’t know you work-out in here.” I give a long assessing look at her hot pink sports bra that pushes her chest up to her chin, down to her second-skin leggings and the complete lack of physical exertion clinging to her skin.
She visibly straightens, her lipstick-painted lips popping open.
“Oh well, yeah of course. I live for the adrenaline of exercising,” she bullshits, clearly not expecting me to address her directly.
I scoop down to pick up my water bottle and take a long swig.
The three girls before me, Cynthia and her two copycats, watch with rapt attention on my throat.
I swallow a few times, then pour some of the water onto my hair and chest. Running a hand through my sandy blond strands, I take a stance against the nearest wall, and they follow with tiny rat-like footsteps. I suppose that makes me the Pied Piper.
“That’s good,” I finally agree with Cynthia, nodding to myself. “I hear Radley has a semi-decent gym facility. You’ll be able to find your adrenaline high when you start attending there.”
“Radley Academy?” Cynthia frowns, looking at her friends for backup. They shrug and wisely take a timid step back from her.
“That’s what I said.” I push off the wall and close the space between us, forcing her head to tilt upwards.
Cynthia’s perfume coats the back of my throat with its cheap fragrance, and at close range, her thickly-applied foundation is cracking as her frown turns into a look of genuine fear.
“You’ll be enrolling at Radley as soon as you leave this building, and I want you off campus by tomorrow.
The only time I’ll be seeing your face again is at track meets and basketball play-offs. ”
“But…but why? I-I mean, what did I do?” She blinks back the tears swimming in her eyes, attempting to move away from my imposing position standing over her.
I don’t let her put an inch between us, but I don’t touch her either.
Too many people are now watching, meaning too many whispers could get back to my parents. They have eyes and ears everywhere.
“You spat on my co-captain,” I growl. Realization dawns in Cynthia’s face. She’s done me a favor to be honest, being in the right place at the right time. It saves having to hunt her down later. “No one gets to bully Meg O’Connor except me. Understood?”
This time, I’m not talking to just Cynthia.
I’m talking to everyone, publicly declaring both my claim and hatred over Meg.
Building her social standing back up to a level worthy of comparison to mine is going to be a long game, but it needs to start somewhere.
I’d say, this is becoming a rather successful gym visit.
Cynthia’s lip wobbles, her knees about to buckle beneath her.
In the real world, one doesn’t usually have the power to order another to move schools overnight.
However, in this instance, my last name takes precedence.
The Calloways don’t just control what happens with the board, they have me on the ground to uphold their harsh natures.
It’s do or die out here, and shows of power keep us strong.
Whilst it’s a crippling feat that threatens to sink me on a daily basis, it’s a mantel I must uphold.