Chapter Eighteen
It’s taken me two days to shake off that nightmare, the remnants clinging to my skin no matter how many times I try to scrub it off.
In the stadium showers, might I add, because I’ve given up trying to access hot water in my own dorm block.
The pipes wheeze and sputter like they’re on their last breath, offering lukewarm disappointment at best, but I don’t have the patience to wrestle with Reid for bathroom rights.
That would mean having to face him, and putting all of my effort into avoiding his gray gaze in our classes to waste.
On top of that, I’ve had two further practices with Everest, whom I’m also not speaking with.
At least he actually knows the reasons for me being evasive, and luckily, he’s making no effort to be seen speaking to me either.
We’ve been taking turns leading drills with clipped glances and harsh orders, maintaining a professional relationship that exists solely for the team's benefit. It’s exhausting, but manageable.
By the time practice finally wraps, my muscles burn, but at least my lungs are starting to adapt to exercising daily again.
We somewhat managed to find some cohesion between the women.
The men, as standard, need some work. I’ve poured all of my energy into chasing the ball up and down the field, taking a few rogue shoulders and elbows, but all in the name of exhausting myself.
All I want now is my room, my hoodie, my headset, and the familiar glow of my monitor.
Thiago will be waiting, probably already logged in and gathering loot for our next mission whilst pretending he hasn’t been hovering all evening.
The thought brings a smile to my face as I peel off my gloves and head for the locker room, stick slung over my shoulder, mind already halfway out the door.
As usual, I’ve waited for the temporary locker room to be almost empty, the echo of showers and laughter fading as people filter out. Changing quickly into my sweats, I throw my hair into a messy bun, savoring the mundane ritual of it. There’s safety in simplicity, I’ve decided.
I’m shoving my jersey into my bag when the door opens behind me, the bang of it connecting with the wall enough to make my spine stiffen.
I sense his presence without turning around, a sigh already working its way out of my lungs.
Everest enters the room, his shoes tapping against the tile with controlled confidence.
Coming to stand beside me, I catch sight of his shining footwear and the slacks on his legs as I zip my bag with more force than necessary.
“Whatever it is, save it,” I state, shouldering my bag and turning away from him. His woodsy cologne chases me before he grips my arm, tugging me a step backwards.
“I’m afraid neither of us has that luxury.
” Exhaling, I straighten and turn, resisting the urge to shove him off me.
Everest stands there, freshly showered, blond hair still damp at the nape of his neck.
He’s traded his practice gear for slacks, a smart shirt and a fitted black coat.
In his hand is a large garment bag. His face is impassive, eyes staring straight through me.
“Unfortunately, you’ll have to suffer my company this evening. ”
I take the offered bag, if only to have a reason to twist free of his grip. Peeking inside, I see red satin, spaghetti straps, a netted shoe bag, and I bark a bitter laugh.
“Absolutely not. I already have plans.” Shoving the bag back in his direction, Everest raises his hands, retracing his steps to the door.
“Your plans can wait,” he drawls, boredom seeping through his tone. “My father has planned a small photoshoot with a select group of journalists. Just put on the dress and show up, I’ll take care of the rest. The car is already outside, so don’t take long.”
My eyes narrow, a familiar irritation I’d been able to set aside slipping back in.
He knew about this, at least long enough to sort out an outfit and a car for me.
A heads-up might have been nice. Is that why he was at my dorm the other day?
Before I can ask, Everest steps back through the door, holding it wide as he turns his head back over his shoulder.
“Oh, and try not to throw yourself at me, if you can. I doubt smeared lipstick on my face would be a good look for the photos.” His voice travels, raising in volume just in case anyone is around to hear it. I search for something to throw at him, but he’s gone before I get the chance.
I stand there for a moment, the garment bag heavy in my grip, a sense of misery washing through me.
All I wanted was my room. My game. Thiago.
Instead, I’m being dragged into another performance, another role I didn’t ask for.
But for the sake of the academy, for the unity we’re trying to build here, for the future females who want to sign up to a team Everest is going to ensure remains male-dominated, I’ll play along, as long as it’s on my own terms.
From the moment we stepped out of the car, a freaking limousine, might I add, the cameras started snapping.
There’s nothing small about this event, a courtyard of cracked stone walls coated in ivy.
A red carpet rolled down the center, velvet ropes lining either side to keep the photographers at bay.
Overhead, strings of warm lights drape between buildings, tall heaters glowing from sleek towers to fight off the evening chill. Just beyond the line of photographers, a crowd has gathered. Servers weave through them, carrying trays of champagne that catch the light like liquid gold.
It’s a fairytale setting, and I cling to that. I’ve spent months finding an escape in fictional worlds, and that’s what I need to do now. Escape. At least mentally.
As if I’m watching on from above, I tread across the carpet in dazzling five-inch heels.
The dress is bordering scandalous, a leg slit I wasn’t prepared for reaching my upper thigh.
The vibrant red fabric wraps around my curves as if it were tailor-made to my exact size and specifications.
I stood under the shower long enough to infuriate Everest, but not long enough that he would feel obliged to come and tear me out of it.
My hair is pulled back into a sleek knot at the nape of my neck, my makeup kept minimal with dark lashes, defined brows, and neutral lips. There will be absolutely no smudged lipstick here.
Yet, contrary to may or may-not-be attractions, I’m completely out of my comfort zone, and due to this, my hand has remained clutched in Everest’s hand.
We’re not the only ones here. Dean Colt and the head of the funding board are up ahead.
I’ve met the man a few times, having attended various fundraisers since becoming the female team’s captain.
I was a pin-up to acquire their backing, and now here I am again. The cash cow, so to speak.
Everest guides me along, pulling me to the correct spot to pause and shift into his side.
I let him choose our positions. I smile when he does.
I don’t smack his hand away when it settles on my lower back.
I’m relying on him to carry the photos, and how can he not?
This is his playground. As soon as we’re in the right position, Everest points in the direction I should be looking and I force a smile I don’t feel onto my face. The air instantly electrifies.
Rapid-fire clicks burst to life, directions to look here, look there being thrown my way.
I drown it all out in favor of listening to Everest. His body stands fixed, one hand casually tucked into his pocket as he mutters quiet cues in my ear.
I hope he’s enjoying my submission. It’s the only time he’s going to get it.
“Over here! Captain Calloway, this way!” someone calls.
We pivot together like it’s been rehearsed, angling our bodies toward the loudest voice.
Everest’s fingers press slightly firmer against my spine, a silent cue to move with him.
We travel to the next spot and pose again, this time with my hand lightly resting against his chest, fingers splayed just enough to look intimate without actually being so.
I’m blinded by the flashes which follow.
Eventually, we’re ushered away from the carpet and to a room within the ivy-covered walls.
In front of a sleek black backdrop that bears the school crest in gold, flanked by sponsor logos, there’s a raised platform.
Rows of white chairs face the stage, already filling with alumni, donors, and according to Everest, a handful of carefully selected press.
The panel moderator waits with a tablet in hand, welcoming us onto the stage with rehearsed enthusiasm.
Beneath the brightened lights, we take our seats beside Dean Colt and Coach Collingwood. Up here, the warmth intensifies, every shadow leaking away to leave us completely exposed.
Everest sits relaxed, one ankle resting over the opposite knee, arm draped casually along the back of my chair.
Close enough that if I lean back, I’d brush against him.
I sit straight, ankles crossed neatly to save my dignity, hands folded in my lap like I belong in this picture.
I can do this. One panel, just like those I’ve done many times before, and then I can retreat to my room.
I might not emerge for a week, being utterly socialized out within the three days I’ve actually attended classes.
That’s a decent start back to the academy, right?
Dean Colt quickly welcomes everyone, introducing us and our new roles, and then opens the floor up to the journalists.
“Captain Calloway, how’s the new leadership dynamic?”
“Any comment on the recent restructuring of the roster?”
“Are we looking at a championship season?”