Chapter 5
Vale
We win the game by a landslide, just as Fletch predicted, earning a fourth consecutive year with the town’s beloved bell.
Which is why I should be out celebrating with my teammates right now…and not on the verge of losing my shit in the school parking lot.
“So, it’s true.”
Quentin blows out a breath from where he sits behind the wheel. “Vale…”
Snarling back a curse, I bang my fist on the glove compartment so hard it pops open, sending a streak of welcome pain up my arm.
“Hey! Easy.”
Teeth gritted, I curl forward, burying my fingers in my hair, trying to rein in the rage coursing through my veins. “This cannot be fucking happening.”
Quentin leans across the seats to close the glove compartment with a soft click. He doesn’t say anything—doesn’t lecture me for losing my cool or try to calm me down like he used to when he first took me in, and my emotions would get the best of me.
He just waits it out.
Throughout the game, it was easy—probably too easy—to put all thoughts of Aston and what his being here could mean for me to the back of my mind, in favor of turning my focus to the field.
If there are two things I’m really fucking good at it, it’s compartmentalizing, and getting what I want.
And what I wanted was to lead my team to victory and forget all about my past.
But no sooner than the final whistle was blown, and the field erupted in celebration, my reprieve ended. And it all came rushing back with a single, fateful glance at the stands.
Because there in the bleachers, sticking out like a beacon in his glaringly white t-shirt, watching me with a devilish curl of his lip and unabashed intensity—felt and seen even from the field, like razor-sharp claws tearing into my skull—stood none other than my worst nightmare.
Aston St. James.
My once-upon-a-time foster brother.
The boy who ruined my life…
And whose life I ruined right back.
Eyeing me up like I was his next victim.
On the outside, I remained as cool and collected as always, not letting my face betray the sharp spike of shock—of anger. Maybe even a little panic, much to my annoyance. Fortunately, it lasted all of a second—if that—before the connection was broken with the dog piling of my teammates.
For once, I was grateful for it—their ridiculous post-win antics that always ended with me being crushed into the grass, smothered by sweat and pungent body odor.
Who knows what would’ve happened, had they not intervened, albeit unknowingly. Probably saved me from doing something mind-blowingly stupid. Like, say, swinging myself over the fence, charging Aston, and using my fist to wipe that ridiculous look off his face.
All throughout the post-game ceremony, I had to make a pointed effort to keep up pretenses, only half-paying attention to what was going on as I willed my blood to cool.
Nodding when I was supposed to. Clapping when others clapped.
Fist-pumping the air when cheers and chants broke out as the bell was officially bestowed to us for another year.
And doing everything in my power to avoid looking in my foster brother’s direction.
After accepting the plaque commemorating our victory, we were finally dismissed, and I wasted no time making a break for it. All the while, acutely aware of the eyes boring holes into my back, as they chased me into the shadows of the tunnel.
I barely remember stripping off my uniform and jumping in the shower once I busted into the locker room.
Barely remember talking and shooting the shit with the guys, even though I know I did.
My smile felt more wooden than usual, my words stilted, but no one seemed to pick up on anything out of the ordinary.
Even after, when I all but ran from the room like the hounds of Hell were on my ass, did anyone say anything other than, “Good game, Riviera,” or to ask if I was headed to the Furnaces for the afterparty.
I nodded, smiled, confirmed I’d see them all there, and then I got the fuck out.
Quentin was waiting for me in the parking lot, leaning against his black Lincoln Navigator, hands tucked in the pockets of his jeans. Eyes trained on the ground as if all of the world’s problems could be solved in the chipped, confetti-speckled asphalt of Grady Prep’s parking lot.
He barely said a word once he noticed me, other than a quick, “Congrats,” as he finally pushed himself away from the SUV to grab my duffle and slap my back.
After tossing the bag in the backseat, he joined me in the front, sliding behind the wheel.
For a long moment, neither of us said anything. Just watched as fans skipped across the lot, finding their cars, smiling and laughing as if it was just any other game night. As if my world hadn’t just come crashing down.
Now, several minutes have passed. And when I give him a little nod, telling Quentin without words I’m good, he picks up the conversation as if nothing happened.
“There might be a way to fix this,” he hedges quietly, his voice nearly getting lost under the low hum of the idling engine and open vents blowing cool air at us.
Snorting humorlessly at that poor attempt at optimism, I drop my hands and straighten, flopping back against the seat with a thump of my head. I turn my gaze toward the moonroof.
“How did this even happen?” I eventually whisper. It’s more rhetorical than anything, but Quentin doesn’t know that.
“He aged out,” he tells me. “Turns out, the wife of one of your history teachers—”
“Jennings.”
“Yes…” He hesitates as if waiting for me to fill him in on how I already knew that.
When I don’t say anything, he goes on to explain, “It just so happens she works at Ashwood. She was his caseworker there. From what I’ve gathered, she took him in to live with her and her family—saved him from ending up on the streets. ”
Nodding, I lower my head, not really seeing anything as I fiddle with my eyebrow piercing.
In my periphery, Quentin rubs a hand across his mouth before gripping the wheel so hard it creaks. “I didn’t think they’d be here tonight. I might’ve…panicked a little when I spotted Jennings through the crowd. It caught me off guard.”
With all the dryness in the world, I say, “Tell me about it.”
He slants me an unreadable look. “I don’t think she knows who you are. I was going to approach her, pull her to the side and have a chat, but…” He shrugs and looks off in the distance. “Unless Aston told her about you—which I sincerely doubt, given what Bryce told me—”
“Locke?” I say, cutting him off. “Is that who you were arguing with on the phone earlier?”
“Yeah, he’d finally gotten around to calling me back.” He and Bryce Locke, Grady Prep’s headmaster, have been close for years, both having grown up in this town. “I only found out this morning,” he goes on. “I was going to tell you tomorrow. I didn’t want to screw with your head before the game.”
“He can’t seriously be considering allowing this to happen,” I all but growl.
The thinning of Quentin’s lips tells me all I need to know: it’s already a done deal.
“You told him what a bad idea this is, right?”
Now, that’s the understatement of the century…
“All I told him was that you were fostered together as kids, that you both went through something traumatic in the home you shared, and that being in close proximity after all this time could be potentially very distressing. For both of you.”
Distressing.
Looks like I’m not the only one willing to underplay the situation,
“That’s it?”
“That’s it. Anything more would’ve been a huge breach of confidentiality. Which, as I hope you know, I would happily do if it meant keeping you safe. But…”
I’m already nodding as I finish for him, “You can’t spill his secrets without spilling mine.”
“Exactly.”
“I take it that wasn’t a good enough reason to get him to change his mind?”
“Nope. Apparently, the paperwork was filed weeks ago, before Aston was even discharged. To get approval, he had to apply to some outreach program. Or rather, it sounds like his new guardian applied for him.” He pauses to inhale deeply. “It probably helped that her husband’s a teacher here and—”
He cuts himself off and waves his hand in a vague gesture. “You know what, it doesn’t really matter. Just bureaucracy bullshit. I won’t bore you with the details. Simply put, getting him transferred won’t be as easy as I hoped it would be.”
I huff a short humorless laugh and turn my face toward the passenger window. “So, what you’re saying is I’m fucked.”
The parking lot is empty now. It’s quiet. My reflection is visible in the glass—shadowy, save for the glint of my piercing. I stare without really seeing anything.
A long moment passes, before Quentin speaks again. “Not…necessarily. We could always, well, go a more…drastic route.” If his reluctant tone is anything to go by, he’s not a fan of whatever this idea is.
Which means I probably won’t be either.
Still, I humor him. Why the fuck not? I’ll take any suggestion and consider any solution at this point. Anything to go back to how things were just mere hours ago, when I had no idea my life was about to be upended by a ghost.
I narrow my eyes at nothing. “Such as?”
“A legally binding one.”
Frowning, I tear my gaze from the lot, and turn to the man responsible for the cushy, privileged life I live now. “Like a restraining order?”
He nods. “He would then have no choice but to transfer. I’d make sure it’s in the terms. Not only that, but it would also forbid him from approaching you outside of school, seeing as he’ll still be living here in Crowley regardless. At least, for the time being.”
Inhaling deeply, I crack my knuckles and roll the idea around.
I can’t deny that a part of me isn’t tempted to take him up on the offer, drastic that it may be. It’s a fairly clean-cut fix to the problem, one that would help ensure this year goes as planned.
But I also can’t ignore the niggling voice in the back of my head outright rejecting the idea. For more than one reason. One of which, Quentin is quick to verbalize.