Chapter 11
Eleven
SEBA
Gnats buzz through the cage of my helmet, drawn in by the thick layer of sweat coating my face. I brace my hands on my thighs, too out of breath to swat them off. Late afternoon August heat seeps through my pads and practice jersey stained with mud, grass and perspiration.
No wonder my old North Fort Manor team always lost to Kingsbury.
Coach Bentley runs the football program like a well-oiled machine.
He’s a borderline drill sergeant. But he’s also completely controlled by the Athletic Department Board— aka the parents of some of the most arrogant, entitled rich bastards I’ve ever had the displeasure of sharing a field with.
Those asswipes could commit murder and still hold their starting spots.
“Dayuuum!”
Speaking of the fuckers…
Wolf whistles ring across the field, directed at the squad of cheerleaders in micro shorts and sports bras practicing sideline chants on the track. Most of them giggle and ham it up, but one in particular with short brown hair tied in low pigtails shoots a glare over her shoulder.
I grin around my mouth guard. Of course Andrea is the only cheerleader disgusted by obnoxious football players.
She’s also the only one wearing a shirt— a fitted white tank top that clings to her petite curves, but a shirt nonetheless.
It’s ridiculous that I'm happy she’s not on display like the others.
The idea of my brutish teammates eye-fucking her has my fingers digging into my pads.
Get a grip.
She's not the only one distracting me today, though. This morning, Cade chose to walk to school. When Mom told me, I thought she was joking. He hates waking up early. He’ll stay in bed, snoozing every alarm until the last possible second.
Not to mention, the only time he'll step foot outside is to smoke a cigarette.
But he was gone before I made it downstairs.
Between classes, I searched for him to make sure he was alright, but every time I passed him in the halls, he ignored me. His avoidance infuriates me more than his pestering and pranking.
Isn't that what you wanted? Him to leave you alone?
My jaw clamps harder on the rubber mouthpiece.
A whistle blows.
“Two-minute water break!” Coach hollers.
I tug off my helmet and shake out my drenched hair as I trudge to the folding table stationed in the end zone, where my teammates line up in front of a row of orange coolers. (Much more sanitary than the hose we used at North Fort.)
As I join the line, laughter muffles to snickers and murmurs. Despite not being the most social guy, I’m usually well-liked, but apparently, the guys on the Kingsbury Football Team aren't fans of new players. Or the fact that Coach has me starting.
Tuning out their bullshit, I approach the jug, flicking the spout to fill my bottle.
“Hey, Holt.”
So much for keeping to myself…
Grant Larson, starting quarterback and team captain, leans an elbow on the furthest jug. Marcus, our running back, and a few of his buddies on offense hover in a semi-circle, watching.
I tip my chin at him and squirt some water in my mouth.
He smirks. “What’s it like living with a fag?”
I almost choke. “What?”
The others chuckle and shake their heads. Larson hushes them. “Boys, boys, clearly he doesn’t know his stepbrother likes dick. He’s probably panicking about all the times he was exposed in front of the faggot.”
Cade.
He’s talking about Cade.
Calling him a…
My stomach lurches. My pulse pounds.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
Larson glances over his shoulder, nodding at the guys before giving me a sympathetic grimace. “I know this’ll be hard to hear… but he came onto me this morning.”
Lies.
Fucking lies.
My stepbrother would sooner spit on someone like Grant Larson.
The quarterback takes my silence as abject horror and closes the distance, slapping a hand on my padded shoulder. Blood nears boiling in my veins. The protective instinct that made itself known last night rears its head again. Except this time, it has a clear target.
His brows knit with faux sincerity. “Look man—”
My fist connects with his jaw. The uppercut whips his head back. I lower my shoulders and charge at his chest, knocking him to the ground. Shouts and surprised gasps barely register as I punch. A crunch. He yelps. I’m possessed by blind rage, each growl punctuated by another hit.
“Never. Call. Him. That. Again!”
Grant attempts to fight back. I throw my full weight into him. Hands grapple with my jersey and gear. Distant yelling grows louder.
“Holt! Larson! Break it up!”
Coach’s voice slices through the fog.
I just attacked my team captain. During practice.
Shaking with adrenaline and anger, I let them pull me off.
A fist flies—
Bright pain flashes through my skull.
“LARSON!” Coach howls.
Red tints my vision— literally. I blink, dabbing my right brow. Yep. That's blood.
Bastard.
Whitley, our defensive end, squats in front of me. “You good?”
No, I want to batter that fucker to a pulp.
“Yeah,” I grunt. He hands me a sweat rag. I press it to my aching forehead. A few feet away, Larson thrashes like a madman; bruises and swelling already disfigure his face. The beast beneath my skin preens at the sight.
Coach blocks my view.
There goes any chance of a college football scholarship…
“Go home, clean up and cool off,” he commands with restrained fury. “When you step on this field tomorrow, I expect you two to be civil."
He’s not kicking me off the team? Not even benching me?
I nod numbly up at him.
“Yes, sir.”
He mutters something like, I’m not paid enough for this shit, and marches over to Larson, who’s still throwing the world’s biggest tantrum.
“Need a hand?” Whitley asks.
I wave him off, “Nah.” He eyes me skeptically, but doesn’t push it. With a groan, I get to my feet and shuffle to the pile of bags on the sidelines. Instead of hitting the locker room to shower and change, I sling my duffel over my shoulder and head behind the bleachers.
Under the stands, the temperature drops at least ten degrees. I toss my bag onto the patchy grass and take out my phone, staring at Cade’s contact for minutes on end. We’ve never texted— never really had a reason to after Declan made us exchange numbers on move-in day.
Blowing out a breath, I send a message.
Meet me behind the bleachers. Now.
An eternity passes. Sweat stings the cut on my brow and drips down my cheek. Whistles echo from the field behind me, accompanied by shouted drills. My thumb taps the side of my phone.
Fuck it.
I fire off another.
Cade. I’m serious.
Blue checks finally appear.
Cade:
Painting in the studio
It’s urgent
A minute passes.
No typing bubbles.
The asshole left me on read.
I rake a hand through my soaked hair and pace in a tight circle.
Too many confusing emotions tangle into a massive knot in my chest. Words and images splice together.
His stepbrother likes dick. Smooth pale thighs.
It’s wrong. Myrrh and tonka cologne on the counter.
A semi-sweet scent. Velvet soft skin. Feminine…
I have to know.
Would it change anything?
No.
It would change everything.
I’m reaching for my bag, ready to hunt him down in the art room, when I hear sneakers crunching through the grass. Cade rounds the corner, hands deep in the pockets of his baggy jeans, a streak of blue paint smeared on his cheek.
As soon as he spots me, he comes to an abrupt halt. Our eyes meet for the first time since last night. A different kind of tension strings me taut.
“You’re bleeding.”
There's a noticeable lack of emotion in his voice.
My fingertips skim the cut. “Yeah.”
His expression remains impassive.
I clear my throat and jerk my chin toward the field. “Larson was talking shit about you.”
His shoulders slump. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he scoffs under his breath.
“He shouldn't bother you—”
“I don’t need a knight in shining armor, Sebastian.” The way he hisses my name clamps my jaw shut. His icy stare slices to the bone. “I can handle him perfectly fine on my own. There are much scarier things in this world than Grant Larson.”
My fists clench. Unclench. Clench.
“I’m sorry, but I’m not gonna stand there and do nothing while some jackass calls you names and spreads lies about you liking guys.”
No outrage.
Not even a hint of surprise.
He looks… tired.
“He’s not lying,” Cade sighs. “I do like guys. Girls too. Gender doesn’t matter to me and I’m not ashamed of that.”
The foundation of my faith quakes. It’s wrong. Condemned. Sinful. But he's not lying. It's evident in his eyes.
Which flutter. Unfocus. Then roll back to the whites. He sways. Is he possessed after all?
His knees give out—
I catch him right before his head smacks the concrete foundation of the bleachers. Gently easing him to the ground, I cradle his face and lightly slap his cheek.
“Come on, Cade, wake up.”
His skin is grey; I can almost trace the web of blue veins beneath.
My hands shake. “Stop scaring me, asshole. Wake up.”
A low groan.
Tingling relief washes through me.
“What…” Cade wrinkles his nose and squints. “Happened?”
Sandpaper lines my throat. “You fainted.”
His lips part. Brows knit. Like my words don't register.
All the adrenaline from the fight, from his admission, from whatever the fuck just happened, crashes as reality rushes in. My grip on his face tightens.
“Did you eat today?”
He blinks.
That’s a no.
“Why, Cade?” My voice cracks. Fuck. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”
Vulnerability flickers in his bleary gaze— the same softness I glimpsed the first time he called me Seba. It vanishes in an instant.
“I’m fine,” he mutters, swatting me off. “It’s just the heat.”
“Bullshit,” I hiss through gritted teeth. I’m no longer trembling in panic. I’m vibrating with barely contained rage.
He tries to wriggle out of my hold, but it’s useless. “Seriously, I'm not a fucking charity case, I’m—”
“If you say you’re fine one more fucking time, I’ll—”
“You’ll what?” He snarls.
We’re nose to nose, teetering on the edge of explosion. He’s impossible. I’m unyielding. He’s defiant. I’m demanding. He’s reactive. I’m persistent.
And neither of us will back down.
Each huffed breath is a silent warning. The feral gleam in his eyes is that of a cornered animal, ready to lash out. But he won’t. He can’t. He’s already given me the tranquilizer bullet.
“I’ll tell Declan you fainted from not eating.”
The betrayal ricochets through him. And despite pulling the trigger, a piece of me dies. Because I don’t want to hurt him. I want him to recognize the damage he's inflicting on himself.
His stone-cold stare bores into me.
“You don’t understand,” he whispers. “I can’t lose control.”
Chills wash over me in sheets. I’m immobilized, tongue fused to the roof of my mouth. He rises on unsteady legs, stiffly heading back the way he came.
I can’t let him leave like this.
“At least let me drive you home.”
He keeps walking. “No need, good Samaritan.”
The usual bite in his tone is lost, though the reference alone twists the knife. If I stood behind the teaching in that parable, I'd chase after him. But something keeps me on my knees— a heaviness, weighing on more than my body. Because what he’s getting at isn’t literal. It’s figurative.
We're on opposing sides. Our beliefs pit us against each other in every way. Unless those beliefs are cast aside, we’ll always be at war. We’ll never understand each other.
And for some ungodly reason… I want to understand him.