Chapter 2
Ethan
Well, at least the weather doesn’t suck.
My father weaves the rented SUV through crowds of kids and parents, his palm pressed flat against the horn.
Ethan Taylor Sr does not understand the meaning of the word patience and a little thing like a pedestrian zone isn’t about to slow him down.
In the back seat, I slump low, hiding my face under the hood of my sweatshirt.
This probably isn’t the greatest first impression to make at a new school, rolling in, horn blasting and ploughing through my classmates like tumbleweeds in some old western.
‘Isn’t England supposed to be wet and foggy all the time?’ my mom asks, peering out of the window with suspicion.
‘It is,’ Dad remarks, in spite of the fact the sun is shining so bright, I’m burning up in my long sleeves.
But that’s him all over. Why trust your own eyes when you can believe what everyone else tells you instead? As he leans on the horn again, I see a signpost that reads Carpenter House and I know before the GPS can announce it. We have arrived at my final destination.
‘Hey, stop here, this is me.’
Pushing against the restraints of my seatbelt, I point at the building dead ahead.
It’s huge and old and looks more like a creepy old manor house than a college dorm.
Even in my too-warm sweats, I fight off a shiver as the car slows to a stop, my mom nervously fingering the silk scarf tied around her neck.
‘Darn place is ancient,’ she mutters. ‘You’re going to catch pneumonia, I just know it.’
My father snorts in agreement. ‘For the number of zeros on the check I cut, I expected better.’
‘I’m sure it’s fine inside.’ I unclip my seatbelt, ready to bolt, before the engine can start to cool. ‘Besides, I’m not planning on being in my room all that much.’
‘You’ll be in your room plenty.’
If it sounds like a warning, that’s because it is. My dad gives me a blast of his famous death stare and I freeze. The look on my mom’s face isn’t nearly so angry but the unshed tears shining in her eyes damn near break my heart.
‘Yes, sir.’
Opening the car door, I shuffle out of the backseat, head down, shoulders slumped, and with a sigh of resignation, my feet touch Hemden University ground for the very first time.
Welcome to your punishment, Ethan Taylor.
I don’t have much in the way of luggage, only my backpack, one duffel full of clothes and another for my soccer gear, so we make it up three flights of stairs to my room in one trip.
‘We should complain on the way out.’ Mom curls her hand around her forehead as she drops onto the bare mattress of my bed, looking like she could faint clean away at any second. ‘No elevator? It’s just got to be against the law.’
‘Don’t worry, Mom, stairs make for good exercise,’ I reply, eyes flicking around the room as I take in my new cell, I mean, home.
Aside from the bed, there’s just a desk, a dresser and a miniscule closet that looks like it’s one thousand years older than the supposedly antique furniture in my grandpa’s house.
It’s basic. Spartan, my old coach would say, good for the mind.
Not too comfortable, no distractions. But I don’t hate it.
Aside from the world’s smallest twin bed and the fact I can practically touch the walls on each side of the room at the same time, I have to admit, the dorms are pretty sick, all dark wood and low lights.
I feel like I’m in a movie, as far away from my real life as it’s possible to be, which is a definite plus.
And I have a single suite all to myself, not like at Marshall.
Sure, it’s old, ancient even, but the place has a good vibe.
It’s got character, something I’m sorely lacking according to my father.
I catch a glimpse of the two of us in the mirror hanging over the dresser.
Me and the old man, standing side by side.
Whether I like it or not, there’s no denying we’re related.
We’re about the same height, both a couple of inches over six feet, we have the same green eyes and black hair, but his has a weird tone since he started colouring the grey at his temples, even though he won’t admit it.
My build is bigger though and my thighs strain against my jeans when I squat to shove my bags under the desk and out of the way.
It’s a been a while since my dad hit the gym while I’ve been training every day.
Nothing else for me to do since July. Naturally, he blames the accident, says he doesn’t have the time to work out these days, not now my brother needs so much more attention, but the truth is Ethan Sr, the former college quarterback, hasn’t been in any kind of shape for years.
He just likes to blame everything on the accident.
He just likes to blame everything on me.
While Dad roams the room like a caged animal, testing the light switches, inspecting the bathroom, muttering to himself about how badly the school has ripped him off, I unload my laptop onto the desk.
Besides my clothes, it’s basically the only personal item I brought with me.
I might not hate this room but I don’t want it to feel like mine either.
This isn’t a vacation after all. It’s exile.
‘Here.’
Dad reaches into his back pocket and pulls out two things, a credit card and an old-fashioned flip phone, the kind bad guys use as burners on TV, and presses both into my hand.
My iPhone was confiscated two months prior, along with my credit cards, car keys and any kind of freedom, so getting a phone back, even this brick, feels like coming up for air after spending too long underwater.
A reward, maybe, for leaving the country without kicking up too much of a fuss.
‘Credit card is for essentials and emergencies only. The phone is to make sure you check in with your mother every day, you hear me?’
Silent since she sat down on the bed, Mom stares around the plain room with wet eyes and I know what she’s thinking.
It’s a long way from her beautiful home in Beaufort, with its fancy furnishings and wraparound porch and the jetty that stretches out over the water.
I nod in agreement, slipping the card in my pocket and opening the phone to scroll up and down the LED screen.
There are two numbers programmed into the contacts list, the home phone and my mom’s cell.
He hasn’t even bothered to enter his own. Or my brother’s.
‘When do you meet with the coach?’ Dad asks.
‘Tomorrow morning,’ I reply, trying not to think about my daily run down the jetty, our two golden retrievers, Ralph and Biscuit, nipping at my heels. ‘Nine a.m.’
‘Good.’
He pauses for a moment and his hand hovers over my shoulder. Is he going to touch me? It would be the first time in months. His green eyes meet mine and I hold my breath.
‘Ethan?’
‘Dad?’
‘Don’t let us down.’
When he snatches his hand away, the breath I’m holding escapes as a sigh and I can tell from the look on his face he’s annoyed by my reaction.
‘I won’t,’ I say hurriedly, smoothing things over before he can explode. Mom doesn’t need that right now, neither of us do. ‘I won’t let either of you down.’
He scoffs.
‘First time for everything.’
‘You want me to make up the bed?’
Mom’s sweet gesture slices through the tension until my mind skips back to the unopened packet of sheets and pillowcases still on the top shelf of my closet at home.
I forgot to pack them. What kind of idiot forgets his sheets?
Times like these I think my dad could be right, maybe I am a total fuck-up.
‘Nah, I’m good. I’ll do it later,’ I tell her, still kicking myself. ‘Hey, why don’t we go check out the campus, get something to eat? I’m starving.’
I slap my empty stomach, and she looks like she’s about to agree, but Ethan Sr opens his mouth before she can get a word out.
‘No time.’ He sticks his hands into the pockets of his pants, heavy brows drawn together. ‘We have to get back to the airport.’
My head whips back to him but he simply stares past me.
‘You’re leaving already? You can’t stay for dinner?’
I hate knowing I look as disappointed as I sound and the old man looks away, displeased by an unacceptable display of emotion from his eldest. We only landed a few hours ago and even though it hadn’t been discussed, I figured they would at least stick around for a day or so, wait for me to get settled in.
I know being here is a punishment, not a vacation, but I’m still their son.
‘Couldn’t get a direct flight tonight so we’re connecting through New York,’ Dad replies, his mouth twisting into something ugly. Mom just drops her head and stares at her shoes. ‘We have to get back to your brother.’
A familiar rush of guilt comes crashing in and my appetite vanishes, something that never happened before the accident but it’s hard to think about food when you had to watch your brother being fed through a tube.
I consider asking them to wait for the next direct flight, maybe appeal directly to my mom, but my dad won’t go for it, and I don’t want to make her life more difficult.
So, I drop my head and nod. Accept it, think of Chris, let them go.
Mom rises from the bed and rests a delicate hand on my solid shoulder, a conciliatory gesture.
‘This is going to be good for you, I can already tell,’ she says gently. ‘A new team to impress, new people to meet, and no one here knows about … your problems.’
‘And no one needs to know,’ my father adds. ‘So, straighten up, fly right and keep your mouth shut.’
‘Yes, sir.’
They could be right. There are upsides to being here.
No Dad breathing down my neck, no more conversations cut off whenever I walk into a room, no more nosy neighbours peering over the fence.
And since no one has my UK number, maybe I won’t feel so fucking horrible about the fact Breanna and all my so-called friends are straight up pretending I don’t exist. That might be nice.
‘Ready, Jan?’
My mom looks at me then nods. Shipping me off to another country wasn’t her idea, or mine. She doesn’t want to leave, and I don’t want her to go but we both know there’s no debate to be had. It wasn’t a question, not really. They might as well be in the car, halfway back to London.
‘Okay, son.’ He tosses up the keys to his rental and snatches them out of the air. ‘Have fun.’
You never heard someone say those words with less meaning.
Mom follows Dad out of my room in silence, head down, as he marches away.
Neither of them stops to look back and I don’t know if I want them to or not.
The only thing worse than the silent treatment is the sobbing and we’ve all done enough of that to last a lifetime.
When the door to the dorm slams shut, I flop backwards onto my unmade bed, still struggling to process the situation.
It all happened so fast. One minute, everything was perfect, school, soccer, the best friends, the best girl, everything going according to my non-existent plan.
The next, it was all stolen away. No, not stolen, surrendered.
I gave that life up when I got into Bre’s car the night of the party.
And now I’m here, banished to the UK with no friends, no girl, not even any goddamn sheets on my goddamn bed.
But pouting on a bare mattress isn’t going to get me anywhere.
I’m here now, it is what it is. When your opponent goes ahead, you don’t give up, you adapt your strategy and keep playing.
No one ever won by quitting before the final whistle.
I should get up, take my new credit card into town and find a store that sells sheets.
I should unpack my clothes and buy groceries.
I should shower, shave and get to bed early, ready for my first training session in the morning.
That’s what I should do.
Forcing myself to my feet, I lift an arm and give my pits a sniff.
Gross. The alleged seventy-two-hour deodorant I paid a trillion dollars for at the airport has not lived up to its promises.
Yanking my shirt off over my head, I hop into the tiny bathroom and rinse my underarms, banging my elbows on the wall as I dry off, using my shirt as a towel.
A second sniff suggests an improvement. One quick swipe of the aforementioned overpriced deodorant, a rumpled but clean white T-shirt from my bag and I’m good to go.
With the burner phone in one pocket, keys in the other, I throw open my door and stride out into the hallway, ready to find out what this place is all about and hopefully get out of my head for a while.
At least long enough to forget the fact that Chris didn’t even acknowledge me when I knocked on his door to say goodbye yesterday.
This is not where I’m meant to be, this is not how my life was supposed to play out, but it’s where I’ve ended up and I might as well try to make the best of it.