Chapter 9
Greg
Concussion protocol dictates rest. It dictates low light, no screens, and absolutely no alcohol.
It does not dictate hosting a kegger for three hundred people in your living room.
But this was Blackwood. And a win against Harvard wasn't just a game; it was a religious event. The Ice Box was vibrating. The bass from the speakers downstairs was shaking the fillings in my teeth. The air smelled of cheap beer, sweat, and victory.
I sat on the edge of my bed in the dark, pressing an ice pack to the side of my head. The throbbing was dull now, a persistent drumbeat behind my eyes.
Downstairs, they were chanting my name.
STER-LING! STER-LING!
I should go down there. I should hold a red cup filled with water, nod at the freshmen, let the alumni pat me on the back. It was part of the job.
But I couldn't move.
My body felt heavy, anchored to the mattress by exhaustion and the lingering adrenaline crash. But my mind was racing. It was replaying the look in Michelle’s eyes when her father dragged her away. The fear. The resignation.
Go to the car, Michelle.
I had let him take her. I had sat there, concussed and useless, and let Victor Vane treat her like a misbehaving pet.
I squeezed the ice pack until the plastic crinkled.
The door to my room opened. A sliver of light from the hallway cut through the darkness.
"Captain?"
It was Beef. He was holding a slice of pizza and looked concerned.
"I'm alive, Beef," I grunted. "Close the door. The light hurts."
He slipped inside, closing the door softly. "It's chaos down there, Cap. Thorne showed up. Can you believe the nerve? He's trying to buy everyone shots to apologize for the hit. I think the boys are gonna throw him off the roof."
"Let them," I muttered. "As long as they clean up the blood."
"Right. Uh... there's someone else here looking for you."
I sat up, wincing as the room tilted slightly. "Who? The scout?"
"No. Her."
My heart hammered against my ribs, hard enough to hurt.
"Michelle?"
"Yeah. She just walked in. She looks... pissed. She's wearing sunglasses inside at night. She marched right past the keg and went into the kitchen. She's yelling at a freshman for using her oat milk."
I stood up. The dizziness washed over me, then receded.
"She's supposed to be with her father," I said, grabbing a clean t-shirt from the floor.
"Guess she escaped," Beef shrugged. "You going down?"
"Yeah." I pulled the shirt on, ignoring the stiffness in my neck. "I'm going down."
The kitchen was the eye of the storm.
While the living room was a mosh pit of bodies and spilled beer, the kitchen was strangely clear. People were giving the girl by the fridge a wide berth.
Michelle Vane was leaning against the counter, arms crossed, still wearing her sunglasses.
She had changed out of the jersey and leggings.
She was wearing a black slip dress—silk, thin straps, dangerous—with a leather jacket thrown over her shoulders.
She looked like a mafia widow who had just buried her third husband.
She was staring down a terrified freshman who was holding a carton of oat milk.
"Put it down," she said. Her voice was calm, terrifyingly so. "That is imported. It costs eight dollars. Drink the beer like everyone else, Chad."
"My name is Kevin," the kid squeaked.
"I don't care. Put it down."
Kevin put the milk down and fled.
I walked into the room.
"You're terrorizing the rookies," I said.
Michelle spun around. Her sunglasses slid down her nose, revealing eyes that were red-rimmed and fierce.
"Greg," she breathed.
She took a step toward me, then stopped. She scanned me—checking for damage.
"You're standing," she noted.
"I'm standing."
"Does your head hurt?"
"Only when I think about your father."
Her expression darkened. She pushed the sunglasses back up, hiding again.
"He took me to dinner," she said, her voice flat. "He lectured me for an hour about 'brand management' and 'distractions.' He told me he's going to pull my funding if I don't move back to the dorms next week."
"Next week?"
"Yeah. He thinks proximity is the problem. He thinks if I live in a dorm with a RA named Brenda, I'll stop... noticing you."
"Will you?" I asked softly.
She laughed. It was a brittle sound. "I could live on the moon, Greg, and I'd still notice you."
She walked toward me. The crowd in the kitchen parted for us. They sensed the energy. The sheer, magnetic pull.
"I told him I had to use the bathroom," she whispered, stopping inches from me. "I climbed out the window of the restaurant bathroom."
"You what?"
"I climbed out the window. I ruined my stockings. I called an Uber. And I came here."
"Why?"
"Because," she reached out, her hand hovering over my chest. "Because you got hit. And I needed to see that you were okay. And because... I'm done being 'acceptable.' I want to be reckless."
"Michelle," I warned, glancing around. People were watching. "You're upset. You're reacting."
"I'm not reacting," she hissed. "I'm choosing. For once in my life, I am choosing what I want."
She grabbed my hand. Her fingers were cold.
"Get me out of here," she said. "Too many people. Too much noise. I can't breathe."
I looked at her. Really looked at her. She was vibrating with anxiety. She was on the edge of a precipice.
I looked at the party. The noise. The chaos.
"Okay," I said. "Come on."
I didn't let go of her hand. I led her through the kitchen, out the back door, into the freezing night air.
The silence of the backyard was a physical relief. The snow was falling softly, muffling the bass from inside.
"Where are we going?" she asked, shivering in her thin dress.
"My truck," I said. "It's quiet."
We walked to the driveway. I unlocked the truck. We climbed inside.
I didn't turn it on. I just sat there in the dark, the cold seeping in through the windows.
Michelle curled her legs up onto the seat, wrapping her leather jacket tighter around herself.
"Are you going to drive?" she asked.
"Can't," I said. "Concussion. No driving for 24 hours."
"Oh. Right."
"We can just sit here," I said. "Until you're ready to go back in."
"I don't want to go back in," she said. "I want to go somewhere where nobody can find us."
"We're in a driveway, Michelle. Beef knows we're here."
"Then let's go somewhere else in the house. Somewhere private."
"My room?"
"Yes."
"Beef knows where my room is too."
She sighed, frustration radiating off her. "God, Greg. Why do you have to be so logical? Can't you just... kidnap me?"
"I'm the Captain. I don't kidnap people."
"Boring."
She leaned her head back against the seat. She closed her eyes.
"Does it hurt?" she asked quietly. "The hit?"
"Yeah," I admitted. "Like a drum."
"I thought he killed you," she whispered. "When you didn't get up... my heart stopped. I mean it. It just stopped beating."
"I'm tough," I said. "I have a thick skull."
"You have a thick everything," she muttered.
I chuckled. It hurt my head, but it felt good.
"Come here," I said.
I reached over and pulled her across the console again. It was becoming our spot.
She settled into my lap, burying her face in my neck. She was shaking.
"I hate him," she mumbled into my skin. "I hate that he makes me feel small. I hate that he makes me feel like I have to sneak around to see the person who... who makes me feel big."
My arms tightened around her.
"You're not small," I said into her hair. "You're the biggest thing in my life right now. You take up every inch of space in my head."
She pulled back to look at me. In the shadows of the truck cab, her eyes were huge, luminous.
"Prove it," she challenged.
"How?"
"Take me inside. Lock the door. And don't let anyone in. Not Beef. Not my dad. Just us."
"Michelle..."
"Please, Greg. I need... I need the wall. I need you to block everything else out."
It was the most honest thing she had ever said to me. She didn't want sex (though she probably did). She wanted safety. She wanted the perimeter secured.
"Okay," I said. "Let's go."
We snuck back into the house through the side door that led directly to the back staircase. We avoided the kitchen. We avoided the living room.
We moved like ghosts.
We made it to the second floor without being seen.
I opened the door to my room. The heavy black door. The sanctuary.
We stepped inside. I locked it. I threw the deadbolt.
The sound of the lock clicking into place was the most satisfying sound I had heard all day.
Michelle let out a long breath, her shoulders dropping.
"Safe," she whispered.
"Safe," I agreed.
The room was dark, lit only by the streetlamp outside the window. It cast long shadows across the floor.
Michelle walked to the middle of the room. She spun around slowly, taking it in.
"It's so quiet in here," she said. "How do you make it so quiet?"
"Soundproofing," I said. "I installed it myself freshman year. I like silence."
"I like noise," she said. "Usually. But tonight... silence is nice."
She turned to face me. She was standing in a pool of moonlight. The black slip dress shimmered.
"You should change," I said, my voice rough. "That dress isn't warm."
"I don't have clothes here," she said. "My room is locked from the other side. And I'm not going back out there."
"You can wear a shirt," I offered. "Again."
"I don't want a shirt," she said.
She reached for the zipper of her leather jacket. She pulled it down slowly. The sound was loud in the quiet room. Zzzzzzp.
She shrugged the jacket off. It fell to the floor with a soft thud.
She was left in the slip dress. It was barely there. Thin straps. Low back. High slit.
She shivered.
"You're cold," I said, stepping toward her.
"Warm me up," she whispered.
I stopped in front of her. I reached out and ran my hands down her bare arms. Her skin was gooseflesh.
"Michelle," I said, my voice a warning. "I have a concussion. My judgment is compromised."
"Good," she said. "Stop judging. Start feeling."
She stepped closer, until her body was pressed against mine. She reached up and placed her hands on my face, careful of the bruise.