Chapter Five
I can’t believe how many people have come to watch this stupid face-off I had no business instigating. Everest, being the smug dickmunch he is, told absolutely everyone who has ears. And anyone who didn’t hear the rumors would have seen the online announcement.
Guess what? I’m trending for all of the wrong reasons.
Those who are in support of #CaptainMeg’sComeback find themselves instantly blocked from Everest’s fandom and blacklisted from any of his future parties.
To that effect, trolls are blowing up my phone with hateful comments and straight up death threats.
‘I wish that convict had raped you in the eye,’ might be my favorite so far.
I put my phone on silent and left it in my locker, before following the roar of Everest’s name to the pitch.
It’s all fakery. Just an attempt to ass-kiss the popular guy in hopes of being noticed by him.
I would rather have one real friend over a thousand phony ones any day.
Fuck, I should really call Avery back. Also my mom, but at least she knows where I am and what I’m up to. Avery doesn’t. Before I knew her as my twin, she was my best friend. There was no me without her. Until her stepbrother/boyfriend sold me out and placed me in Harrison’s clutches as collateral.
As long as I was being tortured, Avery was kept safe with the men who worship her.
The cost for both of us surviving was my mental state, and now she wants to go back to how we used to be, and I just can’t.
I can’t sit in the same room as Wyatt fucking Hughes and pretend I can close my eyes without seeing the bastards who beat me, throwing me around like a rag doll for their own entertainment.
And that’s before our father, Fredrick, set eyes on me.
He fucked with my mind more than any of them.
Pain I can take, but the way he looked at me has screwed me up forever.
He wanted a fresh start and was killed for it, Avery wants to reverse the clock and pretend none of it happened.
But it did, I suffered for her wellbeing, and now I’m worried I’ll never form an emotional attachment to anyone ever again.
The sun blinds me as I step a foot onto the grass, dragging me from my thoughts. They are thoughts that have no business creeping through the iron-clad barricades I’ve clamped over them anyway.
Sharp shadows are cast across the lacrosse field, intensifying the midday heat.
A layer of sweat instantly coats my skin, but I can’t attribute all of that to the heat.
The bleachers are packed, a sea of students buzzing with anticipation, their chatter a low hum beneath the glaring sun.
I stand at the edge of the field, my cleats digging into the turf, stick in hand, heart pounding a rhythm of defiance and determination.
Regardless of the impending humiliation I'm about to suffer, he will not break me. Not today, not ever.
Everest is already standing in the center of the pitch, his sandy blonde hair glinting in the light whilst he stretches for his shirt to rise and a round of girly screams to echo around me. I roll my eyes. I’ve been more impressed by a cheese grater than the washboard abs in front of me.
Like my own, his jersey is white and yellow, displaying the Hollowbrook Vulture’s lacrosse logo.
I had to drag this old practice jersey out of lost property and shake the dust off it, but there was no way I was walking out here without the number one that I earned splayed across the back.
Everest has had his made to show the same.
He adjusts his gloves with deliberate slowness, his smirk a permanent fixture.
His confidence is infuriating, a stark contrast to the storm brewing within me.
This isn't just a game. It's a battle for respect and redemption.
It's about reclaiming what was taken from me.
Straightening my shoulders, I walk forward. A chorus of boos accompany me, my back prickling as they bounce off the thick skin I’ve built up. It’ll crumble later, but that’s fine. I walk straight up to Everest, cocking a brow at the purple and black marring his throat.
“I suppose I have you to thank for this morning’s annoyance,” Everest tilts his head.
I raise my gaze to his eyes, unfazed by the clarity sparkling in them.
He assesses me sharply, apparently deciding I actually have no idea what he’s talking about, and his whole demeanor changes for the worst. His posture relaxes and a fresh smile creeps onto his face.
Cocky bastard. “I’m surprised you came, Faker. ”
“I’m surprised you haven’t learnt to stop underestimating me yet. Or maybe you just want a matching bruise on your jaw.”
Everest sniggers quietly. “I always knew you had a bit of a sadist in you.” I ignore the bristle that runs down my spine. Everest doesn’t know shit about me, and he never has.
Pursing my lips, I look anywhere else as a referee steps forward.
Her chestnut strands are pulled back into a tight ponytail, her eyes downcast to the black and white striped uniform she wears.
It looks more suited to a sex store than a pitch, but that’s how I know Everest hand-picked both it and her.
“You’ve been dragged into this too, Claire?
” I scoff. She doesn’t respond, but Everest does.
“I thought it would be poetic. Your old co-captain calling the game that shows everyone you belong at the bottom of the pack.” Laughter bursts from me.
“Oh, and that makes you the alpha on top?” I ask. Everest’s smirk deepens, and he half shrugs. My god, he’s actually delusional. Enough with the small talk. “Let’s do this already.”
Claire nods before she can catch herself. Peeking a look at Everest, he frowns disapprovingly but sighs.
“Let’s do this already,” he reiterates, and it takes everything in me to not knee him in the balls there and then. He’ll be wearing a cup anyway. “First to five wins.”
Claire curtseys, like give me a fucking break, and walks to the edge of the pitch.
Her whistle pierces the air, signaling for us to start.
We circle each other, eyes locked, the world narrowing down to this moment.
The roar from the bleachers turns deafening, beating down on me like a physical weight.
The ball is released, and we lunge simultaneously.
Our sticks clash, the ball springing free.
I pivot, sprinting after it, muscles coiled and ready.
Scooping the ball, I cradle it as if I’m weaving through a line of invisible defenders, my breath steady and movements fluid.
The months of being out of the game melt away, muscle memory taking over.
I’ve spent more hours practicing this sport than I have slept in the past few years.
It’s my strongest talent, even if my calves and biceps are burning quicker than I’d hoped.
Everest is on me, his presence a shadow I can't shake. He lunges, but I spin, evading him, the goal in sight. I shoot. A swift, precise flick of the wrist and the net ripples. Boos erupt but I’m beaming.
Thank fuck I’ve still got it. I look at Claire, waiting for her to confirm it.
She stutters, the whistle frozen between her lips as her eyes flicker between the only two players on the field.
“That was a clean goal, call it!” I shout over the racket surrounding us.
Everest's jaw tightens, his eyes narrowed but he gives a single nod. Claire’s whistle rips through the noise and she points one finger to me.
Smart move. I roll my neck, the breath entering and leaving me in frustrated pants.
The odds of me walking out of here as captain are already stacked against me.
I hadn’t anticipated I’d be working against blatant cheating, and that was foolish of me.
The next run is more aggressive. The audience is becoming impatient for the inevitable.
Everest slams into me, our sticks entangled.
The ball pops loose, and he grabs it, charging downfield.
I chase, matching his strides with anticipation coiling in my gut.
He shoots, and the ball sails into the net.
This time, the whistle doesn’t hesitate and Everest does a victory lap with a fist in the air. The fucker.
Sweat pebbles my forehead, the midday sun beaming down as if fall isn’t imminent.
Everything irritates me more than it should.
The brightness glinting on the grass, the headache I’m getting from squinting against said brightness, the crowd’s jeering, the way Everest is showboating whilst I’m steaming like a thanksgiving turkey.
Everest scores another goal without any effort, the strain in my shoulders and calves burning me alive.
I make a move to swipe the ball out from underneath him, making it halfway down the pitch before Everest catches up and tackles me.
There’s a crack of our sticks clashing, his shoulder connecting with my cheek as he spins and takes the ball with him.
I fight against the sense of defeat clawing its way up my throat but it’s nearly impossible.
Grinding my teeth, I chase him down, no longer focused on winning but on merely hurting him.
If Everest limps out of here with a broken rib or two, I’ll consider that a success.
Lifting my stick high like a golf club, I swing and catch him hard in the hip.
He stumbles but doesn’t falter nearly as much as I’d hoped, recovering in time to score himself another goal.
More cheering, more showboating. Claire throws three fingers up and blasts her shrill whistle, although she’s about the only person around here who doesn’t appear as smug as Everest. I press my gloved hands to my thighs, leaning over as I drag breath after breath into my lungs.
My vision pulses at the edges, sweat prickling the corners of my eyes.
My mouth is bone dry, my legs like concrete, and my pride feels like paper being shredded into a thousand hopeless pieces.