4. We’re All In This Together, Unfortunately
4
We’re All In This Together, Unfortunately
Clayton
W e made it twenty whole minutes.
Rocky and I had our first doubles practice on Wednesday afternoon after Coach Taylor was informed by Jax’s parents, who called from the hospital, that he has a total ACL and MCL tear and will be out for the rest of the season. We made it twenty minutes before Coach lost his shit on us and kicked us out.
Twenty minutes of Rocky throwing the biggest temper tantrum known to man because, apparently, being forced to partner with me is comparable to being paired up with Lucifer himself. Twenty minutes of the two of us bickering back and forth and arguing about every single thing. Twenty of the longest fucking minutes of my entire life.
It didn’t help that instead of taking it easy on us and having a junior team play the other side of the net, Coach had Prescott McDaniels and Chadwick Augustus playing against us. They were the only other senior doubles team left and, besides Aaron Sanders, are the two douchiest assholes I have ever met in my entire life. And that’s saying a lot considering the life I grew up in. What’s even worse, they’re good. Like really fucking good.
The two seemed to take some perverse satisfaction in watching Rocky and I struggle and fall apart. And for twenty minutes, the two of them played against us like it was the championship game of our senior year.
Finally, after Chad drilled a hit between Rocky and me and we stood still as we watched it land on the gym floor directly between us without moving an inch… for the fifth time… Taylor had had enough.
Not that I blamed him. That was some rookie-level shit .
Neither one of us was up on the net blocking, moving to get a pass, or setting each other up for a hit. And we sure as shit were not communicating.
Definitely not championship material, let alone Team USA.
He explicitly told us to take the rest of the day and Thursday to figure out what we wanted.
“How bad do the two of you want this? How badly do you want to make Team USA? Because if there’s even the smallest chance of the two of you making it, you need to get it the hell together; I don’t care if you like one another off the court or not. On the court, you need to figure out how to work as a team. Because you’re each other’s only option. If that’s something you want, show up to this gym for Friday morning practice ready to work. If not, don’t even bother coming back.”
I don’t have to know Rockwell Campos to know what his answer was going to be. Because it was the exact same as mine. I want this year’s championship. I want to be on Team USA. And I want to feel that gold medal in the palm of my hand.
1 Regardless of how much my life was planned out for me and how uncertain I am about every single step of that plan, there is one thing I have never questioned. I am meant to be on that sand. It’s the one place I feel truly at peace. Where every expectation of who I’m supposed to be falls away, and all that’s left is who I am.
Clay Aldrich.
Not Clayton Aldrich, son of the legendary Charles Aldrich.
Just. Clay.
So here I am, sending a text to my best friend and ex-partner about the man who drives me up a fucking wall—who also happens to be my new partner—before driving across town to practice.
Clay
Are you sure you can’t come back?
Jax
Yeah, let me just hop in my time machine and unfuck my knee.
I snort a laugh.
Clay
Okay, okay. Easy killer. Someone's a little grumpy today?
Jax
I had a meeting with my new physical therapist and Theo this morning to outline my recovery program. So yeah, I’m a little fucking grumpy.
Feeling slightly bad that I poked fun at him when I know I would hate being in his shoes, I answer:
Clay
I really am sorry, man. I would kill to have you back on that court with me.
Jax
I know you are. Just give him a chance, Clay. The guy might surprise you.
Sighing, knowing Jax is right, I pocket my phone as I climb into my Mercedes-AMG CLS, ready to put my differences with Rockwell Campos aside and make the most out of my senior year. I spent the last day and a half anxiously baking in my apartment, trying to make sense of all the thoughts swimming around in my head. I wouldn’t be surprised if I gained ten pounds from the amount of cookies I consumed. In the end though, I’ve decided I’m not going to let his shitty attitude and constant need to see the world half-empty get in my way of achieving my dreams.
I’m just about to pull onto campus when my phone rings through the car. I look at the dash, and as if he knew I thought about him for only a second, my father’s name lights up the screen. Letting it ring a couple more times, mentally preparing myself for what I know this conversation is going to be about, I inhale a deep breath and reluctantly hit the answer button on the steering wheel.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Why am I just now finding out that Jackson got hurt?” No, “Hi, son. How are you?” Because there never is. He only ever calls me for two things: school and volleyball.
“I’m assuming you talked to Coach Taylor?”
“I called him to see how your first few days back after the break were.” Of course, he did. “Imagine my surprise when he told me Rockwell Campos was your new partner.” He says Rocky’s name as if the words are poison on his tongue.
I should have known he would have talked to Coach Taylor eventually. The two of them used to be doubles partners when my dad won silver in the Olympics. He was twenty-eight when it happened. Cameron Taylor and Charles Aldrich were two of the best players the sport has ever seen. I was only two, so I don’t remember any of it. Not that it matters because the old man talks about it like it happened yesterday. Once my dad retired, he started a small real estate company. However, with his and my mother’s family connections, that small company quickly grew, and Aldrich Real Estate is now a Fortune 500 company. My dad spent his entire life working, and my mother spent her entire life acting as Miami’s leading socialite. If it weren’t for Marissa, the household nanny and housekeeper, I would have had no parental figure in my life whatsoever.
It was all a linear equation. The more successful my father became, the more ruthless he grew to be. The more ruthless he became, the more disassociated my mother became. The more dissociated my mother became, the less our house felt like home. The faster our home fell apart, the harder my father pushed me to become a mirror image of him. And the more he pushed, and the less my mother tried to stop him, the ball of resentment that festered inside of me grew until it rivaled the size of Jupiter. Now, all that’s left is the occasional phone call where he never fails to remind me that my actions and behavior are a direct reflection of him and his image.
“Yes, Rocky is my partner now.” I don’t divulge any extra information. I’ve learned the less I say, the faster he can berate me and the sooner this entire conversation can be over with.
“And what exactly are you going to do about it?”
“What do you mean what am I going to do about it?”
His exaggerated sigh sounds through the interior of the car like the soundtrack to my entire life. “How do you expect to win with a partner like him?”
A partner like him? An unfamiliar protective instinct rears its head. “Rocky is a great player. One of the best I’ve ever seen, actually.”
He scoffs on the other end of the line as if I’ve just uttered the most outlandish sentence he’s ever heard in his entire life. “Cameron told me all about him.”
I highly doubt that. While my dad and Coach Taylor used to be thick as thieves, their relationship dwindled at the speed at which Dad’s company grew. Rapidly. My father wasn’t the same man he once was and didn’t hesitate to push Coach to the side once he could no longer gain anything from their friendship. Not that Coach seems to mind much. I have a sneaking suspicion he is more than happy with the fact that the two of them are no longer on speaking terms.
“And what exactly is that?” I ask as I pull into the parking lot outside of the gym.
“That he’s some low-life kid from the ghetto of San Diego.” Considering Cameron Taylor was once some “ low-life kid from the ghetto,” I find it very unlikely those were the words that came out of his mouth, but I choose not to acknowledge the statement anyway. “And he’s at the school on scholarship. Which, considering the footage I’ve seen of him playing and the fact that he’s received no formal training his entire life, comes as a complete surprise to me.”
I put the car in park and look out the windshield just as Dad is finishing his rant to find Rocky leaning against the hood of his Toyota Camry, arms crossed and staring at me. And just like that day in the gym, my eyes lock with his, and I can’t help the inexplicable pull they have on me.
“I have spent too much time and invested too much money to watch you throw this chance away, Clayton. You’re too close.” With my stare entangled with Rocky’s, this entire conversation feels just… wrong.
“What do you expect me to do, Dad?” I snap. “Rocky was the only other senior player available. I cannot just magically conjure up another one.”
“Watch your tone, Son.” It’s rare I ever talk back to him. One, I usually don’t give enough of a fuck about his opinion to care. And two, I learned a long time ago that arguing with him is a waste of both time and energy. Charles Aldrich doesn’t back down, and he’s never wrong .
So he thinks.
But regardless of what I think of Rocky, I am not going to let anyone talk about my new partner that way.
End of discussion.
“Rocky is my new partner, Dad. There’s nothing you or I can do that’s going to change that. He, Coach Taylor, and I have already weighed all of our options, and this was the only way we could play the rest of the season with any chance at winning. Let alone gain the attention of the Team USA scouts. So leave it alone. I have it handled.” I hang up the phone before he can get another word in.
I’m sure I’ll pay for that later.
With Rocky’s stare still burning a hole into my head, I can’t help but break the tension by pulling my eyes from his and raking them over his body. I’m not blind. Rocky Campos is hot. Even though I’m slightly taller than him, all six foot three of him is packed with muscle. His corded arms, thick thighs, and lean waist are covered in a deep walnut skin. The intricate sleeve he has covering his right leg is something I could spend hours looking at. He still has in the nose ring and dangly earring he usually takes out before practice and games. And I haven’t even gotten to his face yet. His annoyingly gorgeous fucking face. Even with that goddamn mustache. Never once in my entire life have I found a mustache attractive… I guess there’s a first time for everything. His curly black hair is always perfectly messy. The kind of messy you just want to run your fingers through. And he has one of the sharpest jawlines I have ever seen. I love watching it flex in annoyance every time I piss him off.
Speaking of said jaw, I unashamedly watch it clench when my eyes meet his again, not even hiding the fact that I was fully checking him out. And if the look on his face were anything to go by, he knows that’s exactly what I was doing too. Rolling his eyes, he drops his arms and shoves off the hood of his Camry. Pushing the phone call with Dad out of my mind, I grab my duffle from the passenger seat and climb out of the car.
With my eyes locked on Rocky’s ass and my head in the game, I follow him into the gym for our first real practice as partners.
1. pretty toxic revolver - mgk