Chapter 39
The sun is too bright for this early in the morning.
It sits low over the field, blinding and unforgiving, turning the dew drops on the grass into sparkling diamonds.
The air is humid from last night’s rain, the heat already pressing down on us, making the atmosphere thick and unbearable.
Sweat gathers under my pads from the moment I step out onto the field, trying to locate whether the heaviness in my chest and limbs comes from outside or inside of me.
I’ve barely slept since Friday night, not even with Linden’s body curled up beside me on the mattress, his breath ghosting over my skin, one of his arms draped over my stomach, while I stared holes into my ceiling.
Olli was released from the hospital on Sunday. Vince picked him up while we all hovered awkwardly in the living room, trying to be there for each other and pretending nothing life-altering had happened at the same time.
Afterward, we spent an excruciating hour in silence, Olli disregarding me completely while I kept glancing at his face—one eye swollen almost shut and adorned by a dark bruise, his lip busted, his nose still crusted with some dried blood—until his parents rolled into our shabby driveway in a dark green Bentley.
All of us retreated to the kitchen while their clipped murmurs filled the house, only disrupted by his mother’s clicking heels and Tibia’s tiny meows.
When they left, the Nook felt five degrees colder.
“Man, you look like shit.” Evander trots over to me, helmet tucked under his left arm as he greets me with a fist bump.
By now, the story of what happened to my roommate has made the rounds.
So far, no one has asked me any questions, but I’m aware they're talking about me; I noticed earlier how their voices dropped when I passed them at the weigh-in.
“Charmer,” I snort as I drop onto the grass to start stretching. Evander copies me, hunching low, our cleats digging into the soft ground.
“How are you? And how’s Yardley?”
“Terrible, I guess. He didn’t speak to me at all after being released and then left with his family almost immediately.
Linden says he’ll be staying with them while—” I break off before I can mention anything about the police investigation.
It’s all up in the air for now—whether Olli will press charges, what will happen, and who was even involved.
Linden, Sasha, and Vince went to the station on Saturday to give a complete statement of what they witnessed, while Marisol and I stayed behind, feeling useless.
So far, no one has asked me about my account of Seb and Olli’s public fallout, which is probably secondary to everything else.
We weren’t there for the attack after all, so we don’t have anything valuable to contribute except anger and helplessness.
“Fuck, man, I can only imagine,” Evander huffs, then ducks his head to look at me.
“I just want you to know that we’re taking this shit seriously.
Kappa Nu, I mean. The moment we know for sure who was responsible, those bastards will get kicked out on their asses.
I already raised the issue with the prez and the board.
It’s just that so far, no one has seen anything. ”
I nod at that, murmuring a soft “appreciate it,” but inside, I’m less hopeful.
I’m not involved in frat politics other than what I hear from my friends, but I doubt any of the guys involved will give up their identities voluntarily.
So our only hope might be the girls’ video material.
And even then, most of these kids have loaded parents, ready to lawyer up in an instant.
Our conversation is cut short when Coach Wagner steps through the sliding doors of the training facility, ball cap drawn deep into his face, clipboard in hand.
For a moment, his gaze—hidden behind a pair of aviator sunglasses—wanders over us, then he raises two fingers to his lips, letting out a sharp whistle.
The sound cuts cleanly through the low conversations around us, immediate silence falling over the field.
“Morning, gents,” Wagner says, and his greeting is met with a chorus of mumbles and murmurs. “Hope you all had a nice and restful weekend because we’re about to grind today.”
I almost snort at that—so the news hasn’t reached the school’s training and teaching staff yet.
Or maybe what happened simply isn’t important to them, just a brawl between college kids.
I wonder if that’s how they’ll explain it; if they have to explain anything at all.
Maybe between classes starting back up and games looming over our heads and the general weight of the world in a constant state of crisis, no one will fucking care about what happened at a college beach party.
“Mahoney?!”
I’m so zoned out that I only react when Evander elbows me in the side. Everyone is staring at me expectantly, so I guess Coach’s been trying to catch my attention for a while.
I clear my throat, sheepishly rubbing the back of my neck. “Yes, sir, sorry. I—”
“Where’s Davenport?” he interrupts my apology, and my heart sinks immediately, a shiver running down my back.
Turning my head, I peer over at the sliding doors as if expecting to see my best friend jog out of them, but they’re firmly closed.
By now, I’m so used to Seb running late and sneaking onto the field just in time that I didn’t even notice his absence.
“He…I don’t know, sir. Probably stuck in traffic,” I answer lamely, my palms sweating when I think back to the dire warning Coach Wagner gave us the day I left with Linden for his parents’ farm.
“Traffic. Right.” Wagner presses his lips together in a tight smile before jotting down a note on his clipboard. “Two laps,” he announces without looking at us, then raises his head when no one moves.
“What the fuck are you waiting for? Two laps around the field for warm-up. Now.”
“He’s in a fucking mood today,” Felix mutters when he falls into stride next to me, somewhere in the front of the moving pack.
I glance at where Wagner is standing in the middle of the field, watching us with his arms crossed over his chest like a lion tamer.
His jaw is tight, the muscles in it working as if he’s chewing on his suppressed anger.
“He sure is. I hope Seb will just stay gone,” I murmur softly. “Because if he strides in now, that’ll set Wagner off even more.”
“Have you talked to Seb over the weekend?” Felix asks, causing the cool dread to spread in my body as I slowly shake my head.
Seb and I parted on good terms on Friday night, but also completely unaware of the drama playing out at the party as I talked him through what had happened with Linden over the summer.
I thought about calling him on Saturday, but figured telling him would be better done in person than over the phone.
Now I wonder if someone else got to him first.
Despite all my hopes, Seb doesn’t stay gone.
It’s six minutes past seven, and we’re on round two when the sliding doors finally open, Seb emerging fully suited up, his helmet under his arm. His steps are slow and controlled, no sign of hurry or embarrassment as he approaches Coach Wagner.
From a distance, he looks fine—his features composed, his gait steady. But by now, I know that calm surface is nothing more than a thin layer held in place at a desperate cost.
He reaches Coach at the same time we finish our warm-up laps. For a short moment, the harsh breathing of our linemen is the only sound. Wagner’s jaw has stopped moving, his full focus on Seb.
“Davenport,” he says, the single word coming out so cold, it makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand. “Nice of you to join us today.”
“Coach,” Seb answers. His voice is raw, like he hasn’t used it in hours. “I’m sorry for running late.”
“You’re sorry,” Wagner repeats the word as if he’s hearing it for the first time, turning it over in his mouth, his features contorting at its flavor.
“You know what, Davenport, I’m sorry, too.
I’m sorry you can’t be bothered to show this team a minimum amount of respect and decency by getting here on time.
I’m sorry you’re interrupting another training with your tardiness.
I’m sorry for every young player who’s looking up to you just to be let down by your behavior.
I’m sorry you apparently think that my rules apply to everyone else but you. ”
When Wagner ends his rant, it’s so quiet that we could hear a pin drop.
No one is moving; we barely dare to breathe.
Felix looks at me like he wants me to say something, but I’m at a loss.
I know for a fact that Seb is anything but lazy and uncaring.
Telling Wagner, however, would mean Seb having to actually talk about his problems—the anxiety, the compulsions, the sleepless nights, everything we’ve helped him hide over the past years.
And I know he’d rather take another verbal beating than do that.
“It’s not that I don’t care,” Seb finally speaks up, his dark eyes fixed on a point in the distance.
“Oh, that so? Then why are you late again?”
C’mon, Seb, I silently beg. Just give him something. But Seb has fallen quiet again, and Coach lets us all stand in it until the guys shift uncomfortably on their feet, looking at the ground, the empty seats around us.
“Coach—” I say when it becomes unbearable, but Wagner cuts me off immediately.
“Did I ask you, Mahoney?”
“No, sir, but—”
“Then keep your mouth shut.”
I snap my teeth back together, forcing myself not to make this worse for my best friend. The Adam’s apple in his throat bobs as he swallows thickly, lips pressed together now in a thin line.
“I’m waiting,” Wagner prompts, his fingers drumming against his clipboard in a steady rhythm, like a clock counting down.
Seb shifts under his stare.
Say something, God, please. Make something up. Just lie to him.