Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
CHANCE
“Push, Chance, push!” Coach’s muffled yells penetrate my hearing as I slice through the water, kicking my speed up a notch.
A twinge lights up my left shoulder and I falter, probably losing a fraction of a second on my time.
When I tap the pool wall and look over at Coach, he doesn’t look pleased.
My shoulder has been hurting more and more over the past few weeks, throbbing and burning after every practice. This is the first time it’s bothered me while I was in the pool, and it makes my heart thump hard against my chest.
I need to stop going so hard at practice. Coach will be pissed, but I’m already the fastest on the team, probably in the state. I don’t need to do much more to win trophies for the team.
Coach grunts and says, “That’ll do.” Then moves on to the others to mark their times.
I pull myself out of the water and walk over to the bench, pulling off my swim cap and tossing it beside my bag. I dig my fingers into my shoulder, hoping to rub some of the pain away.
I’ve iced my shoulder practically every night before bed for the past few weeks, hoping that would help, but it only takes the pain away temporarily. If I’m not careful, I’ll—
Jett comes over and pats me on the shoulder, startling me. I wince when the pain radiates down my elbow to my fingers. He shoots me a concerned look. “You good?”
I nod, rotating my shoulder to dispel the pain. “Yeah. Just a tweak.”
“I have some patches that should help. They work wonders for my knees when I’m at home lifting fucking hay bales.”
Jett has the body that comes from hard, outside work, his muscles slim but toned, more refined than any gym workout.
“Yeah, thanks,” I mutter as I roll my shoulder again. “I’m going too hard in practice. Gotta pull back.”
He nods, using his thumb to dig into my shoulder in a brutal massage that makes me flinch, but I know it’ll help later. “Definitely. This is your last season. Don’t wanna burn out before nationals.”
I’m glad he didn’t mention the Olympics. I confided in him last week that I have no desire to try out. Nationals is another story. That’ll be my last chance to win big for Meadowbrook, to bring home our fourth national trophy in the relay.
I agree and we go over to our towels and I wrap mine around my waist, not planning on getting back in the water.
Coach is too busy yelling at Priest for not doing a proper transition.
He’s still swimming as if he’s starting the relay, not second leg.
I’m not sure why he’s so resistant to it, Coach won’t change his mind.
I guess he feels like if he doesn’t switch his swimming style to fit the new position, Coach will get fed up and give him his spot back.
I rub my shoulder as I watch the rest of practice, a knot filling my belly as the pain lingers.
We’ve been practicing every day, sometimes twice a day, to get ready for our first away meet in a few weeks.
I’ll just tell Coach that my shoulder is giving me trouble so he can either excuse me for two-a-days or let me do lighter practices.
One thing about my coach—he never pushes us past the point of injury.
Better we stay in the water than lose a season to recovery.
About twenty minutes later, we’re dismissed and sent to the showers. Priest sneers at me, still pissed that I didn’t have his back with Thorne. But come on, like I’d take up for Priest over my man. Not fucking likely.
Well, one of my men.
Fuck, I really can’t believe I’m with two guys. We haven’t made anything official out loud, but we’ve been spending so much time together, hanging out and talking and laughing and fucking. What else could we be?
Well, we could just be friends with benefits, since all that—besides the fucking—is friend stuff. But I want more.
Jett and I leave the natatorium together since we have the same class.
When we round the corner to our building, a smile blooms across my face when I see Thorne standing against one of the walls beside a short, Black guy with dreadlocks on top and a close cut on the sides, tattoos dotting his hands, neck, and face. He might be more tattooed than Thorne.
He’s also a looker. Not as good looking as Thorne—because my man is fine as fuck—but there’s no denying his friend is fine too.
Jett makes a strangled noise, and I look at him quizzically. His cheeks are pink when he glances at me, but he doesn’t say anything.
Pushing his weird behavior out of my mind, I walk over to Thorne. I expect him to play it cool and pretend we’re not together, but he surprises me when he wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me close, kissing me hard and quick.
I gasp against his mouth, feeling dazed when he lets me go.
“Hey, Golden,” he says, thumbing my bottom lip. “How was practice?”
“Good,” I say in a dreamy voice. I can’t help it though. He makes me feel all fluttery. “How was yours? I mean…shit. Sorry. What are you doing here?”
It’s been a week since both Thorne and I fucked Warren into the mattress for smiling at Professor Cooke like he was smitten—or that’s how Thorne explained it to me.
I miss them. But I’ve been so busy with practice, Warren has been doing some kind of STEM thing with a few other professors, and Thorne has been doing…
whatever it is that Thorne does. We haven’t had time to catch up like I’ve wanted.
He smiles at my stammering, embarrassing me more.
“I was showing my brother around. Then I remembered your class was here, so I decided to wait.” He looks over at Jett.
“Who’s this?” He doesn’t sound like he’s jealous, but you can never tell with Thorne.
Even though we’ve spent a lot of time together, it’s still hard to get a read on him.
“Sorry,” I say, stepping back so I can introduce my friend. “This is Jett. I’m sure you’ve heard me mention him before.”
Thorne nods. “Your farming friend.”
Jett smiles shakily. “That’s me. What’s up man?
” He shakes Thorne’s hand. I’m pleased that Thorne doesn’t squeeze too tightly.
I explained to both him and Warren when we first met how Jett is my only friend.
Maybe Thorne knows that I value Jett’s friendship and only his friendship?
Either way, he gives my nervous friend a break.
Thorne thumbs over his shoulder. “This is my brother, Knox. Knox, my Golden.”
“Hey,” Knox says, his voice softer than I would have guessed. Then again, he doesn’t look loud. Like the tattoos and piercings on anyone else would give that vibe, but they still fit Knox’s seemingly low-key aura. Like they don’t enhance who he is, they are who he is.
“Thinking about attending Meadowbrook?” I ask Knox.
He smiles and it lights up his entire face. Jett makes that strangled sound beside me again, then excuses himself, walking away quickly.
We all watch him leave, then Knox says, “No. I have a tattoo shop downtown. It’s doing well enough that I don’t need more than my high school diploma.”
“Oh shit. You’re a tattoo artist? I want some ink one day.”
Knox nods. “When you’re ready, come see me. I’ll make sure you get some good work.”
Thorne makes a pssh sound. “Good work. Knox is being modest. He’s the best artist I know.” He pulls up his sleeves. “He’s done all of mine except one. And that’s because we didn’t know each other yet.”
I’ve admired all of Thorne’s tattoos, the blacks and swirling grays that dot most of his arms and torso. It’s great work. Knox is an amazing artist.
“Did you need me for something?” I ask Thorne.
“Yeah. Come to my apartment tonight. I’ll text you and Firebird the address.”
“Okay. What time? I have practice tonight.”
“After that,” he says, then pulls me in for another kiss, his tongue feeling good as he dips in for a taste. “I’ll cook you two dinner.”
“Okay,” I say again, my head going fuzzy from his drugging kiss and his open display of affection. “Baked spaghetti?” I ask hopefully.
Ever since he made that dish, I can’t get it out of my mind. It’s like nothing I’ve ever had before.
He chuckles and shakes his head, pushing away black bangs that fall into his eyes. “Nah. Something else. I’ll text you.”
“Yeah, okay.”
“See you later, Golden.”
“See you later.”
With a nod, Knox says, “Nice meeting you.”
“You too.” Then I wave like a weirdo as they walk away.
I never would have guessed Thorne’s brother was a tattoo artist. Then again, I never would have guessed anything about Thorne. Everything I’ve learned about him has been a revelation. He’s so different from what I expected him to be like.
I can’t wait to go to his place tonight. I love Warren’s quaint house, but I think we’d both get more insight if we saw where Thorne lives.
They both know where I live, which probably makes me seem like a big douche to most people, especially those that think frats are just full of party boys.
I’m actually over the frat life. It’s not who I am, it’s never been who I am. The people in that house aren’t my brothers. They’ve never treated me like I was more than someone they shared a house with.
Before my mind tumbles over the bullshit with my frat, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out, expected a text from Thorne with his address, but I’m surprised to see it’s my mother.
Mom: Hello dear. How are you?
Smiling, I take a seat on one of the benches that line the hallway.
Me: Hey Mom. I’m good. How’s home? You good?
Mom: I’m well, my dear. I wanted you to see the new art I purchased. Your father let me buy it for the foyer.
Anger and irritation licks up my spine thinking about my father “letting” my mother do anything.
She’s a grown-ass woman. The hold he has on her irritates the shit out of me.
I really wish she would just get away from him.
He’s done nothing but drag her down and keep her in the same place she’s been for years.
Still, I smile when she sends me the pics of the artwork she hung right by the front door. It’s light and colorful. Beautiful.
Me: Looks great Mom. Get something for my room too.
Mom: Like you’d appreciate it.
She’s not wrong about that.
Me: Buy yourself something nicer than art. Your husband is weird.
Mom: Lol. I miss you, son.
Me: Miss you too, Mom. I’ll be back for Christmas.
As much as I don’t want to be at that fucking house for any reason, I miss my mother.
My fingers fly across my keyboard as I send another text, though I already know what she’ll say.
Me: When I graduate, you should come live with me. I’ll get us a place. You can get away from dad.
The message isn’t long in coming and even though I know what it’ll say, my stomach still drops.
Mom: I can’t leave your dad. Thank you anyway. Love you.
Defeat blanketing me, I send her a final text, my throat tight with emotion.
Me: Love you too. Call me if you need anything.
I should be in class, but instead, I rest my head against the wall, looking up at the ceiling. Who could my mother have been if my father weren’t so controlling? She’s such a good woman, a good person. She raised me well and I know she would have been excellent if she had more kids.
My father ruins everything he touches. I need to get her away before he does any more damage to her.