“Get. Dressed.” His voice drops lower, the same tone that makes everyone shut up at practice. “It’s not a request.”
I stumble to my bag in the corner and grab a T-shirt, pulling it on backwards first, then fixing it. My whole body is trembling. I hate it. Hate that he can see it. Hate that I'm nineteen and shaking like I'm eleven again.
I close my eyes, willing myself to wake up from this bad dream.
“Now.” Walsh’s voice cuts through my panic. “Put on your shoes.”
Each step is like wading through thick mud as I move to the couch and sit. After grabbing my sneakers, I shove my feet into them, but I can’t tie my laces. My fingers won't cooperate.
He snorts. “Knight’s right. You’re a goddamn fucking joke. All the size but as harmless as a goddamn butterfly.”
Heat flares in my chest, briefly cutting through the fear. He just had to mention that asshole. Knight has never had to rebuild himself from nothing. He’s never been so broken that breathing feels like betrayal.
I sit up, glaring at Walsh. He smirks, knowing he’s pressed a button.
Mouse appears, weaving through his legs like nothing's wrong, like my team captain isn’t a threat. Maybe to her, he’s not. But to me—
Walsh pulls a bottle of water out of his backpack, then tosses it at me. “Drink and calm the fuck down.”
I catch it but don't open it. Something about the way he watches makes my skin crawl. His expression reveals nothing, not anger or impatience. And that makes everything worse.
He sits in the chair on my left, gun shifting slightly. “Let’s talk about your future at Crestwood.”
“My. . . my future?”
“If you want to keep your scholarship, you’re going to do whatever I tell you, or you lose everything.”
My scholarship means everything. Without it, I can't attend Crestwood.
But after a year of being around Walsh and his friends, I know what they’re capable of. I saw what he did to those lacrosse players. The homophobic pieces of shit deserved it, but still. The methodical way Walsh destroyed them made it look easy to hurt another human like that.
Meeting his gaze, I try to keep my voice steady. “You haven't told me what you want.”
“Does it matter?”
Mybrows furrow. “Yeah, it does.”
He leans back, gun resting on his thigh. “Drink the water. Don't need you passing out.”
I shake my head, trying to ward off the cobwebs forming. “I’m . . . fine.”
“You're not. You're pale as fuck and about two seconds from hyperventilating. Drink.”
He's right. The room’s starting to tilt. I twist off the cap, then gulp down half the bottle. It doesn’t help, not with the slightly bitter aftertaste.
Walsh leans forward. “We’re taking a day trip to Connecticut.”
“What? Why would—”
“Because we’re getting married.”
The bottle slips from my hand, the liquid splashing all over the floor. “What?”
Married?
To me?
This doesn't make any sense. He’s been dating a girl since the beginning of last season. I shake my head, but it feels funny, like moving through molasses.
