My boyfriend throws his hands up in the air, unafraid of capturing the attention of other onlookers. “Do it. I don’t care anymore. At least then I could live my life on my own terms instead of being indebted to the likes of you.”
When the referee’s whistle ends the time-out, Knox smiles at me sympathetically, a silent “I’m sorry” forming on his lips. Throughout that whole altercation, he offered me warmth and reassurance when I’ve been conditioned to embrace the lonely cold.
After Knox returns to the game, I turn to face his dad. “You enjoy the rest of your night,” I grit out with a hiss, calling the time of death at 7:28 p.m. before slinking back over to Hassie and her half-demolished popcorn bucket.
Her head perks up. “How’d it go?”
I roll the sleeve hem of Knox’s jersey between my fingers, already feeling its calming effect begin to work. Knox just stood up for me. In front of his terrifying father. He was ready to sacrifice his steady income just to be with me. He was ready to damage his parental relationship even more to make me feel…loved.
I’ve never been in love before. I don’t know what it feels like.
Do I…do IloveKnox? I mean, my stomach getting all tingly when I’m around him is a normal bodily response, right? How do I know I’m not blowing this out of proportion and mistaking infatuation for something more?
Think about it, Staten. Knox has defied all the odds to prove your preconceived notions about him wrong. He values your time—he put in so much hard work to bring his Lit grade up. He values you—he compliments you whenever he gets the chance, even knowing there’sa possibility you might bite his head off because flattery freaks you out. He’s always there when you need him. He’s always attentive and communicative and couldn’t be more obsessed with you.
But what if I’m wrong? What if…what if it’s too soon?
Don’t be afraid of change. Sometimes, change is a good thing. Sometimes, change seeks you out because it knows how badly you need it. Stop overthinking so much. Your emotions deserve to be heard too.
God, this man has his teeth in me, and now it’s up to him to retract them or sink them deeper into my skin.
My breath whooshes out of me with the velocity of a shuttle, and I feel my entire chest collapse with expired air. “Remind me to always bring a can of compressed air to spray at shit-dressed millionaires.”
26
THREE’S A CROWD
KNOX
When I exit the locker room, post-celebration plans are already in motion. Staten is waiting for me outside the arena, and then we’re going to drop by the tailgate taking place in the parking lot because I apparently have a “responsibility” to show up for the fans. My teammates’ words, not mine. I would be more than content doing face masks with my girl while we watch trashy reality television.
The talk with my dad was painful. I can’t believe he had the audacity to speak to Staten like that—well, I can, but his idiocy truly amazes me. It felt good to stand up to him for once. And there was no way in hell I’d let him get off scot-free after humiliating the one person I care about on this godforsaken planet.
For the first time in forever, I didn’t flinch at his snapping teeth—the same ones used to make blood promises and spew sycophancy while simultaneously sealing the fates of those at the bottom of the food chain.
I can’t believe I spent years vying for his approval when all he deserved was my pity.
Duffel bag swung over my shoulder, I head out of the lockerroom, suddenly accosted by the sight of my father in his special-occasion suit, propped up against the wall facing me. I have no idea what he’s still doing here. To be honest, I thought he would’ve left after our fight.
In no world did I RSVP to the most soul-sucking reunion in all of existence. I don’t have the energy to deal with him right now.
Nausea tugs at my stomach, and my nostrils fill with brimstone when his flinty eyes find mine immediately. The harshness of the fluorescents calico the begrimed floor, grafting a shadow to his angular features.
I shouldn’t want to hear him out, but curiosity dilutes my sensibility.
“What are you still doing here?” I ask, animosity riding my voice.
I’m a living cage of barely repressed anger, and I don’t need to uphold any gentleman act for the sake of my girlfriend since she’s not here. My hand tightens around the strap of my bag as harsh nylon bites into my palm.
“I…wanted to apologize,” my father confesses, the words practically ripped from his throat like he can’t possibly grasp the concept of guilt.
Oh, this is rich. He only wants to apologize because I humiliated him in front of a crowd. He’s doing this to absolve himself. He doesn’t mean it. I mean, the cocksucker had years to amend his mistakes, and he waits until I finally grow a backbone to do it? I know I shouldn’t be entertaining this conversation. I know I should probably just punch him in the balls and go on with my day, but there’s a part of me that can’t let sleeping dogs lie.
“What could you possibly have to say to me that would make up for all the shit you’ve put me through?”
I want to bask in this sight of him—this powerlessness that fits him well. My dad’s moral compass is a Wheel of Death, and he has no care for where he throws his next dagger.
His cheeks are blotched with embarrassment—a first-time occurrence—and his arrogance warps into something akin to humility, a breath-hold suspended in the unassuming silence. Every scraped-knuckle hardship that he offloaded onto my shoulders comes tumbling back.
