Then, because I’m an idiot, I look back at the dance floor.
Brody is watching me. Not vaguely. He’s blatantly watching me, his eyes alight with mischief, smirking because he knows what I’m thinking about.
The fucker winks at me again.
Something inside me fractures, knowing that he’s in my head. And that even if I followed the pretty bartender, all I’d see are Brody’s bright blue eyes looking up at me.
Two weeks pass in a blur of early morning lifts, long days of classes, and practices where I pretend not to feel Brody’s presence vibrating against my skin like a second pulse. Eversince that night at the club, I’ve kept my errant thoughts and feelings tamped down hard and him at a distance. I’ve been nothing but an iron wall of clipped commands and controlled movements, completely refusing to engage with anything resembling friendliness. As a captain, my attitude spreads through the team like a sickness. No one says it aloud, but the majority of the team follow my lead instinctively. Or at least they try to, until Brody’s infectious attitude starts to wear everyone down.
Pierce and his band of minions haven’t let up. The pranks have been small, juvenile hazing type shit that Coach pretends he doesn’t know about.
An extra-heavy barbell loaded before Brody’s bench press. Which, of course, he takes in stride and shows off his impressive strength by pressing out a few reps before even commenting on the weight. A shaker bottle filled with protein powder and salt, which he spits out, but laughs about. His wrestling shoes get tied together and hung from the rafters. He jokes that they needed to be aired out anyway, then finds a member of the maintenance staff to help retrieve them quietly after practice. When his gym bag is “accidentally” thrown into the cold plunge, he asks if anyone has any detergent because laundry day came early.
I should shut it down. It’s my job to shut it down. But I don’t. I let it happen right in front of me, and I don’t even pretend I can’t see what’s going on. I stand at the center of it all, like I’m not responsible for this team and its members. Hell, I even make the excuse to the other captains that it’s bringing the underclassmen together, and Brody doesn’t seem to mind. Roman laughs, but I can tell it bothers Sean. He’s too quiet of a guy to protest too much, and I notice him checking in on Brody regularly.
To his credit, Brody never snaps or complains. He never sulks or retaliates. Aside from the incessant empty beer cans that get left in and around his locker constantly, which I don’t really understand, Brody just laughs and moves on like it’s all background noise. And somehow, that makes it even worse. The team likes him even better for it. It makes them warm to him. It makes him look good and me look…
Jealous. Intimidated.
It makes me look just as weak and sniveling as Pierce Jamison.
Every day, people gravitate towards Brody a little more. He jokes with Aaron on the walk to class. He spots Jay during lifts. He helps freshmen with their stances. His laugh, the one I pretend grates on my nerves, becomes familiar enough that even the guys who used to follow my lead begin drifting towards him.
Everyone likes him. Except Pierce, of course. Pierce hates him for being everything he’s not—friendly, warm, naturally gifted, and worst of all, unintimidated by people like us.
Despite all that, I hold the line with my hard indifference. I make sure no one sees or even suspects how hard it’s getting to look at Brody without feeling that same unwelcome shiver crawling up my spine. The same one that makes me want to bolt from the room before he can see something on my face I didn’t mean to show. Because the more he doesn’t falter, the more he takes in stride, the more I become just as impressed with him as everyone else. Except I can’t admit that to anyone, not even myself.
Which is exactly why my head is pounding before this stupid alumni mixer even begins.
Coach McCoy’s wrestling facility has been transformed into a suffocating maze of collared shirts and old money. Athletic donors, former captains, alumni from the glory years, and a host of other insufferable people all clog the room like a wall of expectation I’m destined to climb.
My father is here, wearing a suit that costs more than the catering company and a disdainful expression that suggests he’s been disappointed since the moment I was born. He’s been talking to Coach, which I’m grateful for at first, because it buys me a few minutes to gather myself and look for Caty, who has always been the best buffer between me and my father. He might hate me, but he loves my girlfriend.
“It’s good to see you, Chuck,” McCoy says, grinning far too warmly as he claps my father on the shoulder. “Your boy here is shaping up to be as good as you were back in the day.” I roll my eyes at the way Coach calls my dad Chuck, smiling like they’re old friends instead of rivals who spent four years trying to destroy each other on the same team I find myself struggling with. The irony leaves a bad taste in my mouth.
My father returns Coach’s smile, but his eyes barely shift toward me, like acknowledging me directly is some tedious formality he’d rather skip. When Coach moves off to greet someone else, Dad finally turns fully in my direction, expression faintly critical like I’m a building he’s inspecting for structural damage.
“I hear the team’s shaping up,” he says, smoothing a hand over my lapel to remove some invisible lint. “Dale mentioned some new additions. Said you’ve got a transfer this year, you didn’t tell meBroderick Millerfound himself on your team.”
I force a nod, my heart rate kicking up. “Yes sir, a transfer and quite a few impressive freshmen as well. One guy is aheavyweight that played as a lineman on his high school football team. He’s a beast.” My head swivels around the room, hoping to point out the freshman and divert my father’s attention.
I should know better.
“I recognized that boy the second I walked in here,” my father continues, tapping a finger against his drink, a metronome that betrays his frustration.
My dad’s gaze travels across the room, and I know he’s looking at Brody’s messy blond curls and stocky build. I swallow, jaw tight, pulse loud in my ears.
“Imagine my surprise,” Dad says lightly, “when I find out you’ve been paired up with the boy that took the championship from you your senior year. The very one that embarrassed you, and me by extension.”
My throat closes, and I refuse to look up where my father is staring at Brody like he’s something he stepped in.
“I expect you’ve shown the little upstart where his place is.”
I say the thing I know he wants to hear, because that’s what I always do. “Yes. He’s not had it easy since arriving here.”
My father’s approval isn’t warm. It never is. But there’s a sharp, mean gleam in his eye. “Good,” he says. “I raised you to be a winner, Lincoln. Winners don’t let humiliations like that go unchecked.”
The way he sayshumiliations like thatmakes my stomach twist. Like that match was a stain on the family name instead of whatever hellish awakening it actually was for me. My father has never given me any indication that he knows exactly why I ranout of that competition, but I’m not naïve enough to assume he doesn’t have at least some idea. He was there, after all.
