I forced a smile that tasted like blood in my mouth. “Thanks, man.”
I didn’t drink it. I don’t drink at all, actually. I’ve never even taken one drink. Not after what happened to Dad. Not after what it did to Davis. Not after watching what addiction has done to my life.
All I could do was carry the can back to the dorm, where Aaron and Jay both looked up from their midterm prep with matchingconcerned expressions. I offered them the beer like it was funny, but they saw through the mask that day.
Aaron told me about getting harassed in middle school for being small. Jay said I’m on the right track, that every bully grows bored eventually if you don’t give them a reaction. They encouraged me to ignore it, to keep doing my thing. So far it’s been working for me, aside from Pierce’s persistent bullshit.
I told them that the hazing doesn’t bother me. Not really. I’ve dealt with worse. I can handle a few weeks of their immaturity. Once the season starts and I prove I belong here, it’ll stop. Probably. I hope.
But whatdoesbother me, what gnaws at me more than I’ll ever admit, isn’t the beer and alcoholic jabs. It’s the way Lincoln Beckett treats me. His aloof, purposeful mistreatment of me both annoys the hell out of me and kind of gets my motor revved.
The rest of them are annoying, sure, but predictable. The freshman-level pranks, the chest-thumping posturing, the macho jokes, they all play by the same tired rulebook. But Beckett is in a league of his own. Cold one minute, hostile the next, and then acting like I kicked his dog simply by breathing in his direction. It’s like he crafted his personality from a manual titledHow to Make Brody Miller’s Dick Hard and Life Difficult, Vol. 1.
And yeah, maybe I’m not helping. Full disclosure, I know I’m not. I could leave him alone completely, pretend he doesn’t exist, but I don’t. Maybe I would if he wasn’t being a shitty captain, encouraging the stupid pranks by pretending he doesn’t notice it happening.
Instead, I keep slipping into the things that get under his skin. Like cycling through the stupidest pet names I can come up with just to see the vein in his neck throb or using his full name with exaggerated politeness because it makes him tick.
He hates it. I know he hates it. Which only makes it harder not to do.
I don’t know how else to be. I’m not wired for silent misery. My whole life, the only way I’ve survived bullshit was by laughing through it, shrugging it off, finding some stupid way to make everything lighter so it wouldn’t crush me. The alternative is turning into someone likehim.Someone who walks around like the weight of the entire universe is resting between his shoulder blades.
And honestly, whyishe so miserable?
He’s got friends everywhere. Guys who practically orbit him like he’s the campus sun. Coaches who trust and compliment him constantly, even if he and I both know I could take him in any match if I actually tried to. Professors who seem to like him. Hell, he even has a girlfriend. I didn’t believe that at first, but I’ve seen her with him more than once, hanging off his arm, all smiles and sweetness, looking at him like he invented oxygen. They seem happy enough, so what the hell is he so pissed off about?
Then again, one glimpse of his dad at the alumni event put some things into perspective.
The man looked like someone carved resentment out of granite and dressed it in a business suit. If addiction can run in families, I guess being an asshole can too. Maybe Lincoln Beckett never stood a chance.
Whether or not Beckett’s dad likes me, or whether or not his dick does, doesn’t excuse him for taking it out on me. It’s not my fault I got his dick hard. And it’s not even like I’ve taunted him that much about it or told anyone else. Nor would I ever.
I’ve tried to lay off the teasing. Really, I have. But every time he gets that sharp, superior tone, like he thinks he’s teaching me a lesson or like he knows more or is better than me, something in me snaps right back. Then he gets that wounded, furious look, likehow dare you talk to me,and suddenly I’m in the middle of the world’s stupidest pissing match.
You’d think I’d stop letting him win at practice. But I keep letting him. I give him just enough push back to make him think he’s working for it, and then I let go just to see the change in him when he gets the upper hand.
There’s something in his eyes when he’s fighting to stay on top. Something scared, like he’s fraying at the edges, and I get this stupid urge to let him have it. Like maybe he needs the win more than I do.
But I’m only human. And patient as I am, there’s a limit.
One of these days, he’s going to push me too far, and when he does, I’m going to stop holding back. I’m going to show him exactly how easily I could take that “top dog” crown off his pretty little head.
And maybe, just maybe, that’ll finally wipe that tortured look out of his eyes and replace it with the lust I know is hiding beneath it.
By Thursday afternoon, my brain is mush, and my bag is packed for the trip home. I’m tired, but excited. I’m thinking about the list of things I know still need to be done at home, whether or not Davis will talk to me, how good it’s going to feel to sleep in my old bed for a night or two. Not to mention the underwear. I’m literally down to my last two pairs, and they’re both dirty. My dick is starting to chafe in my jeans.
The sky is cloudy and the air is sharp with the bite of a cold front moving in. I pull my hands into my hoodie as I walk across the student parking lot to get to my car. My beat-up old Nissan is in the exact place she was the last time I drove her weeks ago, but as I get closer, I realize there’s a problem.
The front driver-side tire is flat.
“Great,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair. “Fantastic. Perfect timing.”
It’s annoying, but not catastrophic. Tires blow. They get punctured. They go bald. Mine were probably overdue for replacement anyway.
With a cleansing huff, I throw my bag in the back seat, roll up my sleeves, and get to work. It’s annoying, but I handle it with my usual level-headed drive to move past the stress and get it done.
I get the old tire off, put the spare on, and tighten the bolts. It doesn’t take me more than ten minutes, and I’m ready to go. But when I lift the ruined tire to put it in the trunk, the whole car shifts too far to one side.
Odd.
