I briefly entertain the thought of cutting weight to drop to a lower class. But that’s stupid. I’m already in peak condition. I’d lose strength and stamina, not to mention I’d be handing him power he doesn’t deserve.
No. He needs to leave. Go find another team and another person to torment.
Apparently, I’m not the only one who thinks so.
Pierce Jamison must have caught the snarl I can’t wipe off my face, because he suddenly thinks we’re buddies. He catches me near the benches during a break. “Hey. Some of us are thinking we should, you know, show the new guy how things work around here. Make sure he understands his place.”
I don’t respond, but I don’t stop him either, which he takes as encouragement.
“Don’t worry, Captain,” he says with a smirk, smacking my shoulder. “We’ll take care of it.”
My stomach twists. It’s not right, and it’s certainly not befitting of my role. It’s not who I should be.
But the panic of having him here, someone who knows how to beat me, how to ruin me, makes me selfish. Selfish and stupid.
Maybe a little harmless hazing will keep him quiet and away from me, or even better, get him to rethink his place on this team.
Maybe it’s the only option.
The rest of the week passes easily enough, aside from being constantly on edge that I’ll run into Brody Miller at any moment. The one saving grace is that it seems we don’t share any classes. Which is definitely for the best. It’s bad enough that my eight a.m. Corporate Finance class is going to destroy me. The professor’s voice is so monotone, it might as well be a lullaby sung by the Sandman himself. Every student in the class looks dazed and dead inside by the end of the first hour, myself included, and I don’t need any more struggle to focus.
It's not until Thursday that I see him again, thanks to my efforts to avoid the common areas like the student union and waking up an hour earlier to get my workouts in.
As much as I wish I could, I can’t avoid him any longer. Today is our first unofficial practice. It’s a tradition for the captains to run the first two weeks of practices to show the underclassmen how things go. So it’s on me, Sean, and Roman to show up early and lead drills.
After some basic warmups and explanation of how we do things here, the class pairs off. The underclassmen are paired with an upperclassman in a similar weight class.
Except Brody, since he’s new despite being a Junior. He’s standing off to the side, stretching his legs, humming some awful pop song under his breath.
Sean thumps me on the shoulder. “You take Miller.”
I whip around. “What? Why me?” Despite my attempts to disguise it, my voice is too sharp. Can they see how freaked out I am?
Sean shrugs. “We’ve got enough upperclassmen to cover the newbies, and he’s the only one not paired up. Besides, you’re in the same weight class,” he says like it’s obvious. It is obvious, but I was still hoping to avoid pairing up with him, at least until the coaching staff are breathing down our necks.
But it’s not like I can say no. There isn’t anyone else for him to pair off with, and the entire team is watching. Refusing to practice with him is only going to draw attention to the issue and make me look even weaker.
I can feel Brody’s eyes on me even before I turn. He’s completely relaxed and unbothered, like he hasn’t been haunting my nightmares. I force myself to walk over, jaw tight, trying not to show the way my pulse spikes with every step I take towards him.
Brody straightens, his grin slow and warm. “Hey, Captain. Ready to get sweaty together?”
My jaw ticks. “Why would you say it like that?” I grouse, playing off the way the comment sends fire sizzling straight through my gut.
We run through basic warm-ups. Drills I could do in my sleep, if not for every brush of his hand against mine, every accidental bump, every shift of muscle under his skin lighting me up in places that do not belong on these practice mats.
And he knows it. I can tell by the way his eyes flick to mine whenever his skin comes in contact with mine. Like he’s cataloguing every reaction to the little jolts of electricity that course through me. Like he can feel the deep and uncomfortable awareness I’ve spent over two years shoving into a locked room inside my chest. It’s all starting to seep out, sensing a familiarity that I’m not all that familiar with.
“Alright,” Roman calls out. “Let’s move on to some light grappling next. Keep it easy.”
We circle each other, and I avoid his eyes, not wanting to see his stupid grin, like getting under my skin is a fun game for him.
“Relax, Lincoln,” he murmurs.
“I told you not to call me that.”
“Fine. Beck then. That’s what everyone else calls you, right?”
“Not you.”
