I chance a glance up at my father again, but he’s not there. My head swivels, and I see him halfway to the front door.
He didn’t buy it.
CHAPTER 22
BRODY
I haven’t seen Beck since Friday’s match.
After watching his father stare at him so coldly, then stand up and leave without a word, I saw him shut down completely. He’d already shut me out, having been called out by one of my old teammates the way he did. I understood he needed to put physical distance between us.
He did well brushing off everyone’s concerns and pretending like he didn’t care what Gregg Thompson had said. Everyone was shocked enough that Thompson had the balls or the complete lack of brains necessary to shout that out. He had to know that would get him disqualified. Then again, he probably knew he couldn’t win anyway.
Beck might not have faltered at all if not for his father’s reaction. I saw the look in his eyes when he’d stood and stared Beck down, that he saw the truth of what Thompson had said. Or at least that there was some truth to it. Maybe he knows his son well enough to read his body language, or the look of fear I saw in his eyes before he was able to cover it up.
Until that moment, I thought he’d be able to recover from this, but after the match, he disappeared. And now for the first time since this push-and-pull thing between us started, I don’t know how to reach him. And every fierce and protective instinct I have screams that Beck is drifting somewhere I can’t let him go.
I don’t want to push him too much, but I’m worried about him. It’s been days since I’ve seen him, and I don’t know what to do about it. I don’t know if I’ve earned the right to be this concerned or do anything about it. What if this is more one sided than it felt just days ago?
Beck didn’t show up to any workouts over the weekend, nor did I see him once in the dining hall or dorm rec room. I checked the library and stalked his hall in the dorms for a while. So many times I was tempted to knock on the door to his room, but I knew it would put him more on edge if someone saw me show up to check on him. We haven’t been outright fighting, and have even been cordial to each other lately, but suddenly showing up to see if he’s okay after someone from my past made a comment like that? It’d be suspicious, and I know he wouldn’t appreciate it. Not now.
I’ve texted him, but there’s been no reply. The messages aren’t being marked as read, so I don’t even know if he’s seeing them. I gave him space all weekend, checking my phone more often than I want to admit.
He’s not at Monday morning lift, and when he’s not present for practice or the film review session this afternoon, I’m annoyed. I stop pretending I’m giving him space. He’s avoiding me. On purpose. With an almost impressive level of commitment. I text him way too many times, expecting him to get annoyed and text me back with some kind of denial or even for him to get angry with me. But I get nothing.
When Beck misses another team lift and isn’t at the library for his normal Tuesday afternoon Finance Club meeting, my frustration shifts into worry. Avoidance is one thing, total disappearance is another. Fish and I are in an Exercise Science class together on Tuesday afternoons, our last class before the holiday break begins. I run after him once the class is dismissed, pretending to be casual.
“Hey,” I say. “You heading home for break after today?”
Fish nods. “Yeah, I’m actually headed straight out now so I can hopefully avoid traffic around Atlanta, otherwise my drive home goes from eleven hours to fourteen.”
“Dude, that sucks.”
“You leaving tomorrow?”
“Yeah, but my drive is only an hour and a half.”
“Lucky bastard.”
I laugh and shrug, listening to him drone on about one of his uncles setting their shed on fire while trying to deep fry a turkey last year, until eventually I steer the conversation where I need it to go.
“You seen Beck?” I ask as casually as I can manage.
Fish makes a face. “Yeah. He’s sick as a dog.”
“What?”
“Yeah, flu or something maybe, I don’t know. Cade and I have been keeping our distance.”
So he’s sick and alone? A cold, heavy weight drops into my gut. Why didn’t he tell me?
“Cade left already,” Fish adds, shifting his backpack. “And I’m heading out now. Beck will probably sleep all day. I’m sure he’ll be back to practice after Thanksgiving.”
He thinks I’m worried about him missing practice? Maybe because he’s my sparring partner. Whatever, he can believe what he wants. I have what I need now.
I walk out to the parking lot with Fish and wave him off, getting into my car to head to the nearest pharmacy. I load up on sports drinks, cough drops, tissues, an overpriced humidifier, and about five different cold meds that they probably think I’m making meth with, but I don’t know what symptoms he has. After explaining why I’m buying so much random shit, the clerk helps me narrow it down to three, and directs me to a deli. On my way back to campus, I stop and get two large containers of soup.
By the time I reach his dorm, arms heavy with several bags of wellness supplies and way too much soup, I’m half expecting him to not answer the door at all. But after the second knock, the door cracks open, and there he is. His hair is mussed, his eyes are dull, and his face is pale except for the feverish pink blotches on his cheeks. There’s a damp line of sweat on his collarbone and his white t-shirt has seen better days but even wrinkled, his plaid pajama pants make him look preppy.
