HABIT, page 17
James blinks, his face a clean slate, expressionless. I know he has heard the rumors around campus. For a while I braced myself for him to bring it up, but when he didn’t, I simply figured he didn’t buy into them. Maybe he hasn’t. But his dad has heard those rumors, too, and for him, rumors are everything. He fits in here better than James thinks.
“I confided in Coach because I had nobody else, and he kept everything in confidence. But he worried. And he worried enough that he finally made a phone call to my dad. So, my dad had him fired.”
By the time I finish my tale, James’s eyes are closed. His lids tremble, and his mouth swells into a deep frown. I know that look. I’ve worn it myself many times. I’ve left him with my burdens, with the weight of them. I feel lighter. I’m sad. I’m still hurt. The edge of anger remains too. But I know who I am, and I know who I am not. And I’m worth more than the consideration I’ve been given.
I get up from my chair and walk over to James, lifting his chin with my fingertips. He keeps his palms flat on his thighs. They twitch, and I think he wants to reach for me, but he feels it in the air. He can’t. Not right now. Maybe . . . one day. But not right now. Not when his father can’t stand me.
“You should have asked me. I would have told you,” I say.
His eyes become glassy, and he sucks in his lips along with his guilt.
“Morgan.” My name floats from his lips and the sound dissipates into the quiet. The room is cold, and my arms are covered in goose bumps and flecks of glitter from the bright way the day began.
“You were good today. On the field? Quarterbacking?” I let out a tiny laugh that he matches, and I let my thumb rub across his chin that’s still in my hand. He’s terribly pretty. And I think inside, he’s also a good man.
He reaches up and wraps his hand around my wrist, holding on—holding me here. He stands slowly and my hand falls away as his comes up to sweep what I imagine is smeared, crusty glitter from my cheek. His eyes dip to my mouth, briefly, and I see the flash of guilt in his eyes that he would even consider a kiss from me right now. Thing is, though, I still want one.
Lifting up on my toes, I catch his face between my palms and press my lips to his for a soft kiss that lingers, our mouths motionless yet teeming with electricity. I fall back on my heels and look away before he catches the tears threatening my eyes. I don’t run out of the archive room, but I don’t waste time leaving him with his thoughts, either.
Damn me for giving in and tasting him one last time. I like him so damn much—at least the parts of him that are brave enough to be with a girl like me.
As angry as I try to be at him, as much as I want to say no, my body refuses. I’m always left breathless. And alone.
Chapter 16
James
I’ve come to learn a few things about places like Welles. Grand schemes and manipulations are everywhere, and they come in all scales and sizes. There are students undermining teachers, and the same goes for the reverse. Some families use their name to hold the school hostage, and the school uses those names to bully other people around.
Toby got what he wanted. He never had some grand master plan to get me off the team so he could take over, though I still don’t believe he wouldn’t squash me like a bug if he had the chance. He only wanted me to hurt. To look bad. To expose a blemish on my character like the rest of them.
And I think a part of him wanted Morgan. She would never give a guy like him a chance, though. Her standards are far too high. They’re too high for me, too, and I accept that. Barely. Begrudgingly. At least, I do for today.
It’s been two days since she walked out of that office. Forty hours since I sent her the longest text of my life, rife with apology and empty on excuses. She hasn’t responded, and I’m honestly not sure how to speak to her face to face. She’s right to wait me out. What she deserves is more than an “I’m sorry,” and she deserves it in person.
I’m distracted, for sure. It’s showing on the field. Yesterday, I hit my targets maybe fifty percent of the time, and today I can’t seem to quit soaring the ball ten yards past the end zone on the special play we set up for this weekend’s game. Toby’s dad is hovering in the stands along with our athletic director, and I know they’re going to give my dad an earful after practice about letting him take a shot at running this since I seem to be such shit at it. He won’t be able to make the pass either, but at that point we’re both garbage quarterbacks.
I take a snap, roll back a few steps, and turn to spot my target. Theo cuts through the end zone and I fling the ball toward the corner. He manages to hang on to my missile and keep one foot inbounds, but not two.
“Fuck!” My frustration echoes off of the stands on the hill. I glance over in time to see Toby’s dad leaning into the athletic director and covering his mouth to share some comment that I’m certain is about me.
“All right, let’s stop there for the day. Theo . . . James . . . Toby!” My dad waves the three of us over and my insides crumple. I’m literally handing this job to Toby.
“Cameron, close us out!” My dad sends him off to circle everyone else up and pack up for the day while he pulls the three of us to the side.
“Gentlemen.” My dad’s stubble is growing out, and it sounds like sandpaper when he runs his palm over his chin. Clipboard hugged to his chest, he looks down at the grass between our circled-up feet. “We’ve got to do better. Saturday is a big game, rivals and all that, and we can’t come out there with the kind of shit I saw today.”
Toby snickers, and my dad’s head snaps up to stare at him.
“I said we, Toby. Your footwork is sloppy and you’re going to get our running backs killed if you can’t hand the ball off tighter. And forget about making the run yourself. You’re too slow.”
Toby’s mouth hangs open and for a second his eyes flash in offense. My dad keeps his glare on him, though, waiting for him to argue. My father’s done kid-gloving him because he’s special. And he’s right; all three of us were shit today. Theo should get a free pass, though, because it’s my fault he couldn’t pull anything in.
“James, you’re going the entire first quarter how I have it now—”
“Uhm, what?” Toby cuts my father off. My dad’s only response is to move his clipboard to his right and hold it against Toby’s chest.
“Unless you can’t sort through these yips you seem to have with hitting your target. Lipson Prep is going to be tough. They’re our only real competition as far as I’m concerned, and we are going to have to be our absolute best if we want to win.” He turns to me, taking the clipboard away from Toby’s chest and spearing mine with the corner. “Game time is not the time to practice hitting your targets. Got it?”
My dad’s brow lifts, and he keeps his focus on me a few seconds after I say, “Yes, sir.” This is bigger than him showing favoritism. If I don’t get my shit together, he can’t afford to lose the game taking a gamble on me.
“Theo,” he barks, the clipboard leaving my body as he hands it to Theo instead. “You were great today. I want you to learn these routes. We’re going to need them, assuming someone can throw the ball to you.”
“Yes, sir,” Theo says.
My father turns around and heads up the hill to the locker room where he’ll bury himself in his office and pray that Toby’s dad and the AD don’t come knocking.
“Something in your head today, Fuentes? You were all over the place,” Toby snarks. It’s nothing new from him, and honestly, I was expecting it. Maybe I even wanted it. Because I shove him backward on his ass in a blink and land with my knee in his stomach, pinning him to the ground.
“Hey, cool it! That’s not gonna help anything. James, come on,” Theo pleads at my back. I feel the tug of his hand jerking my shoulder pads upward. I give my knee a little nudge, just enough to let Toby feel it, as I flinch at him.
I get up but he stays on the ground for a few seconds, his usual laughter in the face of my intimidation not there this time. His sneer is tinged with fear, which I like.
“I don’t like being manipulated,” I say, spitting on the ground next to me before turning my back on him and walking toward the locker room with Theo. He doesn’t say a word to me until we’re well out of Toby’s earshot.
“That have anything to do with Morgan?” he asks.
I chew on my tongue and when I feel his eyes on me I shrug.
“Kind of,” I huff.
He chuckles and echoes me in a super unflattering voice.
“Kind of.”
I shove his shoulder and knock him off balance.
“What, are you Cameron now?” Cameron is constantly parroting shit people say to be annoying. He likes to get under people’s skin, and that method is really effective. I glare at Theo and roll my eyes. He’s completely unfazed, and steps back up beside me, still laughing.
“It’s a lot more fun when you’re on this side of that shit. Believe me,” he says.
“Oh, I do. Because that’s super annoying,” I huff.
Theo bites his tongue for a few seconds but busts out a laugh at my expense when we get to the fieldhouse. I stop at the door, holding my hand on it to keep him from opening it.
“Dude, sorry. Your tantrum is funny. That’s all,” he says.
I sigh and fling the door open, stepping through and not holding it for him. He catches it before it swings closed and follows me down the hallway.
“Hey, wait up a minute.” He tugs on the back of my jersey, and I spin around and flatten my back to the wall with a grumble. I let my head fall back against the brick and blow up at my sweaty-ass hair. I lower my gaze and meet his face, relieved he isn’t smirking or trying to hold in more laughter. I’m miserable, and I feel as though everything is falling apart.
“What?” I relent. I’m exhausted. I’m not used to playing games for everything in life. You show up, you work hard, you do a job, and maybe if you’re lucky you get to do something you want at the end. That’s what I thought life was. This isn’t like that at all. It’s a winding route with tar pits and dead ends.
“Morgan is . . .”
I must react to him saying her name because he throws up his palm to stop me, as if I’m going to take a swing at him. My trigger-like temper is touchy right now, and frankly, I’m tired of hearing people talk shit about her . . . though I did, which is why I feel like this.
“Morgan is resilient. That’s what I was going to say.” Theo’s head tilts to the side, his mouth a flat, sincere line. I consider that word and how it aligns with everything I know about her and decide he’s right.
“Yeah, okay,” I say.
“Of every student in this school, she’s the toughest. My sister and I grew up with her. Our families went to the same boring-ass parties, and we had to endure a lot of the same shit. That world made me angry, and it made my sister feel small. Morgan wears the wounds from it, too. She takes more shots than most of us. But that girl—” He pauses and puffs out a quick laugh. I meet his eyes and take in his admiring smile. “She was twelve and figured out that if she was going to have to live in that world she may as well profit off of it. You know that her brand alone, nothing to do with her dad, is worth millions? Mill-ions.”
I swallow at that thought. I’ve never really thought about that side of things with her. Before I knew her, she was this semi-famous personality that yeah, I definitely wanted to brag about to the guys back home. And then I got to know her, and she was this smart, beautiful creature. She’s a genuine force, though. Theo’s right.
He pats my chest a few times with a heavy hand, and I cough out a laugh.
“I’m sorry my passes were shit today. I’ll be on when it’s game time. Promise.”
Theo points at me, finger right in my face.
“I know you will. Because Toby can’t even throw a party, so if you let your moody ass get you benched, we’re getting our asses kicked Saturday.” His eyebrows shoot up to punctuate his point then he heads into the locker room.
I head inside a few seconds later, not wanting to wait around for Toby to drag his ass in here. Theo’s right about everything. And I don’t have a lot of time to fix shit on the field. Tomorrow’s practice was cut short so the team can go to the swim meet to cheer on Lily. Looks like I’ve got an early morning ahead of me.
My mom is deep into somebody’s tax forms at the table when I walk in. I can always tell when she’s dealing with a difficult client because she doubles up her reading glasses, forgetting that she’s already got a pair on her head.
“Leftovers in the fridge. We still have some of the carnitas left too, if you want that. Nothing fancy, but I’m going to be in these files for a solid week.” She pulls the glasses from her eyes and rubs the bridge of her nose. I step up and take the pair from her head, then kiss her hair. She laughs when I hand the spectacles to her.
“That’s how you know shit has gotten real,” she jokes.
We both laugh. I head into my room, dropping my stuff by the door and grabbing the fresh T-shirt and sweats from the basketful of clean stuff I still need to put away. I tear off my sweaty practice shirt and toss it on the chair but do a double take when a blue and gold card catches my attention. I lift my shirt back up and Morgan’s ID card slides from the chair to the floor. I stare at it for a few long seconds, trying to figure out what this means and who left it here.
I pick it up and carry it out to the kitchen, my stomach sinking as I assume my dad left this for me as some little reminder to stay focused. I’m so tired of the needling from every direction. This is not the way I want to kick off a conversation with him about how wrong he is about Morgan, and how I can be both focused and close to a girl like her.
“Hey, do you know why this card was on my chair?” I hold it up, figuring my mom won’t have a clue. She pulls her glasses away from her face again and tilts her laptop halfway closed.
“Yeah, I found it in the truck. I was thinking maybe you could tell me?”
The weight of her question swirls in my belly for a second or two, and I try to respond but the only thing that comes out of my mouth is mush. Is she fishing? She can’t think Dad has a thing going on with a student.
“She’s . . . a girl,” I stammer.
A loud belly laugh escapes my mom’s tiny body as she taps her laptop completely closed then leans back in her chair.
“Well, duh! She’s a very pretty girl. I can see that from her picture.” She’s mocking me, and she doesn’t look upset. I relax a little, but now my cheeks are burning. “James . . . do you have a girlfriend?”
I roll my head at her tone. She’s enjoying this, which would be sweet if it weren’t so complicated. I drop my chin and meet her anxious expression.
“I don’t know anymore. I maybe blew it,” I admit.
My mom frowns, at first playfully, but the longer she studies my face, the more the gravity of it must set in.
“Oh, son. Come here.” She slides her chair out and drags another toward her using her foot. I shuffle her way and slump down next to her. She pats my knee.
“Tell me about it.”
I pull my mouth into a tight-lipped smile with a single laugh. I don’t even know where to begin.
“She’s . . .”
Our mother-son session is cut short as my dad enters the room, bringing with him the massive weight I got a short reprieve from. I blow out through my mouth and shift to get up from my seat.
“No, stay. Honey, our boy has girl trouble. He needs advice,” my mom says. My dad stops just inside the door and levels me with the same Oh, shit look I’m pretty sure I had when he walked in the door.
“I’m pretty beat. And you should be focused on football, not girls. Penny, I’ve got a lot to do tonight.” He gestures toward their bedroom, but my mom leans forward with her elbows on the table and rubs her hands together, challenging him.
My dad sighs and moves to our table, dropping his bag in one chair and sliding the other out, away from both of us. He takes a seat as if he’s in a meeting with a discipline problem, leaning forward with his arms on his knees, cracking his knuckles. The air in the room is instantly thick. I glance from my dad to my mom, her forehead creased with worry. The sense of déjà vu makes my stomach turn. The last time the three of us sat at a table wearing expressions like these and showing body language like this was when my parents told me they were going to counselling.
“I can’t do this,” I say, getting up and tucking Morgan’s card in my pocket, hoping my dad doesn’t notice. But the man must be former CIA because I swear he misses nothing. Nothing.
“What was that?” he asks.
“Nothing,” I lie.
My mom slaps my arm and I flinch, then look at her.
“Why are you lying to him? Dave? Why is your son afraid to talk to you about this?” My mom’s eyes bounce between her husband and son, and I don’t know what to say to get out of this mess, so I do what I probably should have done all along. I go with the truth.
I pull Morgan’s ID from my pocket and toss it on the table.
“I took Morgan out the other night, on a date. And I took the truck off campus, which I know,” I nod, as if that’s the thing my dad is going to be pissed about. “She must have left her ID in there, which is why she couldn’t get into the fieldhouse the other day. You remember when you basically put her through an interrogation?”
I probably could have left my editorializing out of that answer, but I’m just so sick of it all. And if I’m going to be honest, I’m going to be totally honest.
“I did not interrogate her,” my dad defends.
I puff out a quick laugh and mumble, “Bullshit.”
“James! Language,” my mom chastises.
I sigh because seriously, me saying bullshit is so not the point right now.
“I’m having girl trouble because Dad doesn’t like her. He thinks she’s a distraction,” I level.
