Page 34 of Wild Card

“What?” My eyes bounced from my best friend’s black-rimmed glasses and downcast brown eyes to Juan’s colored lenses.

“You’re positive it’s Decker James? As in, a student here at RFU?” Juan clarified with an intensity that threw me for a loop.

Hillary looked up at Juan right as he looked down at her, and I knew, I just knew.

“He’s not on the team, is he?”

“Well…he is, but I guess he’s in more of a supportive role now,” Hillary answered, her hands shifting nervously.

Juan shook his head back and forth like this conversation bothered him.

Hillary spoke up again, getting my attention. “I dated this guy last year who was on the team with him, and rumor is that Decker tried to nail Elias with one of his insane fastballs. I guess Elias was able to move in time, but they basically demoted him, took him off as starting pitcher, and removed him from the team house.”

Juan’s gaze stayed at our feet, that muscle in his jaw jumping every few seconds. I wondered why he was being so quiet, but Hillary sipped from her pink straw and spoke up again.

“I think he’s dangerous, Mal…” She trailed off, casting her gaze out to the field.

My heartbeat sped, like a rally car that had gone off course then got a flat, and then the brakes went out. A shitshow—that was what was happening inside my chest.

Dangerous?

He didn’t like Elias; that much I could tell from the conversations we’d had and the way he’d looked at the guy.

“Nah, he’s not all that. He’s in a class of mine…he’s cool,” Juan finally added softly. He barely looked up while his fingers dug into the metal near our faces. The journalist in me wanted to interrogate my best friend. There were things he wasn’t saying, and he was acting weird.

“Juan, this is serious…you can’t assess whether the man is safe or not based on if he shares his notes or not.” Hillary shook her head back and forth. Leaning closer to me, she said, “Get this: I guess Elias wasn’t the only one who got fucked up. They say the team started calling Decker ‘Frankenstein’ instead of his beloved nickname, ‘Dugger.’ I guess his hand got all jacked during a fight. Anyway, he has this grotesque scar running down the length of his hand and up his wrist.” My friend’s eyebrows waggled as she dished about this guy I had more than a little crush on.

I watched the field, trying to push away this feeling. They couldn’t be right, the rumors. I’d seen the scar, but something told me it hadn’t been from a fight. Just thinking about those hands made me feel an ache low in my belly. She had to be wrong, but then again…he did hate Elias with a crazy passion that didn’t exactly seem healthy and was going after my stepsister, for somethingcomplicated…

“Girl, you dodged a bullet.” Hillary sighed, and we started walking again.

I silently nodded my agreement, not sure how to break the news to my best friends that I had Frankenstein’s number in my phone and it was burning a hole in my pocket.

* * *

“Shaw!”My last name was bellowed through the newsroom, and every head turned my way.

I clenched my fists, hating that my legs straightened even though my mind was screaming at them to stay exactly where they were. Fuck this guy and his rude-ass way of communicating. We weren’t dogs, coming when he commanded.

Still, I went, and I hated myself for it, but he held my future in those clammy, petite hands of his.

“Trevor.” I took the seat in front of his desk, sliding my hands under my legs so I didn’t wrap them around his neck.

“Where is your article?” His face was already two inches from his monitor, typing away.

“It’s not due for another two weeks.”

He made some sound in the back of his throat. “Your notesaredue, so…” He turned toward me and crossed his arms like he was confident in my utter demise. “Where are they?”

Inhaling a shallow breath, I steadied my voice as I explained. “I’m not turning them in this week.”

“Not acceptable, Shaw…you know that.” He rolled his eyes, turning back toward his computer. “Even freshmen understand the logistics of being in this journalism course. Notes are always due at the end of the week, regardless of the deadline.”

I loved how he constantly condescended to me regarding my position on the paper.

“I understand this, but I’m still not turning them in. I’m a senior reporter—I’ve earned a little bit of leeway. I have a really good story, Trevor. Trust me on this.”

He scoffed. “Trust you?”

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