Page 82 of Forever Cursed

“Yeah, I am. Have you seen Malik?” Her question leaves me confused.

“Not today, why?”

“Just curious.” She’s watching our surroundings like a hawk.

“Are you feeling okay?” I reach for her, resting the back of my hand to check her temperature. “You need to cool off and drink some water.”

“Yeah... I think I just need to get back to my dorm.” She sounds distant, and her gaze has yet to land on me.

“I was going to go to Ash’s, but how about you come back to my place? You can call your parents in my room. I’ll cook us something to eat, and afterward, we can hang out. Blast the AC and watch all the TV we can handle.”

With a small sigh, Chrissy finally looks at me. “That sounds wonderful.”

“Okay, let’s go?—”

“Carter!” Coach’s voice startles me.

“Yes, sir?” I ask while turning around.

“Can you step into my office? We have to talk.”

My stomach plummets into the floor, leaving me, and my voice, an anxious mess. “Sure, I’ll be right there.”

I look back at Chrissy, and she offers me a gentle look. “I’ll wait here. Don’t worry, okay?”

I release a long exhale of nerves and nod. “I’ll be right back.”

I’ve only been called into Bradson’s office to be lectured. I’m preparing myself for the scolding of a lifetime when he closes the door and gestures for me to sit in the chair across from his desk. We stare at one another for a moment, and I shift in the worn-down chair, my leg starting to jostle.

“Do you know why I called you in here?” he starts.

I shake my head. “No, sir.”

“Think hard, Carter. Why are you sitting across from me right now?”

I open my mouth and then close it when he slides the plays I reviewed for Malik toward me. A shaky puff of air leaves me when he taps on the papers.

“Is this your handwriting?”

If I say yes, Malik will be outed for being a terrible captain, but he’ll also make my life a living hell, and he’ll take me down with him.

“No,” I respond with as much confidence as I can infuse into my voice.

Coach offers me a pen and paper, and my insides contract.

“Prove it. Write your name.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Why not?” he fires back.

“Because . . . it is my handwriting.”

Coach sighs. Spinning around in his chair, he reaches for more folders and opens them to display more of my handwriting.

“I should have known. Honestly, Malik was never detail oriented. I mean, he didn’t even have to do this. He came to me because he wanted to learn how to craft plays. Why pass them off to you and claim both the criticism and praise?”

“I’m not sure, sir.” My tone turns quiet, and I sink into the chair.

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