Page 54 of Not Made to Last

Oscar waits until I’ve stepped all the way into the room before handing me my messenger bag. “Wait here,” he says, “I’ll be right back.”

I take the bag from him and practically glue my back to the wall, my eyes on him and only him as he retreats to an office in the corner of the weight room. There’s a window into the office, and behind it is a man wearing what I assume is the St. Luke’s coaching staff uniform—white polo shirt with orange trim and a black Wildcat’s logo with the wordstaffprinted beneath it. The coach’s biceps are so big, so bulging, I’m surprised he hasn’t torn the sleeves apart. He stands tall, his hands on his hips, glaring at Oscar as he waits for him. Oscar’s barely stepped foot in the room before the same shouting on the phone happens face to face, and just like the phone call, I can’t hear the actual words, just the loudness of them.

I grimace, tearing my eyes away from the train wreck, while unease crawls up my spine, all the way to the tips of my ears. I look around, wondering if everyone else in the room is having the same reaction. Maybe this level ofassholeisn’t a common occurrence here because everyone seems to have stopped what they’re doing. They might be trying to listen to what’s being said in that room, but their eyes… they’re all focused on me.

I swallow, thick, and push down the nervous giggle that wants to jump out of me. Instead, I lock eyes with my audience, one after the other, after the?—

I choke on a breath, blinking hard, once, twice, three times. But no matter how many times I blink, the view from my pupils remains the same.

Just like the man yelling at Oscar, the one I’m locked in a stare-off with has the same white polo, with same orange trim, but it’s his eyes I’m drawn to.

Slate-gray and searching mine—creating the type of fear that steals your breath and renders you speechless.

“Let’s go,” Oscar says, and I quickly avert my gaze. He’s already taking my bag strap from my shoulder and throwing it over his. He guides me, his hand gentle on my elbow, until I’m turned around and facing the door. One hand on my back, he leads me out the same doors we came in through. It’s only once the doors slam shut behind us that I’m able to take my first full breath.

Rhys is here.

In this school.

And he’s what? Part of the coaching staff?

That doesn’t?—

“Are you okay?” Oscar asks, derailing my thoughts.

We’re walking side by side, and I have no idea which way we’re going. I replay the past couple of minutes in my mind, only to remember why we went there to begin with. “I’m good,” I tell him. “Areyouokay?”

“I’m fine,” he answers. “But I’m not the one who looks like they’ve just seen a ghost.”

28

Rhys

What.

The.

And I cannot stress this enough…

Fuck?

Olivia’s here.

And she’s here as a student.

It doesn’t make sense. If Olivia needed to return to school for whatever reason, then why isn’t she at Philips with her brothers?

Why is she here?

How is she here?

And why didn’t she tell me?

So many questions.

But most importantly: Did she think I was here for her? Because contrary to what one might believe, I didn’t stay here for Liv.

I would’ve, if she asked me to, but she never did.

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