Page 63 of Play Dirty
“We have to find out who it is before shit hits the fan, no one can know about Fer.”
Using my elbows to prop up, I look at Zayden who looks up at the sky as if searching for the pieces of him that are missing. He shouldn't have been part of this but he loved Fer just as much as I did. We both wanted to play for a better future and find the ones responsible for her death.
So far, we got nothing. All that I have is fucking name or last name. Castello.
Chapter Twenty - Five
Shiloh
My eyes still hurt from all the crying I did last night. My throat feels raw from puking. It didn't get much better, especially after learning the truth from Thiago. And to say I wasn’t prepared for any of it would be the understatement of the year.
I don’t think anything could prepare me to see the abuse the boys go through, and the worst part is that I feel like it’s my fault. I asked Daddy to pick Nico. I selected the player he would sponsor, but I didn’t know this would be the price he would pay. Did June know?
Did she find out? And somehow they silenced her?
I sit through calculus, but I’m not listening to a single word Professor Nelson is saying. Not about the graphs. Not about the syllabus. Not even the midterm is worth half of my grade. I’m here in body only, doodling images in one of June’s old journals.
Nico is supposed to be here, yet his seat sits empty beside June’s. Both empty and cold.
I look at my watch, counting down the seconds until this torture is over and I can go talk to him. Not to question him or judge him. Honestly, I’m not sure what I would say… I just want to see him. The lack of his presence in class tells me he’s doing what Nicolas Reyes does best.
Running.
Not from class or himself.
But me.
That, I’m sure of.
The fluorescent bulbs shine bright, burning my eyes. My pen moves, but I don't. It's not words. It’s swirls upon swirls that find their way to the notebook paper as Professor Nelson continues to talk about derivatives. Explaining the formula to obtain the slope of a tangent line and how to graph it. I don’t care about any of it. I just keep seeing one thing.
The image of Nico on his knees. The cracked red door that beckoned me with its light. The way his mouth wrapped around my father’s—
God.
I can’t even finish the thought without my body heaving, repulsion flowing through it. My stomach twists again. The same sick swirl that’s been rotting inside me since last night. I can still smell him on my skin. I know it’s not possible, but it brings me some level of comfort. Michaela turns around in her seat, locking eyes with me for a brief moment before she turns away and focuses on the lesson.
I go back to looking out the window, watching as the rain slowly drizzles from the sky. The day is cold and grey. My wrists still bear the light red marks of his tie, and I can still hear the buzz of my phone like a haunt.
And yet…
I still want to find him... Hoping this time, he can stay long enough to listen. I’m not sure what I would say, but I think an apology is a great start. After sitting in class for almost an hour, we are dismissed.
Walking under the soft rain, my feet guide me to the green patch of grass that is his sanctuary. From a distance, I watch as he uses the inside of his feet to dribble the ball down the field, kicking it towards the goal and stopping when it connects. The rain that started as a light drizzle turns into a strong pour. Stepping under the bleachers, I continue to watch him.
Scared toget close.
Scared of rejection.
Through the pouring rain, he continues to run up and down the field. Using his knee, he balances the ball before kicking it into the air, then using his head to launch it. This time, it misses, and he bends down. He’s soaked to the bone, his jersey clings to his skin, and his hair is flattened out on his forehead. Still, he continues. I don’t know how long I remain rooted in place, but by the time he decides to head back to the lockers, I’m also soaked. My body moves behind him, careful so he won’t notice me, not until I can force him to stay.
Closing the door behind us, I twist the lock until I hear the click. It’s just us.
He stops moving then.
However, he doesn’t turn around; his sculpted back faces me. I watch his shoulders rise with each breath he takes.
“Look at me,” I whisper, pleading with him.
