Page 9 of Deafened By Silence
I shrink into my seat, anxiety overriding my confidence. It’s so much bigger and louder than I expected. Not the ideal place or time for me to embrace being a fully fledged student. I reach up to turn off my cochlears when Addy nudges me, gesturing toward a group of cheerleaders stretching on the sidelines.
“See that girl with the platinum braid?” she says close to my ear, pointing discreetly. “She hooked up with Coach’s son last week. Cried about it in Art History, then did it again two nightslater.” I grin despite myself, lowering my arm. “And that ginger guy with the glasses down at the front, he’s roommates with one of the players on the team. Weird kid, has a strange fascination for fire apparently. Someone in my dance class offered to go out with him once, but all he seemed to be interested in was how flammable her dress was. She had to have skin grafts on her thighs.”
My eyes flash wide, a shudder rolling down my spine. I’m pretty sure that boy is in my biochem class. Addy is distracted from her stories by a tray of popcorn being marched up and down the stands. She calls out, grabbing us both a box and settles in just as the doors at the far end of the court open. I pop a piece into my mouth, watching two figures stride out ahead of the team. The marching band strikes up a loud rachet and the cheerleaders become hysterical. Whereas my heart nearly falls out of my ass.
I know them. Both of them. On the left is my hero, although I should really stop calling him that. I mean the man that stopped me from plummeting to the ground and breaking my neck. He is the taller of the pair, much broader. The kind of athlete who is sculpted by obsession, not just training. His eyes are narrowed, his posture tense as if he’s walking into a boxing ring, not a basketball court.
The other is Rhys. A little leaner but by no means weaker, covered in ink from his knuckles to his jawline, disappearing behind his black and yellow jersey displaying the number one. Unsurprisingly, there’s a confidence in the way he walks. A cockiness is his smirk. I’m not fooled by the volatile calm he exudes, like a lit match walking into a fireworks factory.
Everyone sits a little straighter when they appear, like the air itself has shifted. Like everyone is hoping to be noticed. I nudge Addy.
“Who is the blond?” I mutter quietly. Addy’s eyes fly up to the court and raises a brow.
“Clayton Michaels? Do you know him?”
I quickly shake my head. A voice screams through the speakers, introducing the Waversea Warriors, and the crowd erupts on cue. This time, I do shoot my hands to my receivers and rip them off, but not before I catch a full-bodied roar echoing off every metal beam in the ceiling.
The rest of the team takes their places on the court, but I hardly notice because my heart is racing louder than any drumbeat. It hammers against my ribcage, the tremors of what could quite possibly be a panic attack starting. I will take full praise for my optimism, that I could walk into a ball game after years of silence and just get used to it, and I’ll also take the constructive criticism that it was a really stupid fucking idea. The headache growing at the base of my skull will surely punish me for it later.
Addy says something beside me, maybe a joke, maybe a warning, I don’t know, because the popcorn box is trembling in my lap and my spine has fused to the backrest as I watch them move onto the court. A pair of sophomores are in tow, a clear bromance happening between them. It makes the frostiness between the two front runners even more obvious.
Clayton is already in position, stretching his arms overhead in one long, fluid motion that makes the hem of his jersey ride up, revealing the carved ridges of a stomach that could shame a Grecian statue, and the girls in the rows below us lose their collective minds. I hate that I notice. I hate that it does something to me. I hate that I want to see if he looks this solid up close, if he smells like rain again, if his voice rumbles like thunder just before the storm hits. All things I blame my overactive brain for dreaming up last night.
Rhys is dominating his playground. Making the cheerleaders swoon and most of the guys insecure. A group over the far side, who are clearly his boys, are riled up, fists in the air and chanting what I believe to be his last name.Waversea, Waversea, Waversea.I hear the chant in my head as clearly as it’s being shouted.
After receiving some roughhousing, Rhys circles back to talk trash, causing Clayton to bristle and seeming to want to swing at him before the ball’s even been thrown. There is no friendliness between the two, that’s obvious. I’d hazard a guess that they fully hate each other, but that doesn’t stop my mind running away from me.
Seeing them side by side, shoulder to shoulder, swaggering across the court as if they own it, they look like sin dressed in school colors. I swallow, blinking away the vision of me squeezing in between the pair of them and seeing just how good their teamwork could be. Damn, I need to stop reading dark romance.
Instead, he grits his teeth and turns his back on Rhys, taking another gaze out into the crowd. I don’t think I’ll ever bore of looking at him. Blond, stoic, with a face so cold it’s beautiful. Not the soft kind of beautiful. The kind you’d only ever describe once, because it would haunt you afterwards.
His eyes scan the bleachers, uninterested and unreadable, until he sees me. I would have been able to convince myself that I’d imagined the flash behind his eyes, if Addy didn’t catch my eye and mouth, ‘what the fuck was that?’ I shrug, turning my focus to inspecting my popcorn individually while the blaze in my cheeks calms down.
Thankfully, he’s soon distracted by the start of the game. The ten players on the court are split into two teams, pitting Clayton and Rhys against each other. No surprise to them, apparently. It’s like watching two wolves in the same pack circle each otherwith barely hidden teeth, waiting for the excuse to bite. They don’t speak, but remain constantly aware of where the other is. The whistle is blown, the ball launched into the air, and chaos ignites across the court.
Rhys’ elbow snaps out, catching Clayton in the face before he steals the ball and ducks away. Clayton doesn’t falter, remaining on Rhys’ tail with confident strides. He yanks Rhys to the ground by the back of his jersey, to which the coach issues a warning.
I expect to see a round of boo’s pass through the audience, but the opposite happens. The cheering is wild, and I don’t understand it. Addy tosses popcorn into her mouth, not a trace of surprise passing through her features. I blink several times, watching the rest of the players shove and shoulder barge Clayton around the court. The only exaggerated jeers and taunts are being hurled his way, both on and off the court. That’s when I realize the crowd hasn’t come to watch a match. They’ve come to see a blood bath.
Chapter Seven
I spotted her the moment I stepped onto the court. Or maybe I felt her presence. Like water amongst an oil spill, there’s a purity surrounding her I’m unfamiliar with. She’s the girl from the other night, a foreign, beautiful face that has lingered in my thoughts. Why don’t I know her?
At least she’s about to know me.
The game picks up speed like a car without brakes. I’ve played rough before, but this time feels different. There’s something feral under my skin, like I’m trying to claw my way out of it, and every time I look across the court and seehim, the need to swing instead of dribble takes over.
Clayton doesn’t belong on this floor. Not because he isn’t good, annoyingly he is, but because his self-righteous silence pisses me off. He’s the one who’s crawled out of the gutter, yet he acts as if he’s better than me. Every time I drive the ball past him, I can feel his judgment. I get enough judgement at home, I refuse to accept it here. On my campus, in my kingdom.
The crowd doesn’t hesitate to give me that validation, however. They roar for me, urging me to push it further. To prove my ruthlessness. I duck and spin, cutting throughthe court like a blade. Clayton blocks one of my shots. He doesn’t gloat, which somehow makes it worse. His restraint is infuriating. It’s all shoulders, silence and tightly wound discipline. Still, I don’t hide the smirk as I stumble back, knowing how to get under his skin. It's my mission to find that breaking point.
I throw elbows without a care. I taunt with words only he can hear. I slam into him hard enough that the floor reverberates beneath our sneakers. The ref whistles, but we’re past the point of rules now. This isn’t basketball anymore. It’s something else, something primal. The crowd feels it, too. Their cheers get louder, their gestures becoming messier. Most are already on their feet, shouting over each other, more excited for violence than victory.
The ball makes a clean bounce, landing directly in my hands and evidently, putting a target on my back. Clayton is done practising restraint, running full speed with his shoulder aimed at my stomach. I throw the ball just before he collides with me, taking us both to the ground hard. Laughter bursts from my lips, despite the air knocked from my lungs. His weight is crushing, pinning me down whilst slamming his fist into my ribs. It should be enough to keep me stuck in place, and although I’m lean, I’m agile.
Twisting, I force my shoulder between us, using my elbow to shift his weight aside. I can hear my boys chanting from the sidelines, voices raspy with excitement, hands pounding the edge of the stands. They want blood, or at least a good show. I aim to give them both.
Rolling rapidly, my back takes the brunt of multiple punches until I throw my head backwards. A delightful crack is followed by a bellow which echoes around the domed ceiling, enough weight lifting for me to army crawl free. An arm slips around my neck to hold me in place, tightening as I chuckle. Should it beembarrassing or impressive that I could easily get off on this? I’m getting hard either way.
