Page 10 of Deafened By Silence
Tucking my legs beneath me, I buck upwards and dislodge my attacker in one, swift move. In the next moment, I’ve bent forward to throw him over me, aiming a punch for Clayton’s throat. The swoosh of a basket rings through the crowd’s booming noise, but I don’t bother looking up to see who scored. The game is mute at this point, my ego needing to be stroked by those cheering me on. Call it desperation, but the validation ripples over me like a caress.
My sneakers squeal against the court as I lunge to my feet. My jersey clings to my back, damp with sweat, every muscle in my torso aching from the impact, but I don’t care. Clayton’s already pushing himself up, wiping blood from his nose like it’s nothing. I hate him for that. The cold stoicism that never cracks.
We’re circling each other now, not even pretending to play. The ref is yelling something about technical fouls, about warnings and benches and ejections, but his voice is barely audible over the roar of the crowd. It pulses through the walls, through the floorboards, through my skull. My body vibrates with it. The band’s stopped playing. The cheerleaders have stopped cheering. The game has stopped, except for us.
My gaze is drawn upwards, over Clayton’s head to the brunette who has been staring intently this entire time. I felt her gaze, felt it warming my blood and urging me onwards. Except when I look now, the space where I expected her to be is empty.
Clayton feints left. I don’t fall for it. I lunge forward instead, gripping his jersey in both fists and driving him back a step, just to feel the resistance. His hands grab for my arms, and we’re locked, shoulder to shoulder, nose to nose, breathing each other’s heat and hatred.
“You act like you’re better than me,” I mutter, low and guttural. “But I know what you are. Gutter scum.”
Clayton’s black eyes flicker, just barely. Just enough to prove I’ve struck a nerve. I shove him backward and he stumbles, but he doesn’t go far before he’s swinging again. His punch lands just below my jaw. It’s not clean, more of a graze, but it splits the skin, the taste of copper flooding my mouth. My head jerks sideways, and then I see her.
She’s halfway down the bleachers, hood drawn over her hair, chin tucked low, threading between bodies like she can disappear. But I know it’s her. Even with her face hidden, the weight of her absence hits me in my chest the second she disappears through the arched exit. She didn’t stay to watch me win, and for some reason that cuts deeper than Clayton’s fists.
My feet are moving, no fucks given for the man staring me down and waiting for my next attack. Clayton doesn’t deserve my explanation, or my time for that matter. Abandoning the court, I shove past those who reach out and try to urge me to stay. The stadium entrance is just as bright, flooded with fluorescent lighting that bounces off the black hoodie half-running out of the door. I catch up to her outside, the cool air slamming through my light jersey and freezing the sweat on my body.
“Where do you think you’re going?” I ask far too harshly. She blinks up at me, shock passing through her delicate face. Her pale green eyes linger on my lips as I tongue my lip ring. “The show was just about to get started.” Her cute button nose scrunches up.
“I’m not a fan of pointless violence,” she replies flatly. I pause. Not because I don’t have a dozen cocky responses lined up, I always do, but because I wasn’t expecting that. Most girls would’ve swooned by now. Blushed. Giggled. Asked me to sign something, or better yet, asked to wear my jersey. But this girl just looks through me like I’m just another idiot bleeding on a sidewalk.
I drag the back of my hand across my lip, smearing the blood that’s still leaking from where Clayton caught me.
“It’s not pointless if he deserves it,” I say, my voice low, matching the quiet crackle in the air between us. “And trust me, he does.”
She doesn’t look impressed. She crosses her arms instead, the movement sharp and fluid. The fabric of her hoodie stretches over her chest, and I’m doing my best not to stare.
“Well, then congratulations,” she replies, arching a brow. “You beat a guy up in front of an entire school. Real impressive.” My tongue rolls between my teeth. I don’t bother pointing out that Clayton got just as many punches on me as I did him. It’s obvious this girl doesn’t care for me, and for some reason, that pisses me off and turns me on all at once.
There’s a glint in her eye. Not fear. Not even judgment, really. Just boldness. The kind that comes from someone who knows their worth and doesn’t need to flaunt it. I take a step closer, slow and deliberate, reaching out to grip her waist as she tries to sidestep me like I knew she would. Her eyes track mine, refusing to back down.
“We both know you couldn’t take your eyes off me.”
A small laugh huffs out through her nose. “Maybe you’re not as hot as you think you are,” she lies. Filthy dirty lies. Stepping closer, my chest brushes against the cotton of her hoodie as I trap her in place. She swallows thickly and her pupils dilate the tiniest amount in her pale eyes, but it’s enough to prove my point. I can practically feel her arousal pulsing beneath my fingertips.
“I like your spirit, but I’d prefer to break it.” Running my tongue across my bottom lip to draw her in, she watches my lips as I speak. “I’m throwing a party tomorrow night. You should come.”
“And why would I want to do that?” her voice is barely a hoarse whisper.
“You might see a different side of me.”
“I seriously doubt it,” she half rolls her eyes. A bolt of electricity rushes through me, her insolence sending an arrow of desire straight to my dick. My smirk comes back around, the coppery taste lingering in my mouth starting to ebb.
“Let me guess, you’re not a fan of parties either?” I cock a brow, intending for my question to be rhetorical. I should have known this girl has an answer for everything.
“I’m not a fan of assholes who are all big talk and tiny dick.” I choke on my next breath. Most girls fall in line when I get close. They smile and preen and pretend not to notice how intense I get. They beg for scraps of my attention. This one? She just called me out and looked bored doing it. I glance up at the sky, biting back a laugh, and then refocus on her.
“You’re different,” I comment, cocking my head to the side. A flare of her nostrils and a clench of her jaw give her away. Ooh, I’ve just found a sore spot. A slow grin creeps across my face, the air around us stalling in a crossfire.
For the first time in a long time, I’m not sure how this ends. I don’t know her name, don’t know why she was at the game, don’t know why I care that she walked out. She’s fire, wrapped in a quiet challenge. Using my index finger, I tilt her chin upwards so she’s staring directly at me.
“I’ll see you at the party. Don’t be late.” Backing up a step, I hold her gaze, my smile growing in intensity. She gave no indication she’ll turn up. No fluttering lashes or empty promises, but I know she’ll come.
She shrugs, pushing her hands into her pockets. Calm as ever, I watch her step around me and walk away. Like a fool, I linger, standing in the cold, bloodied and breathless. She doesn’t look back. An explosion of feelings detonates within me, the firstdemanding I march after her and drag her to me kicking and screaming. No one has turned me down before. But there’s a quieter voice at the back of my mind slowly growing louder.
It looks like I have a new game to play.
Turning back toward the stadium, a smug little spring in my step, I barely make it ten paces before I’m intercepted, cut off by two sophomore boys and their girlfriend. Apparently she has five boyfriends in total, although these two are the only ones who still attend the academy. The others flunked out over some big scandal at the end of the previous semester.
