Page 30 of Deafened By Silence
A twinge of vulnerability lingers in the air, heavy with something that feels almost like pleading, though Clay is not the kind of man who pleads for anything. His gaze holds mine steadily, consuming any argument I may have had.
I nod, lifting my hand to cradle his cheek, my thumb brushing along the coarse line of stubble. His skin is warm under my touch, the heat radiating into my palm in a way that makes me want to hold on longer than I should. There is a sorrow in his eyes, a quiet ache in his features. Seeing him like this, bared and bloodied, stirs something deep inside me that I’m not prepared to face right now.
I watch as his lips shape words too soft for me to hear, as if they were not meant to be spoken aloud. Before I can ask him to repeat them, he steps back, securing his beanie back in placeon his blond hair, then he turns and walks away without looking back.
I stand there a moment longer, the echo of his warmth still on my skin, my breath clouding slightly in the hallway’s chill. He’s right. I am getting too entangled in my need to give Rhys the comeuppance no one else seems willing or able to deliver. As if it’s my duty. As if I’m the only person that can. Although, if I keep being drawn into his games, Clay’s focus will begin to fracture. I know this, yet I can’t seem to help myself. I yearn for the adrenaline rush that comes from going toe to toe with Rhys.
Another rational thought reminds me that I should push Clay from my thoughts too, to bury the way his presence feels like a shield I did not know I wanted. I won’t be doing that either. This evening gave me startling clarity. Clayton feels something for me. He probably doesn’t want to acknowledge it, but I won’t let him retreat back into himself. We’re finally getting somewhere and I want to see where it leads.
Stepping into my dorm and closing the door behind me, I’m suddenly assaulted by the speedy hands of Addy signing a million questions I don’t have answers for. Instead, as my phone vibrates in my pocket, the screen lighting up with a message, my mouth curves into a smile I can’t contain.
Beanie26: Thank you for defending me, Beautiful.
Chapter Nineteen
Chants flood the stadium beyond the closed locker room door, the cheer squad spreading hype through the packed stands. All twelve players for our team are standing in a semicircle while last year’s star players spew the usual garbage about being a family and putting faith in one another. I have zero interest in their sermon.
Rolling my neck, the silk of my jersey shifts against my inked skin. A black number one sits in the center of the yellow material, clearly meant for me. Well, technically it was Bucktooth Bill’s, probably not his real name, who’s staring at the floor from the far end of the bench. He’s avoided all contact with me since I beat the crap out of him for taking this jersey first. I got the number I wanted and my knuckles sung with glory that day. Win-win.
Clayton is here for appearances only, also ready to take his spot on the bench and watch the game from the sidelines. Coach suggested we take turns and each play a half, to make itfair. There is no fairness in the real world. It is ugly and poisonous, where people with money thrive and those without take bribes, just like Coach did. Offering to either double or cancel hispaycheck this month was definitely a bribe, not a threat. I am not a complete monster.
The stadium is at full capacity tonight, evident from the split of cheers and boos as the team from Armitage State enters. I pace back and forth across the locker room, ready to get tonight over with. Whatever reason I joined the team for in the first place still escapes me. I enjoy having an excuse to leave the house in the morning, to get some exercise and flood myself with the adrenaline I had been missing. But now, with the noise of the crowd pressing in, I can’t summon a shred of enthusiasm. Maybe today is the day everyone realizes I am nothing but a walking legacy and a superficial last name.
The fuck?I freeze and frown at the thought, wondering where on earth that came from. The answer comes in the form of glaring green eyes in my mind. Ever since Harper insulted me the other night, I’ve been playing it over and over. Evidently, her words have sunk in, rooting themselves in places I can’t reach. Shaking myself off, I start jumping in place, and stretching my arms. Just wait until the after-party, where I will finally have little Harper at my mercy. That will free me from whatever binds she’s created.
The team does an immature hands-in cheer before joining me by the door. “Look after one another out there,” Coach finally pipes up as he pushes his way to the front. He glances at me before stepping out into the central arena, and the crowd on our side erupts. The noise is deafening, and through the discomfort, a sense of ease settles within. My smug mask falls effortlessly into place, a smirk hitching my mouth. Praise rains down and seeps into my inked skin, lifting the pre-game stress from my limbs.
Ahh yes, that’s why I’m in this team. That’s my name being chanted. This is still my playground. The cheerleaders shake their pompoms and hips with energy on the sidelines.Girls scream and blow kisses, leaning over the railing for my attention, but none of them have the green eyes I keep subconsciously scanning for.
Stepping onto the court, I size up the Armitage players in green and white. And by sizing up, I mean holy hell. Their center has to be seven feet tall, all legs and wiry muscle. I am not short at five eleven, but there is not a single player on their team my height or shorter. Fuck, we are completely screwed.
A few Armitage players shake hands with my NBA wannabes, drawing a snarl from me. There’s no point acting like this healthy competition is going to be any less than a bloodbath. We’re not coordinated enough to beat guys whose statures alone take up most of the court.
The appointed referee strolls between us, whistle in his mouth, and sends the benched players off. I let Justin take the jump for us at center, preferring to fall back and make sure the crowd stays riled up. My name is chanted over and over, a comfortable pressure settling on my shoulders. For once, people are depending on me. Hell, my team is depending on me to keep the atmosphere alive, and I give our audience the show they came for.
The scoreboard timer lights up for the first quarter, the whistle blows, and the ball is launched into the air. The acne-ridden giant wins it easily, slapping it to his own guard. He dribbles toward our basket in long strides, his shadow swallowing up the paint. We all leap to block his shot, but at the last second he drops to a crouch and passes to an open shooter at the three-point arc. The ball leaves the guy’s hands like it was born to fly and swishes through the net. Three points to them.
Chris grabs the ball next, taking off for the other end, passing to Lance, then to Chase, who shoots from inside the arc. The ball clangs off the rim and straight into that same giant’s hands. I hang back this time, betting he will go for the same play. Sureenough, while my guys try to block him, he swings the ball to a frizzy-haired guard near me. I leap the same second he does, waving a hand across his eyes to ruin his sightline. The shot falls short, and I toy with my lip ring cockily. His red-faced frustration is almost better than the rebound I snatch for myself.
I push my legs to full speed as I cross the court, the pounding of sneakers on hardwood filling my head. The chants blur into static, my vision tunneling on the rim. My first shot drops cleanly through the net, a faint whoosh catching my ears before the crowd roars. Punching my fist into the air, I step-side around the sidelines, whooping and drinking in the applause. That’s right fuckers, I own this place, inside and out.
The game grinds forward into a fully-fledged battle. Armitage are relentless, but we keep clawing back, just about. Sweat pools at the base of my neck, the sting of old bruises resurfacing each time I drive through my practiced play. The giant keeps smiling at me like he knows exactly how far he can push before I snap. My mouth tastes like adrenaline and spite.
By the second quarter, my breathing is heavier than it should be. Every time I glance at the scoreboard, the points are too close for comfort. The crowd cheers, but now it sounds warped and stretched out. Almost as if they’re losing faith in me as quickly as I’m losing it in myself. Regardless, I keep my face blank, my hands poised, my legs moving. When the giant blocks my layup with one massive hand, I hear the laughter from the Armitage bench before I even hit the floor. My palms sting, my pride takes a temporary dip, and the ball is already at the other end being slammed through the hoop. I shove myself back into the game, a tightness clenching my jaw.
Coach calls for a time-out and we all jog over to hear what he has to say. Hopefully, he’s going to do his job for once.
“I think we should put Clayton into play,” he states as soon as we’re huddled up and I resist the urge to face palm myself. Itwas far too hopeful of me to think this idiot would offer some real pointers.
“No fucking way,” I bat my hand through the air as if I can knock that stupid notion out of my atmosphere. Coach levels me with a hard stare.
“I’m serious. He’s the only one we’ve got that remotely resembles their size.” We all look over our shoulders at the Armitage boys drinking water and patting each other on the backs.
“I can handle it,” I growl, narrowing my eyes to the sad sap still sitting on the bench. His black eyes are hollow and staring at a rogue spot on the floor, his hair flopping in all directions. Something is up with him today, and I don’t care what it is. “If Clayton wants to be on the court for matches, he needs to show up for practice. We can’t count on someone who doesn’t know how to be a team player.” Yeah, yeah I know. I hear the irony too, but it sounds convincing. “Leave this to me.”
Clayton doesn’t get to stroll in and take the win, not when I know Harper is looming somewhere in the crowd. Not just because I’m an arrogant asshole, but because I will not give him the satisfaction. We don’t need him. No one needs him for that matter.
No longer bothering with this huddle bullshit, the whistle is blown and I’m straight back to it. I skid and duck away from the opposition whilst gunning across the wooden floor. Sweat slicks my palms around the ball, my sneakers screaming against the varnish as the air fills with the sharp tang of polish and body heat. A blended roar of jeers and applause assaults my ears, some voices cutting sharp like glass, others swelling into a low, hungry chant.
