3

-North-

TWENTY MINUTESinto practice, Mal fumbles the ball for the third time. It's only then that I realize something is wrong, or at least more wrong than it has been for the past three days. He curses loudly and rolls his shoulders, as if he's trying to shrug a weight off, then glances over his shoulder at the stands. He's got the same spooked look that he had in the kitchen with his dad. With a feeling of looming dread, I stop where I am and follow his gaze.

Patrick Blackwood is standing in the bleachers.

When he didn't reappear all weekend I thought—hoped—he might have just gone. But no, the asshole is right there in the stands, and he's staring at Malcolm.

This is only the second time I've ever seen him, but his face looks different from before. In the kitchen he was all smiles and I wouldn't have been able to guess what kind of guy he was underneath if I didn't already know. But now the smiles are gone and he's watching Mal with an intensity that makes my skin crawl. He's taking in every single move, every breath. Like a bug under a microscope. Like a cat crouched and watching a bird.

Now Mal's behavior makes sense, and anger bubbles up inside me. Just his father's presence is enough to completely throw Mal off his game. He's intruded into our lives and the effect he has on Mal is infuriating. Mal doesn't deserve this. This guy is just an overgrown bully, and I can't stand bullies.

As I watch, Patrick shifts and his gaze jumps to me—probably because I've stopped in the middle of the field to stare at him—and his expression transforms back into a pleasant smile. He looks for all the world like a friendly dad, just here to watch his son playing football. But he doesn't fool me. I saw the predator hidden under that smile.

I hold his eyes and I don't smile back.

He might have been able to do whatever he wanted to Mal in the past. But I'm here now. If he wants to get to Mal he's going to have to go through me first.

The friendly smile dims and a question enters his eyes as I continue to glare at him.

The sharp peep of a whistle brings me back to the field and I realize someone's been calling my name.

"Earth to Nolan. For Christ's sake, what are you doing?" Coach shouts as I turn back. "And Blackwood, if you screw up one more time I swear to god I'm benching you for the rest of the season. Get your heads in the game, people. Come on."

I shoot Patrick one last look, then jog over to Mal, putting my body between him and his father, and clap my hands on his shoulders.

"Come on, Mal, you got this," I murmur. "Just ignore him."

His deep brown eyes burn into mine.

"I can't."

***

By the time we file into the locker room, I'm boiling with rage. Practice went from bad to worse, and Mal got a full dressing down from Coach in front of everyone.

It's bad enough that his father has been hanging over him all weekend, but then he shows up while Mal is taking part in one of the very few enjoyments he lets himself have and ruins the whole thing. And there was nothing I could do except carry on playing and watching as Mal failed again and again.

Why is Patrick here? To test him? To vet whether he's good enough? Whether it's worth his money? Or does he just want Mal to know that he can drop in, any place any time, and that Mal can never get away from him?

Ever since Saturday morning and that goddamn text, Mal has been twitchy, distracted, and lacking his usual confidence. He's edgier than I've seen him in a long time. And I hate it so fucking much.

"Are you all right?" I ask as I shrug out of my gear.

It says something about how much he's progressed that he doesn't just lie. Instead he shrugs, one shoulder rising higher than the other, and then shakes his head. From him, that's as much as an admission. He's not ok. At all.

I'm burning to do something about it, but what? I can't confront his dad, Mal has begged me not to. Begged.

Mal doesn't fucking beg.

I throw my pads into the locker harder than I need to, and they clang against the back.

"Let's just go away for a few days," I say. "Until he leaves. My grades are good and I'm not behind on anything. We don't have any games. No one will care if we miss a few days."

"Wouldn't it be a bit weird if we both disappeared for a few days?" he says.

"Yeah, but who cares? We could just lie and come up with an excuse. I could say I had to go home for some reason and, I dunno, you could say you were ill."

It's sounding like a pretty great idea to me, but he just shakes his head. "And then what? It'd only make things worse. He'd get pissed off that I'm avoiding him." He throws his own clothes into the locker, keeping his head bowed. "I just need to play it safe until he goes."

"What if he doesn't leave?" I say.

He shakes his head again. "He will. He has no reason to stay here, he has too much going on. I just need to give him what he wants, and he'll be happy."

"What does he even want?"

He doesn't look at me, but I can see the tension in his shoulders and the way he moves. "To be in control."

And doesn't that just tell you everything you need to know about Mal's relationship with his dad. About all of Mal's hang ups and inability to give up control. Because he's been forced to give it up his whole life. If I was a therapist I'd be rubbing my hands together.

"I don't like this, just doing nothing," I say. "I don't like the way he's affecting you."

Or the way he's affecting me. I'm not used to being this angry. It's entirely foreign to me. Yeah, of course I get angry sometimes, everyone does, but not to this degree or for this long. I can feel the anger, like there's a flaming rock in my chest that keeps getting bigger until it pushes against my ribs. And it's getting harder and harder to contain it every time I see Mal with that look on his face, the way he holds his shoulders, the way he flinches and jerks when he moves. It makes me want to smash up the world. And I don't know how much longer I can last.

"There's nothing we can do," Mal says quietly.

We shower and dress in silence, Mal being careful to keep covered up as much as possible, hiding his scar.

We leave the locker room and round the corner, heading down the long corridor that leads back out to the field. It's the end of the day now, so we're heading to the parking lot for Mal's Porsche, which he retrieved from the bar yesterday—and almost walk straight into Patrick Blackwood.

Mal freezes, his eyes going wide.

Patrick is leaning on the wall with one elbow while he talks into his phone. He's always on that fucking phone. He holds a finger up to us, telling us to wait while he finishes the call. The hot stone in my chest grows and creaks against my ribs, threatening to burst out of me like an alien.

I want to keep walking but Mal has obediently stopped and I can't leave him behind. So we just stand here in silence while his dad chats. It doesn't even seem like the asshole is talking about anything important. From what I can make out he's riding someone for the fact some subs had ham instead of beef in them.

I tighten my grip on the bag strap on my shoulder. Just play it cool. Play it cool.

Finally he finishes and tucks the phone back into his pocket, and regards Mal with an amused frown like he doesn't understand something.

"I thought you said you could play football?" he says.

"He can," I say.

Patrick glances at me without moving his head, his eyes sliding to the side.

"I need to talk to my son," he says, apparently dismissing me, although he's staring at Mal again.

I plant my feet wider, falling into a casual stance. "Go on then."

He spares me an irritated look. He isn't even bothering with his friendly smiles now. I guess I've firmly put myself in the "enemy" category.

"In private."

I look around and shrug. "This is a public hallway."

He dismisses me with a breath through his nose that could be irritation or amusement, then sets his attention back on Mal.

"What was that on the field?"

Mal blinks and his throat moves as he struggles to find something to say.

"You were putting him off," I say, trying not to raise my voice.

"I was just standing there," he says. "People watching you play is kind of the point."

I open my mouth but Mal talks over me quickly.

"I was just having a rough day," he says.

"Well, it seems like your grades are adequate. I had a chat with your professors. Now I just need to talk to your coach and see what he has to say about you."

"Is that any of your damn business?" I say.

He laughs dryly, although there's a dark twist to it and he looks irritated. "Yes. Actually. He's my son and I'm paying for this whole thing. But what I don't know is how any of this is your damn business, son."

This corridor feels too small for both of us. His dad narrows his eyes at me, a calculating look on his face. Then he looks at Mal, his head tilted slightly, and Mal pales at whatever private message he sees there. I step forward, standing slightly in front of Mal, hands clenched. Mal grabs my arm, tight enough to hurt.

"North," he hisses.

I resist him for a breathless moment, on the verge of surging forward, and then glance back at him.

His brown eyes are wide. "I'll meet you outside. All right?"

The muscles in my jaw twitch. Shit. Right now I'm probably doing more harm for him than good. If I stay here any longer I'm going to pop his father in the mouth and get blood all over that fancy suit of his. And even though I want to so, so badly, it'd only hurt Mal in the long run. And he's been hurt enough for a whole lifetime.

Mal lets go of me and I shoot one last scowl at Patrick, clench my fists so hard my fingernails dig into the palms of my hands, and barge past him.

"Something wrong with your buddy?" Patrick Blackwood says.

"He's fine," Mal says.

I keep on heading away. Then I'm out of there and striding out of the building.

***

I make it all the way to the parking lot before I can't hold it in anymore. It feels like someone's unscrewed my head, filled me up with boiling water, and then screwed it back on again. Patrick Blackwood's face swims in front of my vision—that careless expression, the smugness, the casual cruelty. It's reserved only for Malcolm, but I saw it. On the field and in the hallway. And the only thing that will make me feel better now is tearing his fucking head off.

How dare he.

How fucking dare he.

I throw my bag onto the ground by the Porsche and kick it as hard as I can. It half wraps around my foot and only slides a few feet away on the concrete, which just makes me more mad.

"God-fucking-damn!"

Mal appears behind me, and I round on him.

"I can't fucking play it cool, Mal. I just can't."

He looks behind him and unlocks the Porsche. "All right, just get in."

I throw the passenger side door open and climb in, slamming it hard behind me.

"Why the fuck is he even here?"

Does this man have any idea just how much he's affected his son? How much damage he's caused him? And does he even fucking care?

"He just wants to check up on his investments," Mal says bitterly, climbing into the driver's seat and closing the door carefully. I watch him and wonder how the tables have turned so massively. He's moving with deliberate movements, contained, slow. And I'm boiling over.

"Fuck!" I shout. "I'm just so fucking mad, I can't . . ." I trail off into an incomprehensible growl.

"Don't get so upset over him. He'll be gone soon, and we won't have to see him for another five years."

I should acknowledge the fact that Mal just said "we" and "five years." I know there's something in there that should make me giddy, but I'm just too mad to process it. I file it away to think about later.

"I know but . . . Argh." I pound on the dashboard with my fist.

"Please don't damage my car," Mal says.

I round on him. "How the fuck can you be so cool?"

"I'm not, I just have a lot of practice holding this shit in. It's a survival thing I guess."

"You're never this calm with me."

"Because I'm safe with you."

Oh.

That makes me cool off enough to actually take him in. He's looking at the dashboard where my fist hit it, his eyes heavy, his shoulders slumped. Defeated. Have I just made everything ten times worse for him?

"Fuck, I'm sorry, Mal." I scrub my face and then tug my hair back. "I haven't ruined everything have I? I was trying to keep cool, I really was. I'm just . . . I've never been this wound up before and I don't know what to do." Frustrated tears gather in my eyes out of nowhere and I blink them away. I've fucked up. I've let him down. I might have made everything worse.

He watches me for a moment, and then he gestures.

"Come here."

"What?"

He grabs my arm and pulls me onto his lap so I'm straddling him, on my knees, face to face. "Let me help you calm down," he says, then unzips me and slides his hands down the back of my pants, cupping my ass.

The prospect of getting busy in Mal's car should excite me like a horny teenager, but all I can think about is the way Mal's strong shoulders hunch under his dad's gaze. The careful deadness to his usually wild eyes. And I fucking hate it so much.

"I'm sorry," I say again. "I hate what this is doing to you. Does he have any idea how much he affects you? Or does he just not fucking care?"

"Stop talking. You're just making yourself more mad."

He slides his fingers down between my cheeks, two fingers pressed to the skin just above my asshole.

I grunt. "Fuck, I want to make him pay for what he did to you."

Malcolm pulls one hand out of my pants, reaches across and opens the glove compartment, and withdraws a sachet of lube. He tears the top off with his teeth.

"I know."

"I can't just—ah." The next thing I feel is his fingers pressing warm circles around my hole, slippery with the lube. It feels good, and it takes the edge off just enough for me to register that this is actually really hot.

"Is that better?" he asks.

I grunt. "A bit."

He slides one finger inside me slowly and I grunt again. He pulls it in and out, sliding against the ring of muscle all the way up to his knuckle and back. I let out a deep breath.

Then, with one finger still inside, he adds another, working it in with slow movements at the base of the first.

I close my eyes, and the stretch takes my mind off anything but his fingers, working into me until he draws them out and then pushes them all the way inside in one slick motion. My back stiffens and I drop my forehead to his shoulder.

His other hand tangles in my hair and pulls—just enough pain to feel good—and with his fingers pumping into me I start to melt, the tension easing and slipping away until I'm blank.

He keeps going, taking me apart and holding me together with his fingers in my ass and in my hair.

When the last wisp of anger leaks away, he stops pumping his fingers and just leaves them full length inside me, filling me comfortably. I push back on them.

"Feel better?"

I breathe out against his shoulder and nod. "Yeah."

"Good."

That simple word, said in his usual deep voice, lights a new kind of fire inside me. But before I can do anything about it, his phone goes off, vibrating against my leg. I stiffen as he twists around me to get it, pulling his fingers out of me as he does but keeping his hand in my pants.

"Shit."

The loss feels huge, I want them back inside, but there's only one person I can think of who'd have any reason to text Mal right now.