25. Fallon

Isit up straighter as the door opens, but once again, it isn’t Corey who enters the classroom.

I try not to slump with disappointment as I glance at my phone for a third time in the last five minutes.

Seconds remain before he’s late, something Professor Gaines insisted would not be tolerated in Media Training.

The title of friendship that Corey gave us is like wet paint in my thoughts, something I’m not yet ready to touch or even near. I struggled to sleep last night, reliving my time with him a million times over, focusing on the cracks found in those seconds when I didn’t correct him and tell him he was right, that we weren’t friends—could never be friends—because I want so much more.

I release a wistful sigh as I stare at the door, willing him to come swaggering through, stealing the attention of half the class like he does every day, but the professor is the last to arrive. The door slams behind him with a sense of finality that has my chest constricting. I consider sending Corey a teasing text, asking about those qualities of being a good partner he’d promised, but my attention zeroes in on Professor Gaines as he announces today’s assignment: working with our partner to complete an analysis of two short essays.

Resentment curls around my heart, reminding me how trusting pretty words is how my heart got bruised the last time.

Isolation soaks into my bones as the rest of the class breaks into groups, laughing as they focus on everything but the assignment. I try to ignore the niggling feeling of disappointment and regret as I read through the instructions and then the essays, reminding myself what’s on the line.

I have to do well in all my classes, including this one, to maintain my scholarships.

Time drags on, but I manage to get most of the work done before we’re dismissed.

I attend my next two classes before daring to look at my phone to see if Corey has messaged me with an excuse for missing class this morning.

He hasn’t, and I hate that once again, disappointment grows pronounced in my stomach. I promised myself I’d learn to see through smoke screens and move forward without looking back if someone jilted me. Yet, I’m stumbling and clinging to excuses to avoid admitting Corey might have fed me a preamble I wanted to hear.

I arrive in the locker room for afternoon practice thirty minutes early. Inside is a state of disarray. Some girls are getting changed, others are getting feet and ankles taped, and some are sprawled across benches and the floors working through homework assignments. The hum of conversation drops several decibels as it does every time I arrive.

My skin puckers with self-doubt and the echoes of loneliness that have been my shadow for nearly two weeks.

I try to ignore them and pretend I don’t notice their glances and sour expressions as I cross to my locker and change. I’m not wearing purple, but I refuse to wear Camden’s blue.

Petty?

Maybe, but I can’t find it in me to care.

I’m swallowing the last bite of a protein bar when Kelly comes out of the trainer’s room with both ankles taped and a red headband holding her glossy blonde hair back.

“Ready to scrimmage?” she asks.

My mood lifts higher than my eyebrows. “We’re scrimmaging?” Thus far, all we’ve done are drills and conditioning.

She grins as though knowing I’ve been waiting to prove myself.

Anticipation is a fire in my veins as I shut my locker door and follow her to the field.

“Remember, Becca respects talent, but she hates showoffs,” Kelly warns.

I glance at her. “Who said anything about showing off?”

She raises her eyebrows. “That would be your Grinch-like smile.”

I roll my eyes. “I’m just looking forward to playing.” It’s a truth wrapped in a white lie because I plan to run circles around Zoe.

Becca clears her throat to gain everyone’s attention and then announces the teams, putting first-string on one team and second-string on the other, making us unevenly matched. I’m not surprised. I’m less surprised to hear my name called with the list of second-string players. It’s another point for cynicism that has me questioning too much.

I try to block those thoughts out as I catch the yellow pinny Zoe throws at me with a mocking grin.

Kelly tries to catch my gaze, no doubt to say something with a positive spin, but I avoid her and circle up with the other players on the yellow team.

Margot immediately takes the role of leader, something that would probably have shocked me yesterday since she’s usually so quiet and reserved, but fate seems to be laughing at me today, so I lean back on my heels as the sophomore takes command.

I try to focus on her instructions that don’t include me and try not to take offense that even the second string doesn’t want me here.

As we take the field, Zoe’s stare catches my attention. She’s as excited for this battle as I am.

We get into position, vindication my only thought when water begins spraying us from every direction.

Squeals pierce the sticky air, and it takes me a second too long to realize the sprinklers are running.

We sprint off the field, and I’m too disappointed to give a reaction to the canceled scrimmage.

Becca wipes at her brow. “I guess it’s conditioning for us.”

Quiet groans match my mood as we turn for the track.

Despite showering, I feel sweaty and too warm when Kelly and I finally reach the dorm. Conditioning was brutal, whether from Becca’s mistake or someone else’s that had the sprinklers going off.

My limbs feel like they’re made of clay, heavy and too malleable, and like they may bend too far or not support my weight at any given second.

“God. Even my toes hurt,” Kelly says as she shuffles along at my side.

A line of student-athletes has someone behind us complaining about the single elevator.

“Want to take the stairs?” I ask.

Kelly groans. “Only if I can crawl.” But she follows me through the heavy door that leads into the stairwell, where thoughts of Corey slip into my brain as the stale scent greets us.

“I’m so hungry I’m ready to eat the concrete,” Kelly whines.

“I’ll make you a tomato sandwich if we can make it to my room.”

“I forgot you’re a vegetarian. Don’t you worry about getting enough protein without eating anything besides grass and leaves?” She’s teasing, but a note of sincerity in her words and creased brow tells me there’s a hint of judgment. Most do. I’ve learned over the years that conversations about diets can be as controversial as those about religion or politics.

“You clearly haven’t tried grape leaves.” I don’t mean to think of Corey—but the moment the words are out of my mouth, I recall him sitting across from me, knees brushing against mine, and the heat of his stare.

Kelly laughs. “You don’t actually eat leaves, do you?”

The stairwell door opens as we reach the second-floor landing, and before I can see who it is, I note the energy that hits Kelly’s features and stance like she just had a shot of espresso. Leaves and diet forgotten, I glance up to find three guys I don’t know. Disappointment pierces me before relief can remind me that seeing Corey right now would be all kinds of awkward and terrible.

“Sneaking out?” Kelly teases.

One of them snickers. Another laughs.

“I heard you had a tough practice,” a guy with short dark hair and midnight-colored eyes says.

A shorter guy who is blond with ice chips for eyes sniggers but quickly grins.

“Fallon, this is Murphy, Rafael, and Brent. Guys, this is Fallon Hale.”

Recognition ties my tongue. Murphy, the blond with ice-colored eyes, is not only the captain of the men’s soccer team but Becca’s boyfriend.

My guard immediately slides into place, making me wish we’d waited for the elevator.

“The forward from Westfield,” Brent, the one with dark hair and darker eyes that linger on me says. No doubt whatever he’s heard hasn’t been positive.

The door below us clangs shut, and muffled voices have me turning, trying to look past the corners to see if it’s someone else from our team or theirs.

“Westfield?” Rafael asks before releasing a low whistle. “How’s that going?”

A guy swears below us. “Don’t drop him.”

“We should take him back to my place,” says a deep voice.

“Let’s just go,” another guy growls.

My people-pleasing tendencies align with my desire to remain at Camden, and still, I can’t think of a single positive thing to say in response to Rafael’s question. Clearly, I need this media training class more than conditioning. “It’s going,” I say.

Kelly chuckles. “We just got done running the distance to South Carolina and back. We’re exhausted and starving, so unless you want to carry us up to our rooms…”

Rafael rubs his palms together. “Are we invited inside?”

Thoughts of my brothers and the additional locks Gunnar and my dad installed on my door suddenly don’t seem like overkill. Kelly laughs off his advancement and crowds closer to me as the guys below stomp up the stairs.

“Where are you guys going?” Kelly asks the three soccer players.

“Food run,” Brent tells her. “Want to come?”

I turn and watch as a group of unfamiliar guys struggle to carry someone up the stairs while supporting another. I start to flatten myself closer to the wall when familiarity steals my next breath.

Corey’s the one being carried, his chin practically resting against his chest.

“Oh shit,” Kelly says, but then laughs, earning a glower from one of the guys carrying him, who has brown hair and steel-colored eyes.

“Corey, what did you do to yourself?” Kelly laughs again.

Murphy raises his phone as though preparing to take a picture, and without thought, I step forward, blocking his view before continuing up the stairs to make it appear like I’m trying to get out of the way.

“Assholes,” Rafael sneers as they pass us.

Kelly rolls her eyes in response before giving me a knowing look. “Remember that feud with the football team I told you about?”

Murphy scoffs again. “Let’s go. Becca’s meeting us in the parking lot.”

Kelly glances at me. “Want to come?”

I swallow my immediate reaction to laugh and shake my head. “Thanks, but I’ve got homework.”

“Next time?” she asks.

I almost admit there’s not a chance, but my thoughts are halfway up to the third floor, where Corey’s friends are dragging him. Instead, I nod.

“See you tomorrow,” Kelly changes directions, going with the soccer guys back down the stairs.

I follow the muffled voices and scraped steps, trying to pace myself so I don’t get too close.

One of them swears again.

“I have to go back.” It’s Corey’s voice, and I can’t seem to stop my footsteps from quickening. “She can’t go through it alone.”

“It’s going to be—” The voice cuts off, followed by another swear and a hard clang against the metal rail.

“Jesus. Focus,” someone snaps.

I dart up the stairs and am greeted with a glare from the same one who shot a scathing look at Kelly. I raise both hands in the universal unarmed stance. “Do you guys need help?”

“Fallon?” Corey turns his head to look at me, but he turns too far and nearly collapses.

I jog up the remaining steps.

“Fallon, Fallon?” a guy with dark hair asks.

The one with sandy-blond hair nods as though he knows exactly who I am. It sends an unfamiliar rush down my spine that I’m not ready to acknowledge, much less decipher.

“Is he okay?” I ask.

In response, Corey groans.

“One more flight, buddy,” the sandy-haired one tells him.

“My room’s on this floor. You guys can bring him there.” I must have had an aneurysm. There’s no other excuse for suggesting this horrible plan, but the words are already out and being measured by his friends, who look at me with varying degrees of distrust.

“This is a bad idea,” the one who glared says.

“Probably,” says another.

But the blond nods. “Lead the way.”

I poke my head out the door and look both ways to ensure it’s empty before waving them forward. I lead them to my room and unlock the door before holding it open for the group of virtual strangers.

They set Corey down on the couch I still haven’t replaced, and I try not to cringe. Surely, it’s better than the floor. He slumps forward, falling with the side of his face flush against the couch cushion. I can’t stop my wince.

“I can’t believe you let him drink so much,” the one with dark brown hair accuses the sandy blond.

“His sister has cancer,” he whispers back, stumbling over his own feet, making me realize he’s not sober, either. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Heartbreak and sympathy consume whatever reservations existed seconds ago as I cross to Corey and sit on the gross couch, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s back,” Corey says, pain tightening his voice as he reaches forward and grips my thigh, his fingers indecently high and close to my center. But his eyes are closed with pain, confirming it’s not intentional. “It’s fucking back.”

My heart shatters for him.