Turning back to the porch, I met Aleksey’s dark eyes. He didn’t look away.
“He’s not like us,” Elliot added, his voice hardening. “And he hates everything we are.”
Biting my bottom lip, I automatically swallowed my retort, letting my face slip into a practiced, neutral mask as I nodded at Elliot. But beneath the agreeable exterior, my pulse jumped. I refused to look away from the enforcer, a bright, dangerous spark of curiosity settling deep in my stomach.
Grabbing the thick strap, I hoisted the luggage onto my shoulder. It was time to escape my brother’s lecture. I walked straight toward the dilapidated house. Crossing the threshold meant passing the porch, and I endured the oppressive heat of Aleksey’s gaze tracking me the entire way until I finally pushed inside.
The harsh scent of industrial cleaner coated the stale air on the first floor. And the narrow staircase walls scraped against my oversized duffel bag. When my shoulder pushed the flimsy wooden door open to my room, it revealed anattic space. Slanted ceilings turned the converted room into a claustrophobic box.
Two twin beds faced each other across a faded rug. Matt’s mattress sat bare. We’d only exchanged a handful of texts since the coaching staff paired us up over the summer, mostly him asking what winter gear he needed to survive outside of California. He had messaged earlier to say his flight was delayed, leaving me alone for the night.
Regret hit me hard. I swallowed it down and dropped my bag onto the mattress. The zipper caught for a second before I tugged it open to inspect my folded shirts. Putting my things into the battered dresser was too permanent a commitment. Leaving the clothes in the bag was easier.
My textbooks offered a much better distraction. I pulled them out and stacked them on the small desk in the corner. The spines lined up perfectly. Stacking them gave me something to do, keeping me grounded in a place where I was otherwise totally adrift. I was just putting on a brave face for an audience of one. The mess bothered me, but organizing my books helped me keep my edge.
Heavy boots trudged up the narrow staircase, pausing a second before a door opened and closed. Floorboards groaned in the room next door. Booted steps moved slowly on the other side of the uninsulated drywall.
A low voice spoke.
“Da, ya znayu.”
I froze, hands hovering over my books. The language was Russian, low and rough. I remembered the name Elliot had dropped in the driveway:Aleksey Zotov.
All of a sudden, the footsteps made sense: the enforcer was my neighbor.
He didn’t sound dangerous, though. The unhinged psycho Elliot had just warned me about was gone. This guy soundedexhausted. His tone dipped, hushed and incredibly strained. He sounded like a guy running on zero sleep.
“Ya skazal net.”
Reaching away from the desk, I pressed my palm flat against the cheap white paint of the shared wall. The drywall vibrated as Aleksey let out a long sigh, followed by another string of rough consonants.
I jerked my hand back, heat flushing up my neck. Standing frozen in the cramped room, I caught a sharp breath as my racing heartbeat thudded in my ears. The intense lack of privacy unsettled me, but the sudden, sharp shame of my own eavesdropping was far worse.
Aleksey was inches away. I could actually hear him breathing through the plaster. This crossed a boundary I wasn’t ready for.
“It’s just a wall,” I muttered to myself.
Snatching my phone from the desk, I shoved the device into my pocket. Coach Corby had scheduled a mandatory house meeting downstairs in ten minutes. Turning my back on the thin wall, I used the upcoming meeting as a quick excuse to flee the attic.
Thirty guys crammed into the first-floor living room, their loud voices bouncing off the peeling wallpaper. The stale smell of old beer baked into the corduroy couch cushions filled the stuffy space.
I stopped just inside the archway.
The social divide in the room wasn’t just distinct. It was practically a physical barrier. Elliot and the other legacy kids had claimed all the couches, sprawling out in expensive golf polos and designer sneakers as if they owned the place. Across from them, the scholarship players leaned against the far wall. Theywore faded team hoodies and scuffed shoes, keeping their arms crossed and their expressions guarded.
“Karter, grab a seat.” Elliot patted the armrest of the main sofa.
“I’m good standing.”
Trenton Wright, a senior whose family owned car dealerships throughout Connecticut, lounged next to my brother. He stretched his arms across the back of the couch, taking up space like he’d been born on it.
“More room for us, right?” Trenton grinned. “Don’t pull a hamstring standing over there, freshman. First week’s a killer.”
“I’ll stretch.”
“Smart. Gotta protect the assets.” He looked me over, his gaze snagging on my sneakers. “Nice shoes. You running track or playing hockey?”
“Hockey. You running your mouth or playing defense?” I snapped back.
