Gideon Foster was on the mat, sweat-soaked and pale as a ghost. He shivered and trembled, little cries slipping from between his clenched teeth. He sat ramrod straight, staring in horror at his own right leg that was bent in a way no human knee was meant to bend. It stuck out from his body in a hideous, ninety-degree angle, like a broken straw.
My rage morphed into shocked anguish, tinged with no small amount of nausea. Whispers flew all around me that he’d slipped during the dismount, or that there’d been water on the mat. Or he’d just plain landed wrong.
Landed wrong. Yeah, you could say that.
Coaches, trainers, and school security rushed in, the adults ushering us all out of the gym and into the parking lot. Already, the sirens of an ambulance could be heard in the distance, faint but growing louder.
Tucker looked horrified. Rhett stood with him, patting him absently on the shoulder. Not a shred of empathy, only curiosity. I suspected he was itching to go back inside and take a closer look at Gideon’s fucked-up leg.
I moved to stand beside Xander. “Poor bastard,” I whispered with disbelief. “He was set to go to World’s, then the Olympics. Guess that’s done.”
“That’s Castle Hill Academy for you,” said Mike Bollanger, defenseman on the water polo team. “It chews you up and spits you out.”
I nodded. “First it’s Jack Wallace at the bonfire, today it’s Gideon.Now we wait.”
“For?” Xander asked.
“Strike three,” I said absently, watching as Rhett and Tucker moved off. Rhett met my eye and gave me a friendly smile and wave.
He doesn’t know anything. Not a damn thing. He’s a cold-blooded sociopath. Forget it.
But I couldn’t forget it. I’d been angry enough that strike three might’ve been me beating that fucker to a bloody pulp. And that wasn’t me. I wasn’t a violent guy, but this year was all turned around and messed up.
And poor Gideon, Jesus…
I stood in the parking lot like a twat, not knowing what to do. The idea of going back to Atlas Hall and trying to make sense of my history notes for that blasted paper only made what Rhett—and Harper—had said echo louder in my head. Instead, I walked straight to Ezra Wolfe’s office in the Arts Wing and prayed he’d be there. And sober.
I got lucky on both counts.
“Orion.” He peered at me, confused. “We don’t have a lesson today. And you look dressed for jock-like activities. I heard someone was hurt at the gym. Glad it wasn’t you. More specifically, I’m glad it wasn’t your fingers.”
“Can we play?” I asked. “I need to play.”
He frowned, concerned, but nodded immediately. “Let’s go.”
***
“Nope,” Wolfe said when I fucked up the cadenza from the Brandenburg No. 5 for the fifth time. “My ears have suffered enough for now, thank you, and you’re still holding yourself back.” He pulled up a chair next to the bench and sat. “You’ve had a day. Tell me. How bad was the gym?”
“Pretty bad,” I said, thinking of poor Gideon in agony, while Rhett fucking Calloway looked on from a safe distance. “Why do thebest people suffer while the arseholes among us sit and watch…?” I shook my head. “Sorry. That’s an ungenerous thought.”
Wolfe waved a hand. “Pfft. One I’ve had at least a dozen times per day. Is that all that’s bothering you?”
“No.” I sat with my hands in my lap, wondering how much to say. Wondering why I felt the urge to sayanythingto this eccentric piano teacher in the first place.
Maybe because it’s been forever since someone has asked how you’re feeling. Except Harper…
“I fucked it up with my girl.”
“Already?” Wolfe’s large eyes widened. “That has to be a record.”
I shot him a look, though I’d basically said the same thing to Easton.
“Sorry,” Wolfe said. “I’m not a pro at this.”
“Neither am I,” I admitted.
“Brilliant! We’ll both bumble our way toward making you feel better, and you’ll be so grateful and indebted to me that you’ll have no choice but to audition for Juilliard come spring.”
