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“Okay,” is all I say in response.
“Okay?” Wes echoes, searching my face.
“I was just wondering,” I tell him. “There wasn’t a right answer. Or a wrong one.”
Wes’s probing gaze makes me worried he’s going to push for a more telling explanation, so I lean forward and grab a deck of playing cards off the coffee table.
“Do you know how to play Spite and Malice?” I ask him.
“Should I take the name personally?” Wes replies, sitting up.
“I didn’t come up with the name,” I promise him, smiling slightly. “It’s my grandmother’s favorite card game, and how I spent most of the week in South Carolina.”
“I’ve never played it.”
“Want to?” I ask, starting to shuffle the deck.
“I told you I’m good with whatever you want to do.”
“I thought you were talking about sex, not card games,” I reply, as I deal the cards.
Wes smirks. “I was, but it applies here, too.”
I can’t help but smirk back at him as I explain the rules of the card game. And contemplate what a dangerous offer that is.
Because when it comes to Weston Cole… I’m rapidly learning there’s not much Idon’twant to do with him.
CHAPTERFIFTEEN
WESTON
The start of the trip to Lincoln University is expected. My parents smile in public and argue in private. I was surprised my mother decided to come with us. There’s not much we do as a family these days. I tend to avoid being around my father as much as possible, which he doesn’t seem to have any problem with unless he needs me for some reason.
Of course, that’s the whole point of this trip. For my father to relive his glory days, and to show me off. Interestingly, my father never played football. People always assume that he did, and I can tell it irks him. He played baseball in high school, and never pursued any sports in college.
He plays it off when people ask, saying he was too busy with academics to worry about a game, or that he chose to get involved with other activities on campus. He’s never discouraged or encouraged my playing, but I know the accolades I receive from football are a source of pride to him.
Maybe the only source where I’m concerned.
They’re also the centerpiece of this visit.
Lincoln’s campus is stunning. Perfectly maintained, imposing, and impressive. Brick buildings line the smooth path that cuts through the very heart of campus.
I’ve let my father’s urging negatively color my impression of the school, but walking along the tree-lined pavement, coming here doesn’t seem like such a hardship. The feeling is amplified when the football stadium comes into view.
Alleghany’s football stadium is larger and nicer than most high school facilities. But it pales in comparison to Lincoln’s. I catch my first glimpse of the massive structure looming ahead long before we reach it.
A gray-haired, stoic man is waiting for us outside the main gates. Even before he introduces himself, I can tell he’s the head coach. He has the same no-nonsense, I-have-the-power-to-make-you-run-until-you-puke air about him Coach Blake always exudes.
Sure enough, he gives my hand a firm shake and introduces himself as Coach Alberts. I follow him through the main gates and down a long, cement-paved walkway. And then we’re inside the stadium.
“Wow,” I breathe.
Coach Alberts seems to appreciate my reaction. “Yup, it gets me every time, too,” he admits. “Even after fifteen years.”
The thrill of running out onto Alleghany’s football field in front of a screaming crowd always electrifies me, but Lincoln’s stadium has an undeniable presence all of its own. Even empty.
Thousands and thousands of seats gleam under the late fall sunshine, curving upwards to allow every occupant the best possible view. I can only imagine what it would feel like to play in front of such a massive audience. Like you’re on a stage? Under a spotlight?
