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Fuming, I leave Lucas in the dust and go inside without saying anything when his deep voice calls after me.
Lucas Saint fights dirty. I’m going to have to sink to his level to fight back.
Eleven
Lucas
Lancelot circles my legs as I head upstairs after dinner.
He gets underfoot and I almost trip. I hoist the chubby pug into my arms, snorting at his bug-eyed fruitless wriggling.
“Easy, buddy boy,” I soothe, giving his belly scritches. He warbles happily, stretching in my arms. “Right there? Hah, yeah, you’re a good boy.”
I let him down outside my room.
There are no responses to the teasing texts I sent Gemma. I pull up the photo of her tied up again. The swirling obsession is shifting, growing as I fixate on the photo, taking in her thighs and bound hands.
The success of kidnapping her burns fresh and hot in my gut, signaling a shadow that lives inside me. The thrill of besting her as I wrangled her into my Jeep is addictive. I want to do it again.
In a way, it’s better Gemma didn’t roll over and take it when I demanded she fall in line, like other girls might. The challenge of going after her will make her submissions that much sweeter when I break her.
For now, I push Gemma out of my head.
A stack of new sketchbooks sits on my desk beside a strategy playbook. I grab the top one and flop onto my bed. Lancelot jumps up with a grunt and settles at the foot of the bed.
Sticking headphones in and starting up a chilled out playlist, I lose myself to sketching. I start with a few drills to warm up, then make up building designs.
Drawing after school relaxes me. It’s my favorite way to unwind at the end of the day, just me and a sketchpad and my dog.
If it were up to me, I’d quit football in a heartbeat to have more time to practice. I only got into it recently, so my lines aren’t up to snuff yet. A YouTube artist I follow calls it mileage. The videos I watch online feature artists that are years ahead of me, people that knew what they wanted back when I still enjoyed football because it was a fun way to hang out with my friends.
The shelves in my room are packed with trophies from every year since I was in little league, barely able to throw the ball.
I’m stuck in the sport. At this point, it feels like everyone expects me to dream about going pro.
Over the summer, I hinted that I was thinking about quitting the team. I had no desire to play varsity, didn’t care about being the quarterback, and was the wrong choice for team captain. My parents didn’t pick up on my hints.
Whenever I bring up quitting, they tell me I should stick it out because I’ve played for ten years.
It’s important to see commitments through.
Mom had ruffled my hair and handed me my freshly cleaned jersey. Dad was proud of me for my achievements. When I asked what happened if I had other aspirations, Dad missed my point entirely. He’d said as the team captain, my friends relied on me.
I didn’t ask to play football forever. My parents tossed me in every sport they could when I was a kid. Football stuck because it was where my friends were.
So what if I’m good at it?
I have other plans for my life. Ones I don’t want to shove aside because I have a talent for throwing a ball. It’s bullshit.
When Mom knocks on the open door with my jersey, I salute her with my pencil and put the finishing touches on the sick contemporary house I imagined.
“You look so handsome in this jersey,” Mom says as she hangs it on the door, smoothing her hands over the material. “I’ll miss seeing your number 14 after this year.”
Number 14. I always say I’m lucky twice because of my number.
I hum and shrug as inspiration strikes. I zone out as I add a cool walkway.
“Dad put some brochures on the table for you downstairs.” Mom perches on the bottom of the bed and pets Lancelot. He rolls onto his back and paws at her to keep going. “He said he could take a Friday off so the two of you could go visit campuses.”
