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I’m taken aback by how much thought Maggie has put into this plan. Do all girls go to these extremes?
I’m also surprised by the realization I’m actually considering it. I was named captain this year, more as a testament to my role as the team’s leading scorer than any proclivity toward responsibility on my part. I like winning more than I hate responsibility, I guess.
It would be easy to spin some story for Ben. Tell him it’s team bonding or some shit to get to know the new players.
Annoyance replaces surprise, as I realize I’m considering doing exactly what I just judged Maggie for. If I agree to this, it wouldn’t be as a nice guy doing her a favor just because I can. Oractuallygetting to know one of the freshman who will likely spend the season riding the bench.
It would be because I want to spend time around Cassia Nolan. And that’s a dangerous compulsion I thought I’d successfully squashed. Apparently not.
I think of sitting across from her in the library on Tuesday. Watching her run the tip of her pen across her lower lip and twirl a curl around one finger.
Footsteps sound on the stairs. Maggie stares at me, eyebrows raised and expression imploring. I don’t usually think she and Cassia look much alike. But right now, it’s all I can see.
Damnit.
“Yeah, fine,” I tell Maggie. “Okay.”
She beams at me. “3:30.”
Mrs. Nolan walks into the living room. “Cassia’s in the shower. I’m sure she’ll be out soon.”
“It’s fine.” I unzip my backpack and pull out the essay I got back earlier, folding it in half and handing it to Mrs. Nolan. “Can you just give this to her?”
“I—of course. But are you sure you don’t—”
“No. I need to get going. Thanks, though.”
“All right. Don’t be a stranger, Holden.”
I glance at Mrs. Nolan. There’s something knowing in her expression, some conclusion about why I’m here and why I’ve stayed away. I don’t know if it’s the correct one, and I’m not all that interested in finding out.
I give her a smile and a small nod before turning and leaving the room.
A haze of weed smoke drifts by as I climb out of my truck. The old court usually smells like pot. They leveled the old high school when the new building was finished, but someone decided it wasn’t worth tearing up the rectangle of asphalt and two metal hoops. The tennis courts survived as well.
“He’s here, bitches!” Finn ensures no one misses our arrival, bounding out of the passenger side and toward the group gathered on the periphery of the woods. Thelargegroup.
What started as a small gathering has grown every week. I see more and more familiar faces as I walk closer, and it fills me with unease.
This was meant to be low-key—a way to blow off some steam and make money in the process. The more people who know, the messier it could get.
Finn reappears at my side, slinging an arm around my shoulder. “Casper is already here.”
“Fine,” I respond, shaking him off.
He reeks of vodka. Just about everyone here appears tipsy.
I’m entirely sober.
I’m stupid enough to fight, but I’m not suicidal.
Casper Wallace is a stereotypical football player. Solid, beefy, and broad. If he pins me down, I’ll be in trouble. And I’m sure those massive fists of his pack a wallop. But I’m taller and faster than he is. Plus, the way Casper is shifting tells me this is unfamiliar to him. He probably ended up here the same way I did—needling from Declan. An offer of easy money and an ego boost.
Declan swaggers over to me right as I think his name, a broad grin stretching across his freckled face. He’s as Irish as his name, down to the red hair. Not to mention the morally gray business ventures. According to him, his grandfather was in the Irish mafia and so it runs in the family. He deals drugs too, which is how I met him in the first place. Finn uses him as his main supplier.
Declan’s smile impossibly widens when he sees me, taking over his whole face. He lives for this shit. “Adams! You ready, man?”
I meet his exuberance with monotone. “Yeah. I’m ready.”
