“Riley, you’re up,” Mrs. C. announces.
Southside peers up from a daydream, looking like a deer caught in headlights.
“What? I—I’m not really feeling well,” she lies, volleying a look between me and Mrs. C., begging for mercy with her eyes.
“Won’t take long,” Mrs. C. insists. “Besides, I’ve peeked in on a few of your practices. I have faith if anyone can stop Golden short of the basket, it’s you.”
Southside’s face is redder than Trip’s and I honestly wonder if Mrs. C. is the one person on this planet who hasn’t seen the video. Woman must live under a rock. Otherwise, she would’ve known why this pairing is probably the last she should’ve chosen.
But alas, here we are.
The whistle blows and, already, I see Southside’s got better instinct than Trip. Instead of watching the ball, her eyes are trained on my waist. I fake right this time and break left, but she’s still on me, slowing down my drive toward the basket. She goes up with me when I jump for the layup, stretching her hand toward the ball. If it weren’t for the height difference between us, she would’ve definitely blocked the shot.
But it’s also that difference in height, plus the fact that I’m probably a good forty pounds heavier than she is, that has her slamming into my chest on the way up. Then, landing on the court with a thud.
Right on her ass.
The class erupts in laughter again and, right away, I know it’s too soon. The bruises to her ego are still fresh. Too fresh for her to be the center of attention again. Basically, they’re pouring salt in an open wound. One I’m trying desperately to heal.
“Maybe give Blue the ball,” some kid yells out. “She seems to be pretty good with those.”
I search for the asshat talking out the side of his neck, but don’t spot anyone. When I face Southside again, she’s furious. At me, no doubt, despite me not being the one who made the comment.
Best I can do is offer my hand, which she slaps away and gets to her feet without help.
“Again,” she practically growls, not bothering to wait for Mrs. C. to make that call.
On the whistle, Southside’s ten times as focused as before. When I move, so does she, making it harder to get around her this time. But when I finally do, and my feet leave the ground for the layup, it feels like a rock slams into my chin before I even release the ball.
“Riley!” Mrs. C. yells. “What the heck was that?”
Southside, out of breath and still brimming with anger, appears to be coming back from an out-of-body experience, suddenly aware of having just punched me in front of the entire class. She takes a few steps back and then her eyes land on me, where I’m rubbing my jaw.
She didn’t hold back, that’s for sure.
“I … it was an accident,” she lies. “I was trying to block his shot and—”
“A block, for the record, is an open hand on the ball. A punch is a closed fist to the face. But as a player, I’m certain you already knew that,” Mrs. C, seethes. “Hit the locker room and head straight to Headmaster Harrison’s office.”
“But, I—”
“Now!”
The class lets out a collective, “Ooooohh,” as Mrs. C. points toward the locker room.
Southside’s already tearing up, sprinting toward the door and it guts me, has me wanting to chase after her, but I know that’s the last thing she wants. Instead, I do the one thing I can.
“I didn’t dismiss you, Golden.”
I ignore the words that hit my back as I head toward the guys’ locker room myself, having a clear plan in mind as I burst through the doors and change as quickly as I can. Southside doesn’t want to hear a word I have to say, but I know one person who will.
@QweenPandora: Sticks and stones won’t break his bones, but that punch certainly rocked KingMidas’s jaw!
Geez! The recent streak of violent outbursts surrounding a certain former couple at CPA is further proof of tension running high. But come on, people! Make love, not war! Whatever happened to hugging it out?
Maybe the rules go up in flames when one party makes an intimate moment public?
This pic caught by an anonymous contributor shows the pair engaged in heated discussion moments before the punch heard round the gym. There’s no report of what was said, but oh to be a fly on the wall…
In other news, a little birdy told me a certain VirginVixen was recently tagged in a sappy photo montage on her socials. By whom you ask? Well, I’m sure you all remember a certain mystery guy who popped up in candids during VirginVixen’s summer excursion to Cuba. If those thirst traps he’s tagging you in are any indication, it looks like somebody misses you, VV. Wonder if PrettyBoyD’s seen them yet.
Oops!
If he hasn’t … I’m guessing he will now.
Later, Peeps.
—P
Chapter 10
BLUE
I haven’t stopped shaking since I sat down, unsure of what came over me in the gym. I know what’s at stake, and yet, I couldn’t control myself.
There was just something about being knocked down by him, hearing them all laughing about it. I’m just so, so sick of taking it all in stride, pretending it doesn’t hurt.
I’m sitting in the waiting room alone, but still hide my face inside my shirt when the tears come. Here I was, telling Scar just yesterday to play it cool, and now look at me. Waiting to be seen by Headmaster Harrison because I punched West.
If anything, he should’ve been the last person I laid a finger on. This experience has taught me many things, but most of all, it’s taught me that West’s family’s reach is at least as far as I imagined. Hence the reason I’m on probation and he’s untouchable.
I’m still sniffling inside my t-shirt when the door opens and closes beside me, but I don’t peek out to see who’s entered. I should have more dignity than to cry so openly in front of someone, but I’m exhausted in every way imaginable.
A ringtone goes off beside me and whoever’s come in scrambles to get to their phone.
“Yeah,” he answers, and I’m suddenly aware of who the hell it is.
I glare up from the collar of my shirt only long enough to confirm. And, sure enough, West is peering down on me. Fortunately, he’s not forcing conversation down my throat like before, but it’s likely just a matter of time.
Why the hell is he here anyway?
“Dane, I…”
He pauses to listen, releasing a long sigh right after.
“I haven’t seen the update yet, but I’m sure it’s just…”
His words cut off again when his brother interrupts like before.
“Tagging her in photos doesn’t mean anything. They’re probably just pics of them from summer,” he whispers tensely.
He switches to speakerphone, and then turns the volume super low. I can hear, but no one beyond the office door should be able to. Still, I can’t help but wonder why I’m even permitted to listen in. From what I can tell, it seems like kind of a private conversation.
“I haven’t even met this guy and I fucking hate him,” Dane fumes. “Every pic, he’s shirtless, fucking soaked from head to toe, or showing off his damn art.”