Letterman Jacket

4.5 / seventy-six days before

I decided it was the shoes.

There was nothing particularly special about them—the soles were almost worn out and the once perfectly white color was now a light shade of gray. Despite the discoloration, the blotches of ink on each side were still noticeable, though I couldn't make out what they said. A blue stain covered half of the shoelaces, maybe from the Gatorade they drank during the games, and the fine stitching that held the shoes together now had loose ends.

It was too impossible for Faust Carter to be that good in basketball, even only during training.

"You think my shoes are magic?" he repeated, an amused grin stretching over his lips that reached the humor in his eyes. Coming freshly from a shower, his ink-black hair dripped with water, and the scent of deodorant engulfed him.

"I think they're wings on your feet, moving over the gym floor to any position you want," I answered, shrugging. "Is that a quote?"

Faust shook his head once he saw that I was referring to the blotches of ink on his Nikes, leaning against the wall of the bleachers' staircase while dressed in a thin, white, cotton t-shirt, jeans, and simple Converses. "Signatures. From every player on the team when I won my first game."

"Oh." I frowned. "How many games have you won since then?"

Faust sent me another smile, one that made the girls behind me giggle and whisper among themselves, and one that told me: I'd tell you, but I don't want to seem like I'm bragging.

Checking the time on my watch, I said, "So, you promised me an interview..."

Bending down, he tied the shoelaces of his magic shoes together, slinging them over one shoulder and his gym bag on the other. "Right. How about dinner?"

I faltered, a moment of confusion passing my features. "What?"

"Dinner," Faust repeated, the corners of his lips turning up into a wide grin once again. "Last meal of the day. Food. Drinks. Two people. Having a good time..."

"I know what—I know what dinner is," I stammered, growing more and more confounded as the seconds passed by. "But—"

"Thea."

My twin brother, who was now also dressed after the team hit the showers, stood at the end of the staircase with a menacing look. "Come on, I'm driving you home."

Even without acknowledging each other's presence, the tension in the air was palpable—it always was whenever the co-captains were near each other.

Deciding that I was going to finish this assignment no matter what, even if I had to sit across from a basketball hero slash Casanova that I barely knew and my brother resented, I shook my head as I stood and opened my mouth, but Faust said, "You can drive yourself, Simmons. She has to do this interview with me, and I can't do it with an empty stomach. Besides, I'll take her home safely and soundly."

Theo ignored him, keeping his eyes locked onto mine. His hands balled into fists. "Thea. Please."

My feet started walking like they had a mind of their own, with Faust giving me way to climb down the stairs. Coming face to face with my brother, I gripped his arm and gave him a reassuring smile. "Just for the article, okay? It's just dinner, and he's a nice guy. Well, at least, to me he is."

And as Faust and I left the gymnasium side by side, I could feel Theo's eyes burning at the back of my head.

*

Beth's Bistro was a good ten-minute drive from school, located in between the town of Northvale and Parkway, and we were lucky enough to get there with Faust's beat-up, rusty pick-up truck, which smelled faintly of cigarettes and brand new air freshener. "She's a...work in progress," he'd said apologetically when the truck roared to life rather loudly.