Chapter 8
I sense him before I see him, standing beside the couch and interrupting my sleep like the professional nuisance he is. Instead of opening the curtains, Roland simply clears his throat – repeatedly - until I squint up at him. The fully warm bag of peas slides down my cheek and flops onto the floor.
"What?" I croak out hoarsely.
Roland squats down to my level. He's shirtless, wearing nothing but a low-riding pair of sweatpants and his flimsy reading glasses. His bright, brown eyes study my features like I'm one of his goofy science projects for lab. He brings his fingers up to my face, poking and prodding me until I hiss at him to stop.
Then his touch softens. The frown residing across his eyebrows smooths out into a relaxed line. He hesitates before sliding his thumb along my cheek and lower jaw. He catches my bottom lip with the pad of his thumb and cocks his head to the side.
"He did a number on you," he whispers.
There's a look that glosses over his eyes for a split second...but then it's gone. He clears his throat, backing away from me and reaching to the side of the couch to retrieve another ice pack. It's frozen broccoli this time. He sets it against my jaw, and the pain from last night comes back in full swing.
"Does it still hurt?" Roland asks.
The sleep is thick in his voice. He runs a worried hand through his disheveled hair. I try to smirk at his sloppy appearance but even grinning is painful.
"I dunno," I mutter, trying to move my lips as little as possible. "Maybe you should let Bennett use you as a punching bag for a few minutes and tell me how you feel the next day."
A muscle tics in Roland's jaw. I glance down his torso, noticing how defined his muscles are. Every time he takes a deep breath they flex and practically glow from the light of the kitchen. A pang of jealousy nudges at the edges of mental envy jar. I guess since there were so many other guys at practice yesterday, I didn't notice how hard Roland has been working, too.
"Things got out of hand last night," Roland grits out after a moment of silence. "You stepped out of line and nearly knocked out one of the best swimmers on our team."
"He fuckin' deserved it."
"Be that as it may," Roland says over me, "you weren't the one provoking it. Lucky for us, most of the team was there to witness it. They're willing to side with us."
I humph under my breath. If I had the energy, I'd reinforce the fact that they'd be idiots not to side with us. This entire thing was Bennett's fault, after all. Somehow he figured out who my ex was and brought her to that party as bait to piss me off.
And it worked.
I attempt to roll onto my back and groan with pain. Roland wipes a hand down his tired face and purses his lips.
"I know this isn't the best time to bring this up," he says quietly. "But there's practice tonight. Do you think there's any way..."
"I'll be there," I confirm without him having to press further.
Even though I'll be showing up to practice looking bruised and battered, it'll be the perfect, silent vindication that I'm not giving up. I study my knuckles under the light, mentally picturing how badly all my cuts will burn beneath the chlorinated water.
Roland pats the couch and stands. "I'll bring you the first aid kit to clean those up."
Bringing me ice packs?
Now dressing my wounds?
My eyes follow my best friend out of the living room with a frown. It's not like I mind the help, but coddling me is definitely not something that Roland has done before. Normally he's the one lecturing me to fix my own problems, or chiding me from across the room about what I've done wrong.
I shrug, chalking it up to him feeling guilty for siding with Annie last night instead of me. Besides, the more he coddles me now, the faster I'll heal. The faster I heal, the better I'll do at practice...and the more irritated Bennett will be because of it.
Seems like a win-win to me.
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I check my face before getting out of the car, and I have to say Roland was right. Bennett did a number on me. I have a gleaming, purple bruise at the base of my jaw line and a fat lip. My knuckles on my right hand are shredded to pieces, and I have a small cut above my left eyebrow.
Roland opens the locker room door for me, propping it open with his foot.
"Just keep your head down and focus on swimming," he advises. "If you pretend like it's nothing, they'll forget about it too. Eventually."
"Hah. Right."
A muggy heat settles against my thin t-shirt and shorts. It's what I call 'swimmer's heat.' It's the heavy, moist air that surrounds a pool and the pool's locker room, regardless of the temperature outside. It's the type of heat that feels suffocating during a hard swim but appreciated once you towel down and head back to the locker room.
The amiable chatter dwindles away when Roland and I step into view. All eyes are on me. Yet again. I recognize two guys who were out in the front lawn last night. They nudge each other and grin. Roland pushes me to the lockers near the end and says hello to Erik and Jonathon as he passes. Cameron is situated a few lockers away, and his lips downturn into a disgruntled frown.
Roland tosses his bag in the locker, tugging his shirt off without addressing the ogling eyes around us. I swallow hard and turn my back on all their eyes as well, their judgmental gazes burning holes through my skin. It's only when they start filing out of the locker room that Roland glances over his shoulder.
"Just swim," he whispers. "Like I know you can. Everything will be fine."
See what I mean about the coddling?
I nod and he pats me on the back before grabbing his towel, swim cap, and goggles. Erik waits for him by the door, and the two of them head out to the pool together. There are only a sparse handful of guys still in the locker room. I don't bother looking to see who they are. Instead I sit on the bench, staring at the silver handle of the locker and trying to give myself a mental pep talk.
"Hey."
A tentative but rich, masculine voice calls out to me. I glance over my shoulder and see Weston approaching me. The surprise visit makes me tense, and my eyes dart around looking for his worse half.
"He's not here," Weston says, laughing lightly. "He can't even open his right eye, thanks to you."
I grunt, trying not to grin in satisfaction.
"From the bits and pieces I've heard about it though, he deserved it," Weston says, taking a seat beside me.
I don't respond. Being around Weston just reminds me of Bennett. It unnerves me to the point –
My eyes widen. Wasn't I just saying last night that I wanted to take the upper hand away from Bennett? He has been besting me every chance he gets. Now is the time for me to change the direction of our little war. And here I am, internally whining about Weston's company when I could be using it to my advantage.
I may not know much about Bennett, but Roland has made one thing clear: Weston is his weakness.
"It's water under the bridge," I lie smoothly. "Just trying to focus on swimming. Speaking of which, are you practicing tonight?"
I glance around Weston but don't see any sort of gym bag or backpack. Weston holds up his hands in surrender, shaking his head with a sad smile.
"I actually just stopped by to talk to you. And to let you know that I won't be trying out for the team again."
Sweet. Less competition for me. And if Coach decides to take a chance on me, I'll be winner of my bet with Bennett as well.
"What made you come to that conclusion?" I ask, genuinely curious.
He shrugs. "Quitting the team wasn't exactly one of my best moments. But I was the one who pissed away that opportunity. No one else. When I heard someone was trying out for my spot, I just wanted to come back on principle."
He sighs, stuffing his hands into his pockets and glancing up at the ceiling. His eyes travel down the length of the lockers, smiling at the distant memories held in this room.
"I love swimming," he admits. "But my heart isn't in it anymore. If I had gotten back on the team, I would have wanted to quit all over again. I wasn't trying to get back on the team because I missed swimming. I was simply trying to stop you from taking my spot."
His words ring with clarity and truth. He blushes, almost ashamed that he's divulged too much to me. But if I was in his spot, I'd probably do the same thing. Weston's decision to fight me for the spot was pure territorial.
"I get it," I say after a beat of silence.
The words taste bitter coming from my lips. It's not that I have an issue with Weston, because in reality, the dude has done nothing wrong. But I view him as an extension of Bennett, and therefore saying or acting kind in any way goes against my instinct of self-preservation.
Weston nods and stands, holding out his hand to me. "We cool?"
I shake his hand, wincing when his fingers graze over the tender flesh of my knuckles. He must notice, because he whistles low under his breath and laughs again.
"No wonder why Bennett looks so much worse than you. You literally pummeled him so hard it removed the flesh from your knuckles."
This time I force out a laugh. "He got in a few good ones too."
Weston grins and nods. "Well... I'll see you around."
He starts walking away, and I realize my window of opportunity is quickly closing.
"Hey. You want to grab a drink tonight?"
I shout the offer across the locker room, and Weston cranes his neck to look back at me. He frowns and opens his mouth, but no words come out.
"I know Bennett and I don't exactly see eye to eye," I rush out. "But that doesn't mean you and I have to start out on the wrong foot, too – does it?"
Weston purses his lips. The mannerism is an exact replica of Roland's 'contemplation' face. It's not a common type of look, either. It's one that has to be learned from seeing it or being around it pretty often. How...odd.
I stand and swipe up my towel. Weston squints at me, as if trying to figure out the real reason behind my offer. In turn, I stare back at him, making sure my expression is as blank and calm as an empty canvas.
"Alright," he agrees uncertainly.
"Great. How does tonight sound?"
I pounce on his agreement knowing full well that if I don't set up something soon, he's bound to change his mind. Weston purses his lips again and rubs at the side of his neck.
"Ah...I don't see any reason why tonight wouldn't work."
"Cool. I'll meet you in the parking lot after practice, then," I say, passing him on my way out to the pool. "First round is on me."
He watches me open the door, either still too confused or dumbfounded to cancel. The heavy door closes behind me, and I grin with satisfaction.
Alright, Bennett. It's your move.
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A/N: Trey, Trey, Trey - what are you thinking? Also, I posted a pic of who I envision playing Roland (yes - none other than Theo James).
Thanks for reading, folks!