a fist, and I know once I bump it with mine, this is it.
This is the last time we’ll talk about it, and then we’ll have to move on.
I bump my knuckles against his, a silent agreement passing between us as the bell rings. It’s too easy to be forgiven, but then, it was never Emory’s to give in the first place.
We head opposite directions, and as the crowd leaves the cafeteria, my eyes are drawn back to a head of shiny blonde hair, her body moving at its own, stilted pace.
I hope that Emory’s right—that Vandy is stronger than either of us, that she’s overcome it, that she’s fine.
Because deep inside, I know that I’m not.
My entire body aches as I walk off the field. Coach Morris is serious about repeating the state win, even if we die trying. Emory, being captain of the team, barks orders at the underclassmen, making them do the brunt of the post-practice field cleanup. I stop and guzzle a bottle of water, waiting for him halfway back to the locker room. It doesn’t hurt that the cheerleaders practice in the parking lot next to the gym. One of the girls spots me and gives me a little wave. I reluctantly lift my hand just as Emory walks over, carrying his helmet and a bottle of water. We’re both so drenched in sweat it looks like we just got out of the pool.
“Hey, who’s that?” I ask, nodding toward the girl. She’s small, shorter than the rest of the girls, and has long, straight, dark hair.
Plus, a nice, thick ass.
He snorts, shaking his head. “That, my friend, is trouble. Stay away.”
“She looks familiar.” I squint, trying to remember. “Did I know her from before?”
“That’s Sydney Rakestraw,” he explains, lip curling in displeasure. “Vandy’s friend.”
“Huh.” An image of a skinny, tiny middle-schooler with a mouthful of braces pops into my head. “What do you mean she’s trouble?”
We walk toward the locker room, the back door hanging open. The voices of our teammates echo back outside. Emory stops before we enter, swallowing a mouthful of water. “I hate talking bad about her because she’s been so loyal to Vandy the last few years, but real talk? That girl is a hot mess. There’s always something going on, another rumor or accusation. She posts shit all the time on social media.” He wipes his forehead with the hem of his practice jersey. “Trust me, she’s tempting—and I promise you, she will try to tempt you—but make like Nancy Reagan and ‘Just say no,’ got it?”
“Loud and clear,” I reply. “The last thing I need right now is trouble.”
Emory’s nose wrinkles and he scratches his neck.
“What?” I ask, getting a vibe.
“About that…” He gestures for me to move a little bit closer to the massive HVAC unit, away from the locker room. “There’s something I’m involved with—something I want you in on—but I know you’re on a really short leash here. I still want to give you the option.”
I blink. “I’m going to need a little more information than that.”
Two sophomore players walk off the field toward the locker room. We both give them a nod in greeting, but Emory doesn’t resume talking until they’re inside. “Remember what I told you about the Devils disbanding?”
“About them getting kicked off of campus.” I nod, wiping my forehead with a towel. “Yeah, I remember.”
He grins. “Turns out the roots of the organization go deeper than the headmaster’s directives.”
“What does that mean?”
“If you want to find out, meet me at the Devil’s Tower on Friday night after the game.”
My eyebrows scrunch together. “You trying to take me to the stairway to hell? I’m telling you dude, military school did not make me gay.”
He pushes me hard. “Shut up. Meet me or not. It’s your choice, but if you want in on something truly epic, I can make it happen.” The fact that I hesitate must mean that I’ve actually grown up a little bit since the last time I was here. When I don’t respond right away, Emory adds, “Just think about it?”
I give a slow nod. “Okay.”
“Oh,” he says, as we walk back to the locker room door, “and you can’t tell anyone about this. It’s the kind of thing that could get everyone in serious trouble.”
I freeze, watching his back as he disappears into the building.
This doesn’t bode well.
Cat.
I look down at the orange ball of fluff currently occupying the stoop in front of my side door. I’d just