Just Like This (Albin Academy #2) - Cole McCade Page 0,16

inner arm. “You been in to see the nurse?”

“Not yet,” Chris answered almost too quickly. “I just, you know, started feeling a little weird during the game. Want to wait and see how I feel. Might’ve just gotten overheated, you know?”

The thing with kids was they couldn’t fake casual if somebody fucking paid them—and Chris’s attempt at casual, with his wide, easy grin and steady fixed stare, instead made him look like someone smiling at gunpoint.

Damon just eyed him, then sighed, looking away. “You sure you ain’t staying to work on that art project? I saw it. Falwell showed me. That wisteria tree. You’re damned good, kid.”

Chris made a soft, choked sound; that smile turned to a frozen grimace. “Oh...you...you talked to Mr. Falwell?”

“Talk to him all the time.” Well...since yesterday. “Faculty meetings. Lunches. That kinda thing. You got a problem with me talking to Falwell, Chris?”

Say it.

Just come clean with me, kid.

But Chris only let out a forced laugh that pitched his voice up by a whole damned octave, and shook his head. “Nah. Mr. Falwell’s nice. He’s been helping me a lot with the fine details, ’cause it’s really hard with something that delicate.”

There’d been a certain light in Rian’s eyes, when he’d talked about the things he’d made. Subtle, but there: like candleglow in a dark room, that brightness so small and yet standing out like a scream against so much empty nothing.

That light wasn’t there, when Chris talked about the sculpture project he was supposed to be so invested in; invested enough that he’d skip practice to work on it.

In fact, he didn’t sound interested at all.

Damon sighed. “Once you’re done with that thing, you gonna start showing your face again? We’ve got our first home game in two weeks.”

“Sure,” Chris said, nodding quickly. “I don’t wanna miss the game, Coach.”

He said it the same way he talked about the wisteria sculpture.

Perfunctory. No interest, just the words he was supposed to say.

Something was definitely going on here.

He stared at Chris for several hard moments. Talk to me, Chris. ’cause you miss too much more practice, and you’re off Walden’s grace period and off the team. Not my rules. And then there goes your scholarship.

But he couldn’t bring himself to say that.

Chris had to know the stakes.

Damon grinding it in was just...

Threatening him. Muscling him. Trying to scare him, just to force Chris to fess up about what the hell had him being so weird.

And that wasn’t Damon’s style.

He’d just...have to make it clear his door was open—and hope Chris would take that invitation when he was ready, because Damon had the feeling right now that if he pushed too hard, Chris would run without looking where he was going. Something was wrong here. Off.

The way Chris swallowed and licked his lips nervously.

The way his pulse ticked against the hollow of his throat.

The way his eyelashes trembled, and he didn’t blink, his eyes so very wide, their muddled green-brown shade stark.

Chris was afraid.

And Damon didn’t want him to feel like there was nowhere he could turn without someone to be afraid of.

But damn it, what was scaring him so bad?

“Coach...?” Chris said into the silence, his voice cracking, and Damon shook himself from his scrutiny, relaxing.

“Sorry,” he said, shaking his head, and dredged up a smile. “Let me know when you’re done with your project. Love to see it in color. You really are good at that shit.” He tossed his head toward the door. “Go on. You don’t wanna miss lunch. Heard they broke out the lemon meringue today.”

“Yeah?” Chris lit up as if the entire conversation had never happened, and he grinned, bouncing on the balls of his feet, sneakers squeaking lightly on the tile. “Gotta run, then.”

“Because pie?”

“Because pie.” The kid took a skipping step away, then raised a hand in a backward wave as he ducked out. “Later, Coach!”

“Yeah,” Damon sighed, watching as Chris disappeared, the last sight of him the flick of the zipper tag on his backpack. “Later.”

Once he heard the gym door bang closed, though, he sank down until the desk’s edge pushed his shirt up to bite into the small of his back. Burying his face in his hands, Damon groaned.

Dammit.

That had been useless as hell.

He’d just have to try again tomorrow, and hope that Chris would trust him enough to talk. Something.

Because something was going on. Damon had no doubt of that now, after those furtive responses; after the way Chris had avoided his eyes. Kid really couldn’t