Just Like This (Albin Academy #2) - Cole McCade Page 0,14

terrible, hurting smile that made Damon want to—to—

He hadn’t figured that out, either.

He just knew he’d slept like hell last night, tossing and turning and trying not to goddamned think about almost eerily pale, delicate lips subtly tinged in pink like a washed-out painting that just barely clung to its last hints of color.

And how sad those lips had seemed when Rian had said, That was cruel, Mr. Louis.

I don’t want to be cruel to you, he thought.

And since that made less sense than anything else at fucking all, he just stopped thinking about it entirely, and lifted his whistle to his lips to blow shrilly, loud enough to echo over the squeak of sneakers and the thudup-thudup-thudup of a basketball striking the laminated court.

“Traveling,” he called, and the two teams he’d split the P.E. class into broke apart, shifting their positions. “Pass it over and throw it in.”

The boy who’d been caught traveling—his name was Clark Nevans, a redhead with knobby elbows and a high forehead—stopped, slumping with a frustrated groan that turned into a laugh. Damon thought he might be one of Chris’s friends, a vague memory of fist-bumps and casual conversations on the way to the locker room; a memory that was confirmed as Chris jogged over to clap Clark on the back before, as a member of the opposing team, moving to the sidelines and waiting for the hand-over.

That might be a way in, Damon thought. Keep an eye on Chris’s friends, see if they had changed behaviors to cover for him, see if they knew anything. Check on his roommate, too. While he racked his brain to remember who Chris’s roommate was, Damon watched as Clark handed the ball over to Chris with a quick toss, giving Chris five seconds or less to make the throw-in to an in-bounds player on his team. Chris caught the ball lightly and took half a second to feint left, toward a tall boy another player was already defensively blocking—then with a deft roundabout throw, sent the ball rocketing toward an unguarded player, who caught it quickly and started a hard charge down the court toward the opposing net, dribbling furiously.

Chris was back on the court in an instant; his tall, athletic frame was easy to pick out among the other sophomore boys, when half of them were still fighting with puberty and bones that didn’t quite fit together, Chris had been one of the lucky few who settled into himself quickly, easily. Handsome enough that on weekend nights when the boys were allowed out, there were usually quite a few girls from the public school across the Mystic over down the hill in town, making shy overtures to talk to him, from gossip overheard in the locker room and cafeteria; yet Chris never made lewd comments about those girls, always seeming shyly flustered by their interest, ducking his head and running a hand through his messy light brown hair.

Frequently bigger boys realized they had an advantage over other kids—and used it ruthlessly. Chris, though, seemed to treat his advantage as a responsibility.

And he was just as effortlessly good at keeping an eye out for the smaller kids as he was at, it seemed, everything else he decided to do.

Including basketball, as he shadowed the boy dribbling and used his own body to block anyone trying to intercept as the dribbler continued his determined drive down the court...only to suddenly dive to one side in an unexpected backhand pass that went shooting straight toward Chris.

Chris twisted through the tangles of players to catch the ball smoothly right before it hit the floor. He had a chance to steal the glory, then, open for a layup that would end the game.

And instead he doubled back at the last minute, and shot the ball to gangly, mousy Jimmy who usually disappeared among the other boys and was always last pick for the team. Jimmy caught the ball in a fumble, blinking owlishly, before Chris caught his eye with a grin and jerked his head toward the basket. With a borderline squeak, Jimmy darted forward, dribbling a few steps while Chris positioned his tall frame to guard him, flawlessly blocking every attempt to smack the ball from Jimmy’s hand while Jimmy set up for a shot.

Just a pause. A moment when it wasn’t hard to tell Chris’s team was already groaning, setting up for a loss, while Jimmy took aim, bending his knees...and sent the ball sailing. It hit the backboard, bumped