Page 19

CHAPTER 19

MARCUS

For the briefest moment, I freeze. My mind flies in a million different directions, settling on the familiarity of Ashton's lips on mine.

A sharp spasm of panic shoots through me, and I react on instinct. I don't know what he expected from me, but it's clearly not my fist flying through the air and smashing into his angular jaw. My knuckles collide with his face with a sickening thud, and his head snaps to the side.

His hand comes up to cup his cheek, looking at me with wide, disbelieving eyes.

"What was that for?" He sounds hurt more than pissed, and it enrages me.

"You can't just do that!"

"I'm sorry. I thought?—”

"You thought fucking wrong. Okay? I took some frustration out on you after the interview, and I shouldn't have done that. But you and me? This isn't happening."

Ashton takes a step towards me, and I brace myself, fists instinctively balling at my sides.

"Don't," I warn him. But he takes another step, then another.

"It seems like you have more frustration to get out, Marcus. So go ahead, take it out on me. Fuck my throat or use me as a punching bag. I don't care. I know I deserve?—”

Coach Burke's loud, booming voice startles us apart, almost like he'd physically pulled us in opposite directions.

"What the hell is going on out here!?"

Red faced, with anger burning in his eyes, Coach stomps across the lobby and puts himself between us.

"You have got to be kidding me!" Coach shouts, looking between us incredulously. "Did I or did I not just warn you about the consequences of your behavior!?"

"Yes sir, you did," I say, looking down. My face flushes with shame. I can't believe I put myself at risk of losing everything because of Ashton fucking James. Again. Why can't he leave me alone? Why can't I stop reacting to him this way?

"We were just getting a little tension out of our system, Coach. It's technically our fall break, and you said to come back with a new attitude. We're starting that process now."

The way Coach is staring daggers at Ashton, you'd think his gaze alone would be painful, but Ashton doesn't shrink under his gaze. He holds his shoulders straight and looks down at Coach, since he's so much taller, and dares him to contradict his ridiculous excuse.

Coach tears his eyes from Ashton and focuses on me. I tilt my head down, truly ashamed of my behavior. I didn't mean to, I just reacted. Coach didn't see what happened to know it wasn't one sided, but I'm not about to out Ashton by defending myself. I should have held my temper, anyway. It wasn't an appropriate response. Violence isn't going to make any of the feelings churning inside me feel better.

"I'll have you know I just spent the last forty-five minutes defending your place on this team. There are parents, led by one in particular," he cuts his eyes at Ashton pointedly, "That are campaigning to have you kicked off this team. So far, I've managed to save your ass and our donation funding by pointing out that I have no legal grounds to remove or bench you without risking legal action against the school. Your academics are perfect, you have an excellent work ethic, and until now you've never broken any rules or engaged in any misconduct that could warrant your removal from this team. I'm going to pretend I didn't see this, but I'm putting you both on an unofficial probation. I expect you both to stay on campus for the break. I want eight hours of on-court practice and eight hours of community service from each of you, to be carried out together . Assistant coach Weston will be on site to sign off on your hours for the court, and I want signed documentation of the community service. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, sir," we say simultaneously. Ashton sounds more enthusiastic about his agreement than I'd expect. I thought he'd be protesting having to stay on campus. Other than maybe visiting my mom for a day, I planned to stay here and enjoy the quiet.

"I don't expect you to braid each other's hair or be best friends, but you will learn to cooperate, or there will be consequences for all of us."

Nodding my understanding, I pull the hood of my sweater up and head out into the rain.

Me: 8AM

Princess D-Bag: Who is this?

Me: It's Marcus. Who the hell do you think?

Princess D-Bag: Chill, dude. I didn't know you had my number.

Me: It's listed in the directory.

Me: Practice tomorrow 8AM

Princes D-Bag: Why so early?

Me: Because I have shit to do.

Princess D-Bag: It's going to be storming all weekend. Where exactly do you think you're going to go?

I don't answer him, because the truth is I don't have anywhere to go or anything to do. I just want to get this over with. While the prospect of spending eight hours alone with Ashton makes my stomach hurt, I'll do what needs to be done so we can just be teammates. A day on the court will keep us busy enough that we hopefully don't have to talk too much. I've got some contacts for the community service that will hopefully get back to me by tomorrow, and then I'll be done with him outside of practice and games. I can play nice and put our shit behind us enough to focus on the game.

"You're late!" Ashton calls across the court as I walk in the next morning.

"It's literally eight-oh-one, and I've been here. I had to dry off." I'm soaked from the rain, because my only umbrella is in my car. I plan to make a run to the back of the student parking lot later to get it.

"Excuses, excuses."

"I didn't expect you to be so chipper this morning," I say, accepting the ball he passes my way.

Ashton shrugs. "Might as well make the best of it."

Without any further discussion, we seamlessly turn our team drills into a two-man practice routine, passing back and forth as we run rim to rim. It's during shooting drills that competition flares between us, when Ashton's tall reach makes a game out of batting away my free-throw drills. From there, our structured practice devolves into playing around. Despite knowing I should be annoyed by the way Ashton keeps fouling me on purpose, I find myself almost having fun. Our play becomes more and more aggressive, sweat dripping off us both as we push each other to our limits, until we're actually trying to trip each other as we weave around the court to score.

During one such maneuver, Ashton feints to the left. I've watched him play enough to know his usual tactics, and I go right. I duck under his arms to attempt to steal the ball, but we end up slamming into each other instead. My hands are griping the ball over my head as my body turns to the side. Ashton's shoulder pushes up under my armpit, his head smacking into my nose as we tumble to the floor. Ashton's big body lands on top of mine, forcing the air from my lungs. I cough and taste copper.

"Fuck. I'm sorry," Ashton says, laughing. Now that I can breathe again, I'm laughing, too.

I'm suddenly aware of the weight of Ashton's body pressing me into the floor, and my traitorous cock twitches. Please don't let him feel that . If the widening of his eyes is any indication, I have no such luck. His gaze moves to mine, but he's quickly distracted, the growing smirk morphing into a frown as he scrambles up. Then he's looming over me, looking down at my face with concern.

"Shit. You're bleeding." His hand moves to cup my cheek, turning my face to the side to inspect it.

I'm lost for a moment, watching his deep brown eyes darken with concern. My hand comes up to his wrist, meaning to push him away, but my fingers only wrap around his wrist.

That's how Coach Weston finds us when he walks in.

"Everything alright in here?"

Ashton and I scramble away from each other and sit up. As soon as I'm vertical, blood gushes from my nose. Weston is at my side with a towel in an instant.

"Dude, I'm sorry?—”

"It was an accident," I say nasally, looking up at Coach Weston over the towel. "We fell."

He looks at Ashton's bruised face, then lifts an eyebrow. "Coach Burke said you two had some stuff to work through. I'm not going to get in the middle of it unless I have to." He pulls the towel away. "Looks like the bleeding stopped already. Do me a favor and clean up this mess?" He says, looking at the smears of blood and sweat on the polished court floor. "We've got a skeleton crew during the break, and I don't want it looking like a homicide occurred on my watch."

"I got it," Ashton offers, standing to go find a mop.

Coach Weston helps me to my feet. "You sure everything's alright here?"

"Yeah, all good. I promise."

"Look, Marcus. You're a good kid, and a damn good player. You and I come from similar backgrounds—single parent, public schools, working for everything we've got. I was never good enough to make it big like you. It was a struggle to get to where I am today, and admittedly half of my success is due to marrying above my station and utilizing the networking opportunities that came along with that. Short of getting a sugar daddy, you're going to have to keep your head down and bust your ass to get to where you deserve to be. But I think you have what it takes to make it." Weston looks over his shoulder, then drops his voice when it sounds like Ashton is making his way down the hallway. "Be careful who you trust. Some people can't handle competition, especially when they feel threatened by the success of others."

He gives me a meaningful look and pats me on the shoulder before heading to his office.

Ashton comes back, awkwardly pushing a mop and bucket to the center of the court where the mess is.

"Do you even know how to work one of those?"

He rolls his eyes at me, then stares down at the handle on the side of the bucket. "Okay, no. But if this was a normal bucket, I could totally figure it out."

Laughing, I help him push the handle, so it squeezes the water out of the mop. He makes an exaggerated show of mopping up the sweat and blood and rinsing the mop out. He almost returns the bucket full of dirty water to the maintenance closet, but I guide him toward the showers to pour it out and rinse the bucket first.

Both of us shower and get dressed in relative silence, but it's not uncomfortable. Ashton seems relaxed, and I'm making an effort to be. My mind is whirling with everything that's happened, and Weston's words are ringing in the back of my head.

As I'm about to leave the locker room, Ashton calls out.

"Same time tomorrow?"

"Yeah. We've got four hours left," I say, noting that it's afternoon already. The morning went by quickly, and I wonder how long we would have stayed on the court if we hadn't ended up on the floor. Then I wonder what would have happened if Coach Weston hadn't walked in when he did. How does Ashton keep catching me off guard?

"Uh, yeah. That's what I meant." He seems disappointed by something, but I don't ask. My stomach is growling, and I need to get my umbrella, so I'm not soaked every time I leave my dorm.

I'm almost through the lobby when Ashton calls out and runs to catch up to me.

"I meant what I said before we… you know. We're going to make it together. As teammates," he quickly adds before I can say anything. "This whole 'dynamic duo' thing is what's going to get us noticed and take our team to the championship. I'm sorry about what I did last night. I shouldn't have tried to kiss you."

"It's just… that's not what this is," I say, and eye the swelling and bruising on the left side of his jaw. "But I'm sorry too. For hitting you, and for what I did the other day. I shouldn't have taken it there."

Ashton reaches out and taps my nose. "Well, we're even on the punch, at least."

He winks and opens his large umbrella over my head. I don't object when he steps in close to me so he can cover us both from the rain. And when he suggests heading to the student union so we can discuss what we're going to do for community service, I agree even though I could just text him the information.

We end up practicing together for the next three mornings and then heading to the student union for lunch. We talk and laugh, avoiding sore subjects like our families and sticking to basketball stats and what strategies we think we'll need to beat the top teams we're playing this year. Our first tournament games are coming up next month after the Thanksgiving holiday, and Ashton is excited to go to Las Vegas. He rolls his eyes, of course, when I say very matter-of-factly that I won't be going out on the town after the games. Not because I'm afraid to break curfew, although I stand to lose more if I'm caught and get in trouble, but because partying with the guys on our team doesn't sound like a good time. We'd probably end up in some flashy strip club where I'd have to spend my life savings to hide in a champagne room by myself while everyone else gets lap dances. No, thank you.

"You know, if you socialized with the team more, they'd probably warm up to you faster."

I snort. "I sincerely doubt that."

"Look, a few of them are admittedly pretty douchey, but they're not all bad guys. Once they get to know you, they'll see how cool you are. And it couldn't hurt to have friends in high places."

"Like I haven't heard that before. I'm not about to let people walk all over me or brown-nose my way into fake friendships because I'm hoping they'll think I'm one of the good ones and will throw me a bone once in a while. People here expect me to kiss their feet because I wasn't born with a silver spoon, but that doesn't make any of you better than me."

"I know it doesn't," Ashton says firmly. "I don't think that."

I give him a pointed look.

"Maybe I used to," he concedes. "But I'm trying to be better. You make me want to be better."

Those words churn in my stomach for the rest of the day, and all the next day while we're working on a clean-up crew from the storm damage. We're both pretty silent while we work, until Ashton notices me talking to Randall, the organizer for the cleanup.

"You know that guy?"

"Yeah, he's the one that told me about the cleanup."

"He looks too old to be a student."

"He's not a student. I think he went to trade school, actually. I can't remember."

"So how do you know him?"

I gesture around at the group of people milling about, picking up garbage and debris. "I work with this group sometimes."

"You volunteer regularly?" He looks surprised by the information, which I find amusing.

"Not as much as I'd like, but I try."

"How did you get into it? Have you, like, had to do community service before?"

“Have you never volunteered before?”

“I’ve never been in trouble like that.”

"You know, some people volunteer their time even when they aren't forced to." I gesture around at the group of people milling about. There's over two dozen people here today, which is a bigger group than usual, but Randall did a phone and email blast to call people out to help. The storm that came through here did a lot of damage to the houses in this small neighborhood. There are plumbers and electrical crews helping restore service, carpenters leading repair jobs, and plenty of people simply picking up garbage and debris.

Ashton lowers his voice. "I kind of assumed everyone here was court ordered or something."

Shaking my head, I can't help but give him a sad laugh. "I'm sure everyone here looks rough by your standards, but these are good, hard-working people. Everyone here is working-class, and maybe to you that makes them seem less-than, because they don't have a lot of money or fancy cars or nice clothes. But if you ask me, it means that their time and effort is even more meaningful because they have less to give."

"I never thought of it that way," he says thoughtfully, eyes roaming around the group of people gathered like I've opened his eyes to a new perspective. It should make me angry to know he finds volunteer work to be below his station, but instead I find his blatant awe a bit endearing.

"You're such a princess."

"Oh, shut up. I am not."

"You so are. Just look at you," I say, gesturing to his crisply pressed jeans and polo shirt. "You're afraid to get dirty."

"I think I've proved that I'm absolutely not afraid of getting dirty." He chuckles and gently flicks the bottom of my earlobe with the pad of his index finger. "I fucking love it when you get all flustered."

"I'm not flustered. And I thought we agreed?—”

"I know, I know. But just because the past won't be repeated doesn't mean we can't use it as a reference point for hard truths."

"Hard truths?"

He rolls his lips in and nods sagely. "At some point, you're going to have to admit that maybe you've gotten some things wrong about me."

I laugh at that. "You're ridiculous."

The smile that takes over his face is radiant. It transforms his entire face, like the sun came out from behind some clouds. Ashton is always a smiley guy, but it's never felt sincere. It's a facade he puts on for the masses of admirers, one that I'm starting to see is something he does because of expectations. Heavy is the crown, and all that…

"Are you just going to stand there and ogle me, or are you actually going to do some work?"

He dodges me as I swat him with my hat.

Ashton attacks the rest of the day with a new energy. He jogs from house to house, asking how he can help, putting his ridiculous height to use holding up support beams, placing siding on houses, and handing heavy materials up to the guys working on roofs. At lunchtime, enough pizza to feed the entire neighborhood shows up, and even though he doesn’t say a word, I know he’s responsible.

He's probably the most enthusiastic and useful member of the crew. He even gives his information to Randall so he can be part of the next volunteer round up.

I see a different side to Ashton James III than I’ve ever seen before. He’s not the pompous prince holding court among his sycophants, or the duplicitous tease he sometimes is when we’re alone. He’s just an average guy, doing his best.

And I hate how much I like this side of him.