Page 5

CHAPTER 5

ASHTON, AGE 15

"What are you doing out here?"

If my voice is a little sharp, it's only because I'm surprised to see the very person who was just on my mind. I left early from the dining hall, hoping to use the camp showers before everyone else. After a long and confusing day, I need the time alone.

"I could ask you the same thing," Marcus snaps back. At least he has a reason to be testy with me. "Or did you get tired of all your douchey friends falling all over themselves to kiss your ass?"

A laugh escapes me. "Yeah, kind of."

He seems surprised that I'm agreeing with him and laughing rather than starting a fight. Enough that he stops walking and actually looks at me. It's been a tense few days, but I don't think he's looked at me with anything less than hatred since our first match up during the orientation skills trials.

Marcus quickly proved he was worth whatever scholarship he got to come here, but he also put a target on his back. On both of our backs, actually, seeing as everyone seems dead set on pitting us against each other in every competition. And true to their usual antics, my douchey friends, as he rightly called them, have taken every opportunity to taunt and tease him about his clothes, shoes, and status as a scholarship recipient to come to the prestigious basketball camp we've been attending since we were twelve. Never mind that in order to even be considered for a scholarship, he would have had to prove himself to be twice as good as everyone else whose families bought their spots in this program. As an alumnus of the university that runs this program, my father has made plenty of donations, ensuring my spot at the yearly intensive basketball camp run by the school. I'm a good player, currently ranked second best in the state for my age group, but I'm well aware that I didn't have to try out to be guaranteed a spot.

Guess who holds the number one spot?

Having Marcus' shockingly blue eyes locked on me is a bit unnerving, no matter how much I crave his attention. I admit to being perhaps a touch obnoxious to catch his notice. Mostly all he's done is roll eyes and ignored me. Luckily, my friends have helped me get his attention by being outright assholes. Every time one of them throws food at him or sneaks up behind him to flick the back of his ears, he turns around and glares at me. What can I expect? I haven't tried very hard to make them stop. And part of me likes the competition.

"Wanna shoot some hoops?" I ask, nodding towards the outdoor courts.

"What?"

I repeat myself slowly, like I'm talking to a small child. "You know, bas-ket-ball ? The whole reason we're here?"

"I got that part, dickwad," he says with exaggerated annoyance. "What I'm trying to figure out is why you're asking me? You have plenty of friends, as we've established."

"Yes, and as we’ve also established, they're all douchebags. Besides," I say with a casual shrug, hoping my eagerness to be near him isn't too obvious. "You're the only one here good enough to make it a game."

His ears turn red, and I like it a lot more than I should. It might be the cutest thing I've seen in my life, which is the most ridiculous thought I've ever had. Puppies are cute. Caterpillars are cute. Girls who wear high ponytails and giggle when you smile at them are cute. This boy—this teenage boy, nearly a man, who is almost as tall as I am and is starting to show signs of facial hair—is not cute .

"Are you sure they're not all letting you win, so you'll let them keep kissing your ass?"

"Do you want to find out, or do you just want to talk shit?"

Marcus shrugs. "I can do both."

He walks confidently down the path that leads to the outdoor courts. My shoes scuff on the sidewalk as I shuffle to follow him, hoping against hope that he doesn't look back to see my entire face turn three times redder than his ears just did.

When the outdoor courts come into view, I jog ahead to guide us toward the farthest one. The way they're lit with a single floodlight at the end of each court makes it feel like we're in our own little bubble.

The sound of the ball bouncing off the pavement echoes in the night, and I look up to see Marcus dribbling with a glimmer of challenge in his blue eyes. That. That right there.

That look makes my insides feel weird. I finally understand why they call it getting butterflies, because I feel like a flock of them is flying around inside me, fluttering around my heart and lungs. It's a little hard to pull in a full breath.

Blinking to orient myself, I accept the ball he passes to me. We play in relative silence, taking shots and passing the ball back and forth, getting warmed up for a game of HORSE.

"I'm, uh, sorry they're such jerks to you."

"Uh-huh," he says dismissively, then lines up a perfect three pointer that makes a whoosh right through the net.

"Why do you say it like that?" I ask, taking possession of the ball and lining up my own shot. It goes through, but not as cleanly.

When Marcus gets the ball again, he dribbles slowly for a minute, then moves towards me with a nod. You ready? He asks without words. I tense, understanding that the game is officially on.

Lunging for the ball in a flash of movement I don't expect him to be ready for, I nearly fall on my face. He easily skirts around me, side stepping and passing the ball between my legs. I can't stop looking at the cocky grin on his face, one side of his lips turned up and his eyebrow raised. Despite kicking almost everyone's ass on the daily since camp started, he’s rarely so sure of himself. I like that he seems to be coming out of his shell with me.

"First of all, I can handle myself," he says flatly.

“I know you can, tough guy.”

Marcus dribbles towards me, faking left before crossing to his right, shooting, and drawing an imaginary H in the air when the ball sinks through the net.

"I don't need your sorries. But it's not like you tell them to stop. They listen to you, practically bow when you walk into a room, but you just watch them act a fool and never call them on it."

He's right. I might not join in on my friend's jeering or bullying, but I don't do anything to stop it, either. I've mentioned here and there that it's getting old and we should focus on the game, but I haven't done anything to back it up. And, yeah, most of their dads are connected to my family in some capacity. Kent's granddad is my dad's lawyer. Liam's dad is a board member of my dad's company. Victor's mom is my mom's best friend, and his dad is a shareholder and plays golf with my dad. My dad holds power over their families, if only for the sheer wealth he holds and lords over everyone. It's pretty gross, actually. Everyone treats my dad like royalty, all but bowing when he enters a room. I don't think I ever realized how similarly my friends treat me, and I don’t like it.

I've wanted to stand up for him, wanted to tell them to leave him alone. More than that, I've wanted to give them all a strong middle finger salute and go join whatever he's doing. My friends think I'm scowling at Marcus because he's my biggest competition here, but really, I just can't look away. I'm interested in him. I want to know more about him, about his home life, how he feels about high school, what he wants to do after. Does he want to join the NBA like me? How is his dad doing after my dad's company ran him out of business—because I know he did, and I know he likely did it on purpose because he has some vendetta against Roman Vell.

It’s not like I can follow through on those thoughts. Not only am I not ready to let my friends in on the secret I’m still trying to figure out, but I know whatever I do here will get back to my father. Buddying up to his enemy's only son isn't going to win me any favors. Not when he's already warned me to keep my distance.

I'm not sure why I can't stay away from him like I've been told. Maybe part of it is because I've been told to stay away, which makes me want to do the opposite. It opened up an insatiable curiosity about why my father hates his family so much, when none of them seem that bad from the outside.

Or maybe it's because there's something about Marcus Vell that ties me up in knots, and I've never felt like this before. It's kind of nauseating, actually.

Marcus wins the match, but it's close. I could have been more aggressive, but every time I get close enough or need to touch him, I get jittery and feel like I might throw up. That would be embarrassing.

The voices of the rest of the camp being released from dinner filter up to our little haven. I'm not ready for the night to be over, but I'm not ready for my friends to find us together, either. I want to keep it to myself a little longer, if only to protect this little bubble of closeness we've formed tonight.

"Wanna meet up again tomorrow for a rematch?"

"R-really?" I stammer like a loser. Like he's some kind of famous person, and I'm an adoring fan who can't believe he chose me to have a one-on-one with. "I mean, yeah. That'd be cool."

"Alright, see you tomorrow, Princess."

"Princess? Really?"

He mimics bowing down, and I can't help but laugh through my cheeks heating.

As he walks away, I think back to all the times my father has mentioned Marcus and his family. I don't understand what the issue is between them, but I know they hate each other. My dad talks about the Vell family like they're pests, a family of rodents taking up residence in his house. A lump forms in my throat thinking about the way my mother and Mimi trash talk Mrs. Vell all the time. Like they’re better because she spends her days at a country club rather than working. Yet the Vells are the ones making an honest living, working hard for what they have and still making time to support their son at basketball games. They seem happy, despite not having a fraction of what my family has, and it's always miserable in my house.

A couple of years ago, my father's company bought out a huge chunk of the town to build a massive shopping center. The big-name box store, hardware depot, and chain restaurant replaced a slew of mom-and-pop shops, a local pet store, and a bunch of other small, locally owned businesses—including Marcus' dad's sporting goods store. I remember how pissed off my dad was back then, always raging about how Mr. Vell refused his offer to buy him out. I couldn't help but feel a surge of respect for Mr. Vell. I’ve never seen anyone stand up to my father, but this small business owner with a chip on his shoulder gave him a run for his money and put off the project for two years before AJames Enterprises finally steamrolled their way into getting what they wanted. Even if it ended up costing him his business in the long run, Mr. Vell stood his ground. I could see where Marcus got that spine of steel from.

I skip dinner entirely the next night, feigning a headache and eating a protein bar after everyone leaves. Even though we're going to be sweating, I take a shower, mess with my hair, and brush my teeth. It's not until I'm an inch away from the mirror, checking my teeth and running my fingers through my hair to arrange it for the third time, that I realize what I'm doing.

I'm primping. To see Marcus. For a casual one-on-one game I've played a million times with dozens of other friends. It's nothing I haven't done before, but this time it's… different. Because it's him. And he makes me feel…

I don't know. Some sort of way I don't really have a name for.

When I get to the court, he's waiting for me. He's wearing the same clothes he was wearing when I saw him just before dinner, but his hair is wet and pushed back off his forehead. It's not long until his curls bounce back to life on top of his head, and I love it. I wish it was still long like it was when we were kids. I wonder if he'd remember that day if I brought it up, but it feels strange to admit that I remember it, or that I think about it at all.

We're more relaxed tonight, joking and laughing with each other as we play. For once, I catch him watching me just as many times as he catches me, although I'm not sure if it's for the same reason. The something between us feels thick, like the rising humidity of summer in the south. And when we finish the game and walk off the court, we do so side by side. When our arms brush, neither of us moves away. We stop at the end of the fenced-in court, just outside the ring of light. The air around us feels alive, like there's an electrical storm brewing. Energy crackles between us.

"Marcus?" My voice, despite being barely above a whisper, cracks in that embarrassing way it does when I get worked up. He doesn't seem to notice, or maybe he doesn't react because it happens to him, too.

"Ashton?" He repeats my name back to me with the same inflection, minus the pubescent voice strain.

"Can I ask you something?"

He nods, casually leaning back on the edge of the fence. Or at least I think he's trying to come off casual, but he's too twitchy for it to work. It makes me feel brave. He's nervous, too.

Whatever I wanted to say gets caught in my throat. I lean into his space without thinking, close enough that I can smell his sweat mixed with the faint scent of his soap. I'm so close I can feel his breath on my skin.

The air gets heavier. My heart beats so hard my eardrums rattle.

My eyes flutter closed, and I lean in another inch.

"You know our dads basically hate each other, right?" Marcus blurts. I fall forward, dodging at the last moment and catching myself against the fence. The bounce back of the chain link pushes his chest to bump into mine. We both sputter, trying to pretend we didn't just humiliate ourselves.

Trying to play it cool, I shrug. "Yeah, so?"

"Just curious if you knew."

"Yeah, I know. I've known for a long time. I don't get it, but I don't care."

Marcus scoffs. "Of course you don't care."

"Why should I care about what a couple of old guys choose to bicker about?"

He looks lost in thought for a moment. I can see the wheels turning. He bites his bottom lip and shrugs again, still looking unsure. I wonder how much he knows about our dads and the relationship between them. I don't know much. I found some old pictures in a box in the attic last year when I was digging around for something to use for a school project. One of them was a picture of my dad around my age, with my grandfather and his second wife. I knew they died in a car accident, but other than his business acumen and the inheritance that passed down to my dad, I don't know anything about my grandfather. That's not what I was interested in when I found the picture, though. My eyes caught on another boy in the picture, who was maybe a couple of years older than my dad, who looked incredibly familiar. He looked a lot like Marcus.

When I asked my parents, they told me to mind my business. Even after I pressed, all I could get out of them was that Roman Vell is a grifter who tried to steal something from my dad.

I don't know what to believe. As curious as I am, I'm more curious about the boy standing in front of me. The one wetting his lips and looking at mine with wide, unsure eyes before darting his searching gaze back to mine. I step forward again, my mind reeling.

I'm about to have my first kiss. With a boy . With Marcus. The boy I'm supposed to hate as much as my family hates his, but I can't find it in myself to be anything more than curious about him.

We're so close, I'm breathing the air he exhales.

Jesus, can he hear how hard my heart is beating? I can't hear anything else.

Marcus' chin tilts up, his lips almost meeting mine, and?—

"Marcus?! Marcus Vell?!"

I think for a moment we've been busted. Even if they didn't see how close we were to kissing, we're not supposed to roam the grounds without supervision. They’re going to tell my dad, and then I’ll never be allowed to come back. He only lets me come here because his friend from college runs this place. It’s connected to the college, and it’s pretty prestigious. Otherwise he’d make me intern at his office, probably. Ugh, this is going to ruin every summer for the rest of my life until I move out. I step away from Marcus before they can guess we were up to something. Maybe I can convince them we weren’t doing anything wrong, and not to tell my dad?—

But when the camp director finds us, she doesn’t react or say a word. She’s breathless and frantic, running up the path, red faced and puffing. Director Ora doesn’t pay me any mind at all. She only pulls Marcus away, hurrying him back towards the camp offices.

Marcus leaves that night and doesn’t come back.