Page 8 of Save Me (Maxton Hall #1)

I keep watching Ruby. She digs a camera out of her backpack and takes a photo of the coaches as they shake hands again. I grip my stick so hard I hear my gloves squeaking. I can’t make sense of Ruby and have no clue if she meant what she said or if she hides ice-cold calculation behind that facade.

My family’s fate—and especially Lydia’s—lies in that girl’s hands, and I don’t like that one bit.

I seriously can’t afford to be seen with you.

We’ll see about that.

Ruby

I’m out of my depth.

Lacrosse is a fast-moving sport. The ball shoots from one stick to another, and I can’t keep up—either with the camera or the naked eye.

I should have known from the start that I couldn’t report on the game without Lin.

We normally split our articles, whatever the sport, so that one of us takes notes on the match and the other takes the photos.

But Lin’s mum ordered her up to London again today, and at such short notice that we didn’t have time to get anyone else on the events team to step in.

But posts about the lacrosse team get way more clicks on the events team blog than anything else, so we can’t miss this.

The problem is, I can’t write a report on “Maxton vs. Eastview—Battle of the Titans” without understanding what’s happening on the field.

But with everyone yelling at once—players, swearing coaches, and cheers and boos from the crowd—it’s hard to follow the action, let alone get photos of the key moments.

Especially seeing that I’m working with a camera that is well over ten years old.

“Shit!” Mr. Freeman roars beside me, so loud that I jump a mile. I look up from the camera in my hand to find that I’ve missed Eastview’s second goal. Rats. Lin’s going to kill me.

I take a step closer to the coach. There are no action replays when you’re watching live, but maybe he can explain what’s happening. But before I can open my mouth, he’s shouting again.

“Pass, for God’s sake, Ellington!”

I whirl back toward the field. Alistair Ellington is sprinting into the other half, so fast that I don’t even bother raising the camera—I’d never catch that on film.

He tries to dodge between two defenders, but suddenly a third man is blocking his way.

Ellington is bloody fast but much smaller than the others.

Even I can see he has no chance against three of them.

One defender crashes his shoulder into him hard. Ellington tries to hold his ground but is pushed back at least a foot.

“Pass!” the coach roars again.

Alistair continues to press against the player, and even from here, I can hear the two of them goading each other.

Suddenly, Alistair’s stance stiffens even further, and for a second, he and the other guy seem frozen to the spot.

Mr. Freeman takes a deep breath, presumably to yell further instructions, but then Alistair pulls back his stick, swings, and hits his opponent in the side with full force.

I gasp, horrified. Alistair hits him again, in his belly this time.

The other player bellows with pain and drops to his knees.

Meanwhile, the second defender lands on top of Alistair, wrestles him to the ground, and rains punches on him with his gloved fists.

Alistair whacks him with his stick too. A shrill blast of the whistle sounds, but it takes several players to pull them apart.

I hear James Beaufort’s dark voice. He’s screaming at Ellington, and I can imagine that, as captain, he’d like to rip his head off right now.

Next to me, Mr. Freeman is swearing freely. Most of his choice of words is certainly not family friendly, “fucking shit” being about the most printable. He’s taken his cap off and is clutching his hair so hard I think he actually pulls some of it out. A moment later, the referee sends Alistair off.

He comes over to us, pulls off his helmet, and takes out his mouth guard. He throws them both carelessly to the ground.

“What the hell, Ellington?” growls the coach.

I take a cautious step back so I don’t get caught in the crossfire.

“He had it coming,” he replies. His voice is so calm you’d never think he was just in a fight.

“You are…”

“Suspended for three games?” Alistair shrugs. “If you think the team can do without me, then fine.”

He strolls casually away from the coach, drops his stick too, and pulls off his gloves. When he catches sight of me staring, he pauses.

“What?” he asks aggressively.

I shake my head.

Luckily, the referee blows his whistle, and I don’t have to answer.

I hurry back to my original position. It takes me a few seconds to see the ball—in the net on Wren Fitzgerald’s stick.

Wren isn’t as fast as Alistair, but he’s stronger.

He rams an Eastview player out of the way with his shoulder, but the ball is soon tackled off him.

But Beaufort’s on it and catches the ball back when the other player goes to pass.

I pull a face. Beaufort’s good. Bloody good.

His movement is agile and silky, he keeps in step with his opposition, and if anyone gets in his way, he’s brutal.

I can’t see his face under the helmet, but I’m sure he loves to be on the field.

When he plays, it looks like he’s spent his entire life running around with a lacrosse stick.

“What are you doing?” Alistair’s voice sounds next to me. I jump guiltily as I remember why I’m actually here. I hurriedly open my notebook again.

“I’m writing the game up for the Maxton blog,” I explain, not looking up. “Who’s the defender who just took the ball off Wren?”

“Harrington,” Alistair replies. I can feel his eyes on me as Freeman lets fly another string of curses. Apparently, Beaufort lost the ball while I was writing my notes. Eastview has possession again.

“Come on, Kesh,” Alistair mutters.

The Eastview attacker jumps a foot and a half in the air to catch the ball.

He lands, takes two quick steps, and then fires it rapidly ahead of him.

It all happens so fast that at first, I’m not sure whether it hit the back of the net.

But then the Maxton stand cheers loudly as Keshav holds up his stick.

Seems like Alistair’s muttering did the trick—he’s caught it.

“Make me look good when you write your article,” Alistair says as I make a note: Keshav’s last-second save .

I eye him dubiously. It’s the first time I’ve seen him this close, and I realize that his eyes are the color of whisky. “You attacked another player for no reason. How am I meant to make that look good?”

A shadow flits over his face and his eyes rest on Keshav again. “Who says there was no reason?”

I shrug. “From here, it didn’t look like you’d put much thought into it.”

Alistair raises his eyebrows at me. “I’ve been waiting for months for the chance to land one on McCormack. And once he mouthed off about me and a friend of mine, I finally had official grounds.”

One of his blond curls falls into his face, and he pushes it out of the way. Then he catches sight of my notes. He wrinkles his nose. “How are you going to read that to write it up? It’s illegible.”

I wish I could protest, but he’s right. Normally, my handwriting is neat, and if I try, it can be really nice. But at the speed I’m scribbling here, it’s nothing but a scrawl.

“There are usually two of us,” I defend myself, when I really shouldn’t care what Alistair Ellington thinks about my writing. “And it’s not that easy to take photos and watch the game at the same time, let alone know what moves I should be writing about.”

“Why didn’t you just film the match?” he asks. He sounds genuinely interested, not like he’s looking for reasons to laugh at me.

I hold up my camera with no further comment.

Alistair winces. “How old is that thing then?”

“I think my mum bought it before my sister was born,” I reply.

“And how old is your sister? Five?”

“Sixteen.”

Alistair blinks a few times, then a grin spreads over his face.

Now he doesn’t look like the tough lacrosse player who was beating another guy with his stick a moment ago.

He looks more like…an angel. His features are handsome and even, and together with the blond curls, he looks utterly harmless.

But I know that’s not true. Alistair is one of James Beaufort’s best friends—which makes him anything but harmless.

“Hold on,” he says suddenly, then turns and vanishes into the changing room. Before I can ask where he’s going, he’s back beside me. He’s holding a black iPhone in his hand.

“I don’t have space to film the whole match, but I can take some photos,” he says. He unlocks the screen, opens the camera, and turns the phone to face the field. When he sees that I haven’t moved, he raises an eyebrow again. “Watch the game, not me.”

I blink, confused. I’m too surprised even to be embarrassed that he caught me staring again. “You’re helping me?”

He shrugs. “It’s not like I’ve got anything better to do right now.”

“That’s…kind of you.” I try not to sound too suspicious but without much success. This situation is so surreal. I can’t believe this is Elaine’s brother. Elaine would never have helped me. She’d just have laughed at my camera and made sure everyone else knew about it tomorrow too.

For a while, I watch Alistair out of the corner of my eye, but he does seem to be taking his new task seriously. He snaps photo after photo, only sometimes lowering the phone to yell encouragement at his team or swear at the opposition.

I focus on my notes, which is much easier now.

When Mr. Freeman comes over, I think at first that he’s going to send Alistair away altogether because of the rude words he’s shouting at an Eastview player.

But instead, he stands next to me and starts explaining the game and telling me what some of the moves are called.

It starts raining in the last ten minutes of the match, but that doesn’t seem to dampen the mood, either on the field or in the stands.

Quite the reverse. Maxton Hall wins thanks to a goal from Beaufort and an assist from Cyril Vega, and the fans go wild.

The coach throws his arms up in the air, fists clenched, and roars.

I hurriedly shut my notebook and shove it into my bag. My hair is dripping now, and my fringe is plastered onto my face. There’s no point trying to sort it out and no way that I want to push it back—sadly, I inherited my dad’s high forehead.

One by one, the players jog off the field and high-five Alistair—everyone but Keshav, who walks toward the changing room without looking at him.

An emotion I can’t identify flits over Alistair’s face.

His grin slips for a split second, and his eyes go dark, impenetrable.

But then he blinks and the moment passes so rapidly that I decide I only imagined it.

Yet again, Alistair catches me looking at him. He raises his eyebrows.

“Thanks again,” I say hastily, before he can speak. I don’t know if he’ll still be nice to me with his friends around, and I don’t want to find out. “For the photos.”

“No problem.” He taps his phone screen and then holds it out to me. He’s got the number pad up. “Give me your number, and I’ll send them to you.”

I take the phone. Before I’ve typed in the last number, I hear a voice that I know only too well these days.

“What are you two up to?”

I look up.

James Beaufort is facing me. He’s soaked to the skin.

His reddish-blond hair is much darker than normal and hanging down in his face, making his cheekbones look sharper than ever.

He has his stick in one hand and helmet in the other and doesn’t seem to care that the water is running off his face, down his shoulders, and over his whole body, mingling with the mud that’s crusted his top during the game.

Against my will, I’m staring at his wet body. The sight of him is stirring something very far from suspicion and loathing inside me. It’s an unfamiliar emotion, but I’m pretty sure that James Beaufort is the last person I should be feeling like this about.

Firmly, I suppress all thoughts about what it could mean and try to look as unfazed as possible.

Luckily, Alistair answers his question. “She’s writing up the game on the Maxton blog.” He takes his phone from my hand, looks at the number and the name I’ve saved it under. I doubt he knew who I was until just now. “I’ll send you the photos later, Ruby.”

“Great, thanks,” I say, although I’m preparing my mind for the fact that he probably won’t. However much he’s surprised me in the last half hour, he’s still Alistair Ellington.

“I’ll go and see how angry Kesh is,” he tells James.

“Raging,” James says, turning his cold eyes on his friend and teammate. “And so am I, and everyone else. I told you not to touch McCormack.”

“And I didn’t listen.” Alistair shrugs his shoulders. “You might be captain, James, but you’re not my mother.” He sounds like he doesn’t care what James thinks of him, but when he claps him on the shoulder, it looks to me like an apology. Then he turns on his heel and walks to the changing room.

James is still watching me. His eyes are colder than before. Whether that’s because of me or the brief bust-up with Alistair, I don’t know, but I just want to get out of here as soon as possible.

“What was that?” he asks.

The rain feels freezing now.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I say, sounding braver than I really feel.

He makes a brief sound that’s probably meant as a laugh. Or a bark? I’m not quite sure. All I know is that his stance is stiffer and even more unyielding than ever.

“Keep your hands off my friends, Ruby.”

Before I can reply, he rushes past me into the changing room as the crowd roars.