Page 57 of Second Position (Astor Hill #2)

Gen

Orbs of light reflect on the floor from the hanging disco balls and a snowflake inspired floral installation fills out all the empty, cavernous space of the gymnasium.

Every single student athlete is here, abusing the full bar and congregating around the dark clothed tables perfectly spaced throughout, leaving just enough room for the checkerboard dance floor.

You’d almost think that with this many people, the gossip would’ve been swallowed whole, maybe forgotten, but no—all anyone here can do is talk about Will.

They want to know where he’s gone, why he left, what could have happened.

They’re the same kinds of questions they were just asking about Ben a few years ago, and I wish they would move on already.

My eyes fall shut as I breathe in deeply, counting my breaths as I breathe out.

I’d rather not be here, but I can only be a hermit for so long.

Jean dragged me here and I know he was right to do so.

I’m a principal this year; I am in the role of my dreams, and I’m just going to skip out on celebrating that, skip out on celebrating all the successes of Astor Hill Athletics because I’m sad ?

It’s pathetic. And yet, all I want to do is climb back under my sheets and dissociate from reality rather than be at this holiday mixer.

“He’s not even here, Gen,” Jean says next to me, the both of us leaning back against the wall furthest from the entrance like a pair of lonely wallflowers.

It’s the perfect spot to people-watch—close enough that passersby can greet us or congratulate me, far enough away from the drunken dancing happening in the center that no one lingers too much for fear of missing out.

“It’s fine. He can be here. He has just as much right as me,” I say in an attempt to convince myself more than him. His brows tug upward, not buying my feigned coolness.

“And he hasn’t…?” he mutters, eyes scanning the room.

“No,” I say on an exhale, turning inward towards him.

“And you know what? If he’s done, okay. I just…

I need to move on, Jean. It’s like time froze on Halloween and I’ve been waiting for him to hit play.

But fuck that,” I insist, growing more impassioned like it’ll help me care less. Make all of this hurt less.

Jean doesn’t give his usual conspiratorial grin; instead, he squints at me sympathetically.

“I’m serious. I’m done chasing people who don’t want me. I deserve?—”

Jean’s eyes slide up and past me, the shift in them registering with me immediately and my own eyes lift as I turn.

I see him from across the room, hands shoved into the pockets of his dress pants, the hard set of his jaw sending my heart hurtling, the top of his crisp shirt purposefully unbuttoned to reveal a glimpse of him and desire swirls inside me, only to followed by a wave of anger.

Seeing him is brutal and I couldn’t be flippant about it if I tried, couldn’t pretend like I don’t wish for another reality every day.

His gaze roams over my body, touches me from yards away with just the subtle heat of it, and I rip my eyes from him, scoffing as I pull Jean by the arm and over to the punch table.

“Gen—” he starts to say, so obviously about to convince me to do something I’ll regret. “Maybe you should talk to him…”

“Why? So he can tell me he misses me but that we can’t be together?” I laugh, sloppily pouring the red foaming liquid into a cup.

“I’m just saying that he looked at you like?—”

“Like he wants me?” My voice raises without my permission and I huff a breath, shaking my head. “It’s not enough, Jean. It wasn’t the last time. I’m not going to be that girl again.”

“That’s not fair, G. He’s not him,” he chastises, his head tilting in disappointment, and I know he means Will. And I know that, know that he couldn’t be further from him, and maybe that’s what has me reeling.

I didn’t want Grant because I couldn’t have him, or because we were messily intertwined; didn’t want him because he reminded me of the past, or because I was convinced he would crumble without me.

The way I wanted him was so different from that.

It was like flying; it was riding a wave, it was floating away on a breeze and not even thinking about what would happen if it went away, if the water dried up, if we clipped our wings.

Because that felt impossible. He looked at me like that was impossible, like nothing could change us.

But it wasn’t true, and I have to stop wishing for it to be.

“Who’s side?— ”

A collective ping rings out, hundreds of phones chiming in a cacophony of notifications that none of us can ignore.

All the fight leaves Jean’s eyes as he gets to his phone first, eyes boring into the screen as he slowly scrolls.

Soft murmurs ripple across the holiday mixer, and by the time my phone reveals the news blast to me, it’s full blown, disbelieving chatter.

Astor Hill Gazette

brEAKING NEWS: Genevieve Dupont, has twirled her way into a scandal worthy of a full-blown opera. But this isn't Tchaikovsky—this is pure, unadulterated Astor Hill chaos.

Our favorite bad boy, Will Chapman, has vanished, last seen fleeing the Sigma Chi Halloween bash, his eyes burning with betrayal. Why the hasty exit? Sources whisper of a scene so scandalous, it could curdle even the finest champagne: Genevieve, trailing golden boy Grant Fielder like a lost lamb.

But here's the real twist: It seems our two basketball stars, Will and Grant, were engaged in a little competition of their own. A bet, if you will, to see who on the team could snag our resident Sugarplum Fairy first.

With Genevieve's mother, a seasoned veteran of the romantic battlefield, passing down her… strategies, one has to wonder: is Genevieve a pawn in their little game? Or is she playing them both, turning their twisted little bet into her own grand performance?

A vanished bad boy, a golden boy ensnared, and a sugarplum fairy with a secret agenda? Santa certainly came early this year, and he brought scandal.

Hot, angry tears stream down my cheeks the longer I read, disbelief heating my skin as I look back to Jean.

“Gen, listen to me—I had no idea he was going to publish this,” Jean starts rambling, his eyes glistening with tears.

My chest heaves, my lips pressing hard into each other to staunch the shock of knowing everyone read Ian’s latest piece of gossip—about me .

I’m rooted to the ground, paralyzed by the attention pouring into me by every single person in this room.

“Yeah I heard her mom’s like stolen people’s husbands.”

“Why would Grant go for her?”

“Oh my god do you think this is why Will broke up with Olivia?”

Someone loudly collapses into a table and when we look over, we see Scott’s nose bloodied, Grant stalking away from him with fists clenched, and I know he hit him.

Know that somehow, Scott had something to do with the news blast and Grant took it upon himself to defend me.

It sends a flash of heat across me at the same moment that it pisses me off.

I don’t know where to look. Everything is happening so fast and I want to evaporate right out of thin air.

“Thank god you’re here,” I hear Jean say, looking up to find Olivia directly in front of me. She confidently grabs me by the shoulders, her face a sea of calm I never would’ve believed I’d come to appreciate so much.

“It’s going to be okay. They will move on just as quickly as they found out.

I promise,” she whispers, and I nod, her reassurance helping me regain my agency.

But my anger doesn’t abate; it grows and grows, collecting every instance of this, of people believing the worst in me, until it’s a glowing ball of fire.

“Come on,” she starts to say, gripping my hand while Jean cups me by the elbow. “Let’s just?—”

“I got her.” His voice, the one I love, the one that haunts me, ricochets through me, tricks me into feeling safe.

Before I realize what’s happening, Grant’s wrapping his coat around me, ushering me out of the gymnasium and away from the prying eyes.

My body betrays me, letting him because despite what I know to be true—that this changes nothing—I miss him.

And for a moment I’m grateful, for his touch, for his comfort—until I remember why he’s offering it at all.

I erupt the moment we burst through the door, the snow falling on and around us doing nothing to cool the temper that’s been burning inside me. I roughly shrug out of his touch, flinging off the coat before stepping away from him, only for him to tug me back.

“Gen, please?—“

“Let go,” I grit out, and he releases me in an instant, confusion and worry swirling in his eyes.

“At least put the jacket back on,” he insists, his gaze landing on my bare shoulders peppered with snowflakes.

“I don’t need you to look out for me!” I shout suddenly, weeks or years of fury compounding in my voice.

He stands there stunned, his chest heaving as he regards me. “I just need to make sure you’re okay,” he says, restrained and measured.

“You don’t get that privilege anymore. You didn’t want me, remember?” I hurl my words, praying they hit its mark, hoping they’ll hurt enough for him to care.

And they strike like a match because something sparks in his gaze as his jaw sets, his face twitching with emotion, his head shaking in disbelief. “Didn’t want you? I was devastated, Gen. I was heartbr—” He reaches for me, but I evade his touch.

“ I was heartbroken! I was fucking gutted when you told me to go. That’s what you told me when I told you I’d do anything. Anything, Grant. You told me to walk away . And I did, because maybe you needed time.”

“Just let me?—”

“No, Grant. You told me you shouldn’t have called . You didn’t want me ,” I choke out, the hurt feeling fresh all over. “I didn’t run from this—you pushed me away .”