Chapter 1
Chapter 1 – Ethan
Jack Mercer had my jersey in his fist and his teeth at my throat in the tunnel after the game, and he was not biting down, he was just breathing me in like he had a right to.
"You're shaking, Cole," he said, his voice low enough that the concrete ate most of it, "you scared I am gonna finish what I started on court."
I grabbed his wrist, my fingers slipped on sweat, and I tried to sound bored, "Get off me, Mercer, cameras are thirty feet that way."
He grinned, it was not a nice grin, it never was with me, "Then stop smelling like that."
"I smell like a win, you would not recognize it."
That got me shoved back into the cinderblock wall, hard enough my teeth clicked together, and the crowd was still roaring on the other side of the doors, Westwood had taken Game 1 of the Finals by four points and I had dropped twenty nine on his head to do it, my knees were buzzing, my whole body was buzzing actually, wrong, too hot for Vegas air conditioning.
Jack leaned in, his nose brushed my jaw, and my stomach dropped straight through the floor, "You been running from me for four years," he said, "how long you think that works."
"Until you graduate and leave me alone."
"Liar."
I kneed him in the thigh, not hard, just enough to get air, and he let go with a laugh that sounded pissed off, he stepped back and rolled his shoulders like he was shaking something off too.
"See you tomorrow, sweetheart," he said.
"Do not call me that."
"Make me stop."
He walked off toward the Hawthorne locker room with his team yelling for him down the hall, and I stood there with my back against the cold wall and counted to ten while my hands stopped trembling, my mouth was dry, my skin felt too tight, probably just adrenaline, Finals adrenaline always hit weird.
Adam found me a minute later, he took one look at my face and frowned, "You good," he said, and it was not really a question.
"Yeah, Mercer being Mercer."
"He put hands on you again."
"He talks big, that is it."
Adam handed me my towel, he is my roommate, my point backup, and the only person on Westwood who knows what I am, he did not push, he just walked with me to our locker room with his shoulder bumping mine, blocking me from the press guys hovering by the doors.
Inside it was loud, music, guys yelling, Coach going over tape on a tablet, I sat on the bench and untied my shoes with fingers that would not stay steady, my undershirt was soaked through, I could smell myself, sour and sharp, which meant my blockers were slipping, great timing.
I dug through my duffel for my suppressants while everyone was distracted, orange bottle, my brother's handwriting on the label with the dosage, I dry swallowed two in the back of the room with a sip of warm water from my bottle, they stuck going down.
"Yo, Cole," Marcus from our bench yelled, "you coming out, ESPN wants the hero shot."
"Two minutes," I said.
Adam sat next to me and lowered his voice, "You took them early this morning, right."
"Yeah."
"And now again."
"They wore off fast, big game, you know how it is."
He looked at me, "You look flushed."
"It is Vegas and I just ran forty minutes, I am flushed."
"Your scent is up."
I froze with my jersey half over my head, "How bad."
"Not bad bad, beta nose would not catch it, I caught it because I know you."
I nodded and pulled the jersey down fast, "I will double tomorrow, I will be fine for Game 2."
"You sure."
"Adam, I am fine."
He held up his hands, "Okay, okay, just checking."
Coach called my name and I went and did the press thing with a smile that felt glued on, lights, mics, the same five questions, how does it feel to beat Mercer, what is your plan for tomorrow, are you thinking about the draft, I said all the right stuff, my tongue felt thick, and by the time they let me go my shirt was stuck to my back again and a headache was pushing behind my eyes.
The bus ride to the hotel was quiet, guys were tired and beat up, I stared out the window at the strip lights blurring past and tried not to think about Jack's mouth on my throat in that tunnel, he never actually bites, he just threatens, it is our thing, he gets close, I tell him to back off, he calls me sweetheart just to watch me snap, four years of it.
It should not get me hot, it does anyway, that is my problem, not his.
In the hotel lobby Hawthorne was checking in at the other counter, Jack saw me immediately, of course he did, he always does, he was in a black hoodie with his hair still wet from his shower, he stared straight at me across the marble floor while his coach talked at him, I looked away first, I always look away first.
My room was on the fourteenth floor, Adam dumped his bag and went to find ice, I locked the bathroom door, stripped off my sweaty clothes, and stood under the shower until the water ran cold, it did not help, my skin still felt like it was humming, my stomach kept cramping low and mean.
When I got out I checked my bottle again, I counted the pills left, I thought about calling my brother Marcus, he sources these for me off the pack network, he would tell me to take an extra half and sleep it off, he would also tell me to quit, again, so I did not call.
I took one more pill anyway, just to be safe, then I put the bottle back in my toiletry bag and zipped it shut tight.
Adam came back with ice and two terrible sandwiches from the lobby shop, we ate on our beds and watched tape on his laptop, Hawthorne's defense, Jack's shooting hand, the pick and roll they kept killing us with.
"You see how he watches you," Adam said, pausing the video, Jack was on screen, eyes locked on me instead of the ball.
"That is called man to man defense."
"That is called a guy who wants to eat you alive."
"Shut up."
Adam laughed, "I am serious, if you ever told him, I think his brain would short circuit."
"I am never telling him anything, he is Hawthorne, he is the enemy, end of story."
"Right, the enemy you let pin you in tunnels."
"It is not like that."
"Sure."
I threw a pillow at his head, he threw it back, we went back to the tape, and after an hour my headache faded and the buzzing under my skin calmed down, the extra pill was working, good, Game 2 was in less than twenty four hours and I needed to be sharp, Jack would come out swinging after a loss, he always did.
My phone buzzed around midnight, unknown number, I almost ignored it, then it buzzed again with a text, it said, you left your mouthguard in the tunnel, sweetheart, then a photo loaded, my blue mouthguard sitting on the concrete floor right where Jack had me against the wall.
I stared at it, my pulse kicked up for no good reason, I typed, keep it, you need the help, and then deleted it, I typed, throw it away, and deleted that too, I locked my phone and put it face down.
Adam was snoring in the other bed, the AC clicked on and off, I lay there awake way too long with my hand pressed against my stomach where the cramps kept fluttering.
Morning came fast and ugly, my alarm went off at seven, I sat up and immediately knew something was wrong, my sheets were damp, not sweat damp, slick, my whole room smelled sweet and thick, like sugar left on a stove too long.
No, no no no.
Adam shot up in bed, "Ethan."
"I know," I said, my voice cracked, "I know."
He was already moving, he grabbed towels, cracked the window, turned the fan on high, "How far along."
"I do not know, it hit in the night, the pills did not hold."
"Okay, okay, we call Dr Park, we pull you from shootaround, we say food poisoning."
I nodded fast, too fast, my head swam, my knees were water, heat rolled through me in a wave that made me curl forward with my hands fisted in the sheets.
Adam pressed a cold towel to my neck, "Breathe, you are okay, we have done this before."
Not in Vegas, not during Finals, not with league medics downstairs and press in the lobby and Jack Mercer two floors below me with a nose that could find me through concrete.
My phone rang, Coach, I let it go to voicemail, it rang again immediately, League office.
Adam looked at me, panicked, "Do not answer that."
Someone knocked on our hotel room door, hard, official, three sharp raps, "Mr Cole, this is League Medical, open up."
I stood up too fast and the room tilted, my toiletry bag fell off the bathroom counter and hit the tile, the zipper burst open, my orange suppressant bottle rolled out across the floor, cracked right down the middle, and white pills scattered everywhere.
They were not my pills, the color was wrong, the shape was wrong.
