Unloved: Chapter 15

My phone is ringing, and after a week of only talking about reading strategy and working on biology homework, I’m hoping it might be Ro calling to talk about nothing again.

Unfortunately, it’s not.

“I’ve been calling you for a week straight.”

The gruff voice has my back up immediately. “I’m busy.”

“Not too busy to meet with Gavins.”

“How did you—” I close my eyes and massage the pulsing between my eyebrows. “You know what? Never mind. I don’t care. What do you want?”

“Did Archer get you the in with Dallas?”

“No,” I growl, rising to the bait he dangles so easily. “My fucking skills did that, asshole.”

My father laughs. “More like me every day, huh?”

“Dallas gave me the deal. Me, alone. And it’s better than you could’ve ever done.”

“Sure,” he mocks. “Before or after Archer played father at the conference table?”

“Fuck off,” I shout, pacing my room in earnest now. “I’m not talking about Archer.”

“So defensive—”

I hang up, throwing the phone back toward my bed before cranking up the volume of the TV—on the screen is some internet show I’ve watched for years that comforts me even now—before heading into the bathroom for a long shower, hoping the steam and heat will wash away the hatred and gnawing guilt and fury swirling in my head.

Practice is shit.

I’m frustrated, for multiple reasons that I don’t to think about, but also because of this. Hockey is my one thing, my escape. But we’re playing like shit and it’s all Toren fucking Kane’s fault.

We’ve been running the same drill for nearly half an hour and our line—

—can’t get the puck down the ice because Holden and Kane can’t get themselves together.

Part of me wants to scream at them to handle themselves, while the other part of me is ready to come to blows with Coach Harris to point out exactly how fucking stupid bringing Kane on the team is. Expecting a loyal junior like Holden, who thrives under Rhys’s attention and guidance, who views him like a near god, to play defensive partner to the player who nearly killed him? It doesn’t make sense.

And then there’s Rhys, who still looks a little worse for wear. I won’t admit it to the others, but I see him struggling a bit. Every now and then he starts breathing harder, like he’s out of shape when I know he isn’t… It’s something else.

But if he wants to keep his pain and secrets to himself, so be it. I know my place. I’m not part of the Koteskiy-Reiner duo. I’m the pretty third wheel.

“Again.”

I wait for a moment, licking the sweat starting to drip off my lips and trying to calm the heavy breaths sawing out of me. My eyes flick to Rhys again, waiting for him to say something, to speak to what we’re all feeling. But he stays silent, seething as he looks toward Kane.

It’ll have to be me, I guess.

“Respectfully, sir,” I sigh, still breathless. “We clearly have a defensive problem, and you’re running us all ragged for it.”

Holden flinches, and I want to apologize to him—I will, but right now, I stand firm.

“You might as well be playing keep-away, superstar,” Toren says, seeming unbothered despite his hard breaths from the overexertion.

“At least I pass, I’m passing to my line—not the other fucking team.”

“All right,” Coach yells, his voice holding its usual heavy authority but stronger. Because Coach Harris doesn’t yell. He’s not that kind of coach. Instead, he thrives on respect to lead us, something I admired from the first time we met.

Everyone sinks back, watching as the middle-aged man rubs his face repeatedly before looking us over once more with a dismissive wave.

“Do whatever you want with them, Coach,” he calls to the assistant coach on his right. “I don’t care. I don’t want to see any of them until they get their shit together.”

He starts heading off the ice but pauses again and looks toward Rhys.

“It’s your team, Koteskiy. Remember that.”

Rhys’s face tightens, but he nods. Ever the golden-boy captain, even under the annoying strain that is Toren Kane.

So instead we spend the last third of practice skating suicides until I’m pretty sure we’re all about to puke. Everyone is huffing and barely standing by the time Coach Johnson lets us go for the day.

Back in the locker room, things are quiet, tension thick in the air around us.

Rhys slides his AirPods in the instant he’s out of the showers, hair dripping as he tugs on his clothes and heads out, head bowed. A shadow of our golden captain, wearing a smile as a mask he thinks we all don’t see through.

I showered quickly, too, mostly because I’ve got a test tomorrow morning and I’m going to try to get some rest for it.

“Ready to go?”

Holden slaps my arm as he comes to stand by me, waiting because he offered to drive me after Bennett said he had somewhere else to be and rushed out before the rest of us. I shove the last of my things into my bag before nearly slamming my head into the panel of wood above my cubby.

My entire body spins toward the only person who would purposefully smack into me.

Toren fucking Kane.

“Excuse me, ” he sneers. His tattooed, still-wet body shoves over to his locker cubby as he rips his towel off and tosses it onto my gear bag.

“Fucking disgusting,” I grumble, grabbing the towel and snapping it at him hard before tossing it back. He only smirks over his shoulder despite the red, whiplike mark across his back where I’ve hit him. I want to be able to contain the words, to be the bigger person, but my mouth is already open. “Why don’t you pack it up and shower at home next time? No one fucking wants you here.”

He nods, pulling sweatpants over his legs before turning and stretching his arms wide.

“Well aware.”

“Then why are you fucking here?”

He steps closer, shirtless, black ink on display. The tattoo that takes up the majority of his side and torso looks mildly familiar; I feel like I’ve seen it before.

“If you think I to be here, you’re more of an idiot than I thought.”

My fist is flying before I can stop it, slamming into his cheekbone. He has plenty of time to protect himself, to grab my arm or dodge, but he doesn’t. He lets the hit land.

“Your dad teach you those moves?”

“Shut the fuck up,” I snap, shoving his bare chest so his back hits the side wall of the corner we’re in. I’m petrified that he knows something he definitely shouldn’t. I’ve kept my father’s identity under wraps, tight. Not that anyone would know the washed-up third-string player that was John Fredderic. Only Coach Harris and I know. But I’m more furious that this fucker has the audacity to say something about it. I lean in toward him, quietly seething. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

He smiles brighter at my sudden ferocity.

“I think I do, pretty boy—I did my fucking research.”

I shove him harder against the wall, furious he isn’t retaliating.

“Freddy,” Holden calls, grabbing my arm and pulling me back. “He’s not worth it. Back off him. Let’s go.”

Holden looks mildly disappointed—but not in me, it seems. In Kane, his new partner.

I shrug his grip away and grab my stuff, stalking out the door with yet another crushing weight on my shoulders.

It hasn’t been this bad in a while.

Piling on my dad’s phone call with the shitty practice and Toren Kane getting on my last fucking nerve, I feel about ready to scream by the time Dr. Cipher’s teaching assistant passes out last week’s math quiz.

A fucking 45.

Not just a failure, but than last time.

And I tried—really, tried.

My face is burning hot with embarrassment at even the thought of telling Ro. I crumple the paper in my fist before shoving it into my bag and darting out the door the second we’re dismissed.

For a moment, I debate canceling our tutoring session altogether. But when I open our text thread, I see our last conversation—the little emojis she sent—and I turn my ass back around and head toward the COSAM center, where she asked to meet.

I even stop to grab an iced dirty chai and a black iced coffee for myself—as if bringing her a treat might soften the blow of her disappointment once I show her the test results.

I want the smile her go-to drink order will bring her before the inevitable letdown.

“Look what the cat dragged in.”

Every bit of stress that had escaped my body at the thought of seeing Ro comes thundering back tenfold at the grating voice calling to me the second I enter the tutoring offices.

Donning my usual smirk, I nod toward him. “Donaldson.”

“Fredderic,” he says, leaning against the countertop. “What are you doing here? Lost?”

I feel a desperate need to needle him, and I can’t help responding with, “Just here to pick up my girl.”

A light snickering from his cluster of cronies listening behind him echoes in the tense silence.

As if summoned by thought alone, Ro emerges from the back office—Carmen’s office, I realize, my stomach plummeting.

Dressed in white pants and a sage-green top that shows a sliver of the tan, brown skin of her stomach, Ro looks gorgeous. She’s so smart, kind, and funny, too. And again, I find myself wondering why in the hell she’s dating Tyler Donaldson.

“RoRo,” he calls, moving to stand by her desk.

I know it’s hers because her backpack with a ribbon tied to it is resting on top.

She gives a quick, small smile to Tyler before looking my way a little anxiously.

My palms feel sweaty.

“Hey, Freddy,” she says kindly. My shoulders relax, any lingering anxiety in my body melting away at her open, sincere smile directed to me. “Let me get my stuff and we can go.”

“Take your time.”

I see it coming long before it happens. Tyler steps into her space, crowding her enough that I can hear the desk creaking with their weight. My stare darts to the ceiling before my curiosity gets the better of me and I watch them kiss.

Her questions about sex have plagued me since the day she asked. I want to know where they come from—or better yet, why she’s asking Which is something I want to think about.

Though watching Tyler attempt to devour her face is dangerously close to making me laugh. The surprise on Ro’s face tells me even more, that this public display is more for my benefit than for hers—or even his.

Tyler finally releases her. Ro’s face is bright red as she walks to me, an embarrassed, shameful set to her shoulders that erases every teasing remark from my brain. Instead, I open the door for her, shooting Tyler a quick glare before following closely behind her.

“You okay?”

“Me? Yeah. Fine,” she says, but her voice is shaky. “Why?”

I shrug. “Just checking.”

I hand her the sweating plastic cup with a smile. She takes it, confusion wrinkling her brow.

“What’s this?”

“Iced dirty chai. That’s what you like, right?” She looks so confused and mildly upset that a bolt of panic shoots through me. “Did I get it wrong? I’m sorry. I’ll buy you something else at—”

She cuts me off. “No, no, no, it’s my favorite. I can’t believe you remembered. Thank you, Matt.”

My given name feels like a warm blanket falling over me as it rolls off her tongue.

“No big deal.”

I take a sip of my iced coffee and walk closer to her as we cross campus to our quiet library spot. We chat the entire way, returning to the favorite-movies topic since we both continue to think up favorite movies to add to the list.

I’ve almost forgotten about the test altogether until she asks, after we’ve settled into the booth and unpacked our bags. But… things feel good, and I don’t want the pleased expression she’s been sporting since I handed her the drink to disappear.

My plan to lie disappears in the face of her calm, gentle expression.

“Actually.” I scratch the back of my neck and avoid her eyes. “I failed.”

Waiting for the crush of her disappointment, I busy my hands with fumbling for the horrid thing, paper slicing into my thumb as I shove it toward her.

“Pretty embarrassingly, actually.” I chuckle, cracking the joints in my fingers—anything to look at her in this humiliating moment.

But then her hand settles over mine, stopping my fidget. Ro’s voice is quiet as she says, “Not embarrassing. Just tells us what we need to work on. It’ll be okay.”

When I finally arch my neck up to look at her, she’s fiddling in the smaller pocket of her backpack for something. She meets my gaze, hazel eyes glittering with mischief I’m enlivened to match. Her hand opens to spill a pile of butterfly clips across the table.

“Okay—”

She explains the problems, or more so the proper order of equations that I clearly did not comprehend, and I try to focus and listen. My heart races with exhilarated bliss.

I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop. For there to be something to offset the pure luck of having Ro on my team, that she’s truly on my side—that she cares so deeply about what I understand that she truly to help me.

“Does that make sense?”

Her voice drowns everything out for a moment and my cheeks heat with slight embarrassment, but I finally feel comfortable enough to shake my head in honesty.

There is no frustration, only a gentle smile and nod before she tries a completely new way of explaining.

In the middle of her statement, Ro pauses, realizing she doesn’t have enough clips to finish this particular problem, before reaching into her hair and pulling the two from her curls.

The motion is too similar to the pool, the clips the same as the ones I have stashed on my bedside table from the night she doesn’t remember; I like to look at them when I can’t sleep.

I rub at the ache in my chest, the edge of sadness that she remembers none of it too heavy to truly bat away. I’d give anything for one of those moments with her again, walls down, complete vulnerability and real affection.

But it’s enough for me to have with her, too, to be her friend, if she’ll let me.

I make a vow then to protect her, the pretty girl with butterflies in her messy curls, even if she’ll never really be .