Total pages in book: 36
Estimated words: 35946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 180(@200wpm)___ 144(@250wpm)___ 120(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 35946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 180(@200wpm)___ 144(@250wpm)___ 120(@300wpm)
“I’m fine. I’ll bike.”
I stand and start to turn for the door.
“Mr. Scott.”
I turn back to see Principal Kane nodding slowly at me.
“When you do come back, this whole thing is going to be erased from your record.”
I frown.
“Why?”
Coach Kirby rolls his eyes and pats me on the shoulder as he pauses on his way out.
“Hey, Ethan,” he leans close. “Shut the fuck up and say thank you.”
I half smile as he leaves, looking up to see Principal Kane shaking his head and hiding a small grin.
“For standing up for the female student body of Winchester, Mr. Scott. Now,” he points a finger at me. “No more fighting. Now, sorry to say but rules are rules. I need you off this campus in half an hour for the next week.
“Can do,” I mutter. “And thanks, Principal Kane.”
Outside the office, I bump right into Beckett and the other football guy who helped break up the fight.
“Now what,” I mutter.
Beckett just grins and holds his hands up.
“Nothin’, man. Just wanted to say sorry you got pulled in Derrick’s bullshit.”
“And to say thanks for putting him in line,” the other guys chuckles.
“No problem.”
“This is Carson Lafayette. Our wide receiver and kind of second in command for the team.”
Carson nods, but I just glance at them blankly.
Beckett clears his throat.
“Listen, Ethan, you ever think about playing ball?”
I snort, grinning.
“No, Captain America, I haven’t.”
Beckett brushes off the dig and shrugs.
“You should.”
“I’m good.”
Beckett sighs.
“C’mon man. Look, I get it, alright?”
I arch a brow at him and Carson.
“I sincerely doubt you do.” I chuckle and shake my head. “Star quarterback, blond, probably got some sweet ivy league college all lined up next year. You’re probably dating the head cheerleader too, huh?”
Beckett frowns, and I hoot out a laugh.
“Wait, shit, are you really?”
He nods, and I laugh.
“See, man? So, no, I don’t think you ‘get it’ at all. I mean how’s that trust fund working out for you?”
“How’s yours,” Beckett shoots right back.
I scowl, my jaw clenching.
“Look, dude, we’re all rich kids here, alright?” He mutters. “Trust me, I get that this place is ridiculous at times. I get that most of these kids are going to go on to drink their way through ivy league schools and sit back on their parents’ money for the rest of their lives doing coke and buying sports cars. And you can do that, or you can do what you’re doing and just fuck around pretending to be James Dean all day—”
“You don’t know shit about—”
“Or,” Beckett growls. “Or you use the fact that we’re here to get a huge step up in life. You’re skipping the line, man. You’re in the fast lane here.”
I roll my eyes, sighing as I clap him on the shoulder. “Thanks for great pep talk, but I’m not playing football.”
“Fine,” he mutters. He and Carson glance at each other before I turn and start to walk away.
“Hey, Ethan.”
“What,” I grumble, turning back to them.
“You and I both know you’re better than the fist-fighting, zero-shits-given slacker.”
“Yeah, okay. Thanks, QB.”
I start to turn again, but he keeps going.
“Straight A’s? You got offered an art scholarship to RISD at sixteen?”
I whirl around, my eyes narrowing.
“You spying on my record, dick?”
“Yeah,” Beckett growls. “I did.”
I tighten my jaw as I step towards him.
“Why.”
“Because a six-foot-three, two-hundred-pound dude who looks like he could floss his teeth with most prep school football assholes started at the school where I’m the football captain. And I want you on my fucking team.
Slowly, a grin creeps over my face. This Beckett dude might actually be an okay guy.
“Alright fair enough,” I grumble.
“You’re better than this.”
I frown. “You’re the second person to tell me that this week.”
“Yeah? Who was the first?”
Emily.
“A friend.”
“Smart friend.”
Beckett nods at me, grinning.
“We practice every day after school. You know where to find me.”
11
Emily
“I heard he might need plastic surgery.”
There’s a snort, and I glance up from my paperwork to catch the eye roll Ramona Weiss shoots Zara Bateman.
“Good. And I hope they don’t use anesthesia. Derrick Maybach is a creep.”
I only half hide the grin on my own face as I watch Zara laugh before she glances back at her clay sculpture of the dove she’s been working on. It’s a project day, so we’re all actually in the studio space next to the main art classroom. Also, Ramona is right. I’ve only had the displeasure of having to deal with Derrick Maybach once, when his father’s lawyer came in and demanded I sign off on his “out-of-class independent art study” to fulfill his arts credit at Winchester.
Apparently, drawing a fucking picture, once, was too much of a time sink on Derrick’s busy schedule of football and generally acting like a spoiled asshole.
“Wait so he really beat the shit out of him?”
“Him and like half the freaking football team,” Zara giggles, pushing her glasses up her nose.