Total pages in book: 124
Estimated words: 118125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 118125 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 591(@200wpm)___ 473(@250wpm)___ 394(@300wpm)
Chapter Fifteen
Damon still didn’t have an answer to that question, by the end of the following day—when, just as he was getting ready to head out to the field to meet the boys for practice, his phone quivered in his pocket with the text tone he’d assigned to Rian; Taylor Swift sang about that feeling you got when you spotted trouble on sight, trilling out of the front of his track pants. He caught a few amused looks from the last of the boys straggling out of the locker room after last period before he snorted and retrieved his phone to check the incoming message, flashing past his lock screen photo of Rian and to the new text.
Break in the case, Rian sent. My classroom?
Damon stopped short, just staring at his phone screen, his pulse ticking over sharply. What could’ve happened?
It didn’t fucking matter. A break was a break, and anything that could point them toward a way to help Chris was worth taking. When?
Five minutes ago would be good, but as soon as you can get here is second best.
Damon frowned. He was supposed to be heading out for practice, but...
Sometimes, you had to choose priorities.
The boys would understand.
Especially when he would do the same for any of them.
On my way, he sent back, and dropped his phone into his pocket before taking off at a jog, the afternoon sun beating down on the back of his neck.
By the time he made it down the hill to the football field, both the JV and varsity teams were already out on the green, geared up and stretching to warm up; as he hit the end of the footpath, several boys raised their hands, calling out to him and waving.
Damon halted at the fence, raising a hand in return before slipping two fingers between his teeth in a whistle, swooping up and then down, one he’d taught them as a rallying call—and without hesitation the entire group hauled themselves up and came trotting over, their gear clacking and rattling and jostling.
“What’s up, Coach?” Jess Ryder asked, breathless and tossing his mop of blond hair back.
“Not much you need to worry about.” Damon folded his arms on the fence. “Practice is canceled today. Sorry to let you know on such short notice, but we’ll pick up tomorrow. You can run drills on your own if you want, or just go back to your rooms.”
The nonstop murmur that was the inevitable noise of a flock of boys at rest fell still, and they all glanced at each other with worried looks before another boy—a freshman, Rory Sakurai, piped up. “Is this about Chris...?”
Damon blinked. “Yeah. How’d you know?”
“He hasn’t been here,” Jess said. “And he’s acting weird in class. He’s in the infirmary, isn’t he? Like, been there all week?”
“...yeah.” Damon frowned, but hesitated only a moment before choosing to be just...honest. These boys trusted him, and they deserved to hear the truth. “He’s in over his head with something. Don’t know what, but me and Mr. Falwell have been trying to find out. There might be something I can do to help him, so I need to go take care of that right now. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t skip out on y’all if I had any other choice.”
Jess grinned. “Not a big deal. I mean, we want Chris to get better, right?”
“Yeah,” Rory said, shrugging, running a hand through his spiky mess of black hair. “He was supposed to teach me how to like, intercept without falling on my face. So the sooner he gets back here, the better.”
For a moment, Damon couldn’t breathe.
God damn.
No matter what their parents thought of them, why they’d sent them to Albin, out of sight and out of mind...he had some damned good kids; so good his chest swelled with pride.
And he grinned, reaching across the fence to clap the thick foam and plastic pad on Jess’s shoulder. “Then I’d better do my damned job and get him taken care of. I’ll be back tomorrow, guys. Be good.”
“Yeah, right,” came from the back of the throng, followed by laughter and snickers.
That laughter trailed him, along with a few cheering calls, as Damon took off back up the path, pushing himself against the incline of the hill even when his thighs strained, jogging back up to the school and ducking inside to make a beeline for Rian’s classroom. It felt like he knew the path to the art room almost as well as he did to the gym by this point, operating on instinct; this homing signal drawing him to Rian with a strange feeling of hope flaring in his chest not just for Chris...but that he and Rian could come together to work on this again without everything going wrong.
That flaring warmth in his chest leaped into a sparking flame, though, as he slipped through the half-open door of the art room and saw Rian standing there—perched on his desk like some kind of slim fae, his hair tumbling over one shoulder and mingling with another of those ombré shawl-style wraps, gradient rich purple and black draped over a loose silk camisole top and another pair of jeans that probably cost a thousand dollars for a few scraps of denim someone had deliberately ripped to shit and back.