Page 28 of Our Ruined Beginnings

“To show all those dickheads that they’re not getting to you. Duh.”

“What if they are getting to me?” I ask quietly. I hate how weak I sound, how defeated, but sometimes, I think they’ve done just that—worn me down.

“Even better to show them the opposite,” Kinsley retorts quickly. “You’ve got this, girl.We’vegot this. Don’t let them stop you from doing something you love.”

I roll my eyes, knowing it’s not nearly as easy as it seems. I appreciate her support, and I know she’s right in essence, but I used to love the games because I was rooting for my two favorite people. Today, only one will be playing, and he for sure won’t give a shit if I’m watching or not.

“Okay, fine,” I acquiesce. “But since when are you so keen to go to the soccer games? I used to have to dragyouthere.”

“Things change,” she murmurs cryptically. “An Americano, please,” she adds before hanging up. The queue hasn’t moved at all since I joined it, and the people ahead are starting to grumble, so I pointedly don’t pay attention. Instead, I turn toward the notice board that runs the length of the shop. There are all kinds of pointless and uninteresting flyers and cards for me to pretend to peruse, but it’s not long before one does actually catch my interest.

HELP WANTED:

Part-time flexible hours at local restaurant.

No experience needed, fair wage.

It hits me like a lightning bolt. This is exactly what I need right now to get some cash. Sure, I’ve never worked in a restaurant before—or anywhere—but I’m a hard worker, and willing to learn.

Pulling my phone back out, I dial the number before I can second-guess it. By the time the barista asks for my order, I have my first trial shift in the small, family-run Italian restaurant.

Excitement and apprehension simmer in my veins at the thought of solving at least one of my problems. One is better than none, I guess. Maybe I have got this, just like Kinsley claims.

Chapter Twelve

Madden

“Wherethefuckisit?”

My head snaps to the left, my eyes zeroing in on the girl charging along the pitch with fire in her eyes and her shoulders set like steel. If it wasn’t for the audience surrounding us, I’d be half tempted to meet her charge midway and see just how fiery this new—or should I say old—Harper really is.

Not that the thought matters, because the moment she comes within touching distance, she walks straight past me, her eyes never once meeting mine. Instead, she stops a meter or so from where Bethany sits in the first row of bleachers, scowling viciously at her.

“Well, hello again, Harper,” Bethany says, a wide grin spreading her lips as she cocks her head. “This is very dramatic, even for you, but I can’t say I know what you’re talking about.”

Harper laughs, though the sound is bitter and distorted. “Don’t play that crap with me. It was you in my room the first time, and I’m damn well sure it was you in there this weekend.” I’m supposed to be warming up with the team on the sidelines, but I can’t help but eavesdrop on their conversation. I thought I’d told her to stay the fuck out of there.

“I don’t know what kind of weird obsession you have with me, and I don’t know what you’re referring to. Trying to ruin someone’s life with vicious rumors this time? Full-blown violence not your thing anymore?”

I see Harper’s body freeze at her words. She leans into Bethany, whispers something too low for me to hear, then storms off. Bethany scoffs at her retreating back before focusing her attention on me. I watch Harper make her way toward the gate, but Kinsley meets her halfway, turning her and pointing up into the stands. Harper throws her head back in clear exasperation but dutifully follows her up anyway. I guess Kinsley’s school spirit is higher than Harper’s right now.

“What was that about?” I call over to Bethany. “I thought we agreed her dorm was off limits.”

Before she can protest or lie to me, Evan throws his arm around my shoulders with a slap to my chest and lets out a deep laugh.

“Ready for kick off?” His eyes are practically fucking sparkling, he’s so hyped.

“You’re not even starting,” I remind him, but it doesn’t dull his grin.

“Just means I get to enjoy the opening show better.”

Before I can ask him what’s so exciting about the team lining up, Coach yells and beckons to us, so we jog over to where everyone’s gathering around him. I half listen to him hype us up and motivate the team, but my eyes keep scanning the bleachers for her face. I’d been looking forward to having her cheer me on this year, but that’s just another thing that’s gone to crap.

“Ready, Captain?” Coach asks, slapping my back. I nod, place my hand into the middle of the circle, and my teammates follow, yelling “Davis!” before we make our way to our starting positions.

I’m in position, giving my hamstrings a last-minute stretch, when our mascot appears on the opposite corner of the pitch. I frown, shielding my eyes with my hand against the sun to see better, sure he’s not in the right colors. He shouldn’t be on the pitch at all—the ref’s waiting to blow the starting whistle—but it’s the first thing I notice. Our colors are green and blue, and he’s definitely in orange. Bright, luminous orange.

Cheers from the crowd begin at his end, but quickly, the whole place is roaring as he awkwardly runs diagonally across the field, players and coaches alike watching him in confusion. When he gets close enough for us to see, the officials’ stares turn furious, and I can see why. He’s not in another team’s jersey—he’s in lacy underwear.

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