Page 24 of Fighting Spirit

“This for the game?” In two weeks, Beaufort and Allbreck will face off for the first time this season. A lot’s riding on this game. The usual hostility between the two teams was fired up at the start of the season when Allbreck poached two of our high school prospects, talented players who’d all but signed with Beaufort until Allbreck swooped in and made them a flashier offer.

“Maybe?” She’s being coy, but she’s not a very good liar.

“You know what, I don’t even want to know.” I lean back in my chair. I don’t want to create any room for someone to think there’s something fishy going on here, though I don’t know what advantage we could possibly gain from knowing about their mascot-ing plans. The team’s had enough drama without accusations flying that I’m trying to get some kind of illicit information, we wouldn’t survive it.

“I should get going.” I sigh, putting the towel on the table, making sure to avoid disturbing any of Ruth’s materials.

“You sure? You don’t want to wait until the rain stops?”

“No,” I say sharper than I mean to. I know that I’m being a jerk. Worse than that, I’m being a coward. But this girl scares the shit out of me and I need to get out of here before she can fuck with my head anymore.

“Oh, okay.” The brightness in her voice sounds forced and I pause. Does she want me to stay? Whatever the answer is, I give her a brief smile and head out of the apartment like someone’s chasing me, only pausing to shut the door firmly behind me as I go. I listen to the latch click into place and don’t want to think about how much of it is consideration, and how much is me wanting to stop myself from turning around and going back in.

Just as I go to open the front door, it flies forward, almost catching me in the jaw.

“Oh hey, sorry man, I-” a voice splutters, cutting off abruptly as they see me.

It’s him. The guy from Thursday who practically manhandled Ruth out of the house. My hackles are instantly up as I take him in. His brown hair’s wet from the rain, curling around his face where he’s overdue a haircut. He’s wearing a long wool coat that hangs off his shoulders where he doesn’t quite fill it out and tan leather shoes, discolored by the bad weather.

“Marshall, right?” I keep my voice low. I know I’m being petty by drawing up to my full height, showing him the three or so inches that separate us. I don’t know why I’m acting like this. I’ve got no skin in this game, there’s no reason to hate this guy. I just can’t help but think about the way that Ruth looked as she glanced over her shoulder at me, this guy pulling her out the door. She didn’t want to go with him.

She’d been visibly uncomfortable with the way that he was all over her, and I wonder how she’ll feel about him being at her apartment. Is she expecting him? Has she invited him here?Maybe something had happened between them after he took her away. It’s none of my business, but I know that I fuckin’ hate him.

“Yeah, you’re that guy, aren’t you?” He scowls.

“Yeah,” I drawl, acting like a jackass but unable to stop. “I’m that guy.”

“What are you doing at Ruth’s place?” He sounds worried. Does he think he gets a say about who visits Ruth?

“Is that really any of your business?”

“Yeah, I think it is.” He’s indignant, practically spitting out the words.

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why is it any of your business?” I’m baiting him, part of myself needing to know who this guy is to Ruth.

“Because I’m her-she’s-we’re-” He’s spiraling, and I’ve got my answer.

“Well, maybe you can ask her what I’m doing here.” I brush past him harder than I need to as I shove through the door and out into the rain. “She’ll tell you if she wants to!”

Chapter Nine

RUTH

“What was that guy doing here?” Marshall asks, pulling me into a tight hug. His voice is light, but there’s something insidious behind it, a tightly contained irritation. Releasing me after a final squeeze, he walks into the kitchen, not pausing to take his shoes off. I cringe at the wet footprints he’s leaving in his wake, how the raindrops drip from the hem of his coat.

“What guy?” I ask, too distracted to take in the question. He’s getting water on the fabric I’ve laid out. I know it looks like a mess, but I’ve got a system.

“That guy on the stairs?” He sheds his coat and drapes it over the back of a chair. “Isn’t he the guy from that house?”

“Um, yeah?”

“Why was he here? Did he do anything to you?” His face is so serious as he speaks, rounding the table and taking my elbows in his hands. Okay, I guess he’s still doing the whole touchy-feely thing.

“No, obviously not.” I push his hands away. “What are you doing here?’

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