Page 66 of Let the Game Begin
She was talking with her friends, a book open on her lap and an innocent look on her face. It was a childlike face, the sort that suggested purity and naivete. Who knows, those were probably the exact characteristics that had drawn Neil in.
She was just a girl, after all. She didn’t know anything about life yet.
And he didn’t realize that enduring pain for too long—the kind inflicted by others—had a way of changing people.
It made them different, cruel, petty, hungry. Yes…hungry.
Revenge had become a vital need for me. The deepest, most intense need I had.
I couldn’t smother it; I couldn’t repress my true instincts.
Some people say that madness comes from vendettas suppressed for too long.
And I wanted to explode.
It was time to serve up the sweetest morsel that was ever cooked in hell…
18
Selene
“How’s your mother?”
“The chemo is really hell on her…” Jared sounded tired, and I could only imagine how difficult it was for him to endure the situation. I felt like such a hypocrite in that moment: I wanted to be there for him, but not the way he wanted. I no longer considered myself his girlfriend in any sense, but I couldn’t tell him that, not while his mother was struggling for her life.
“I’m so sorry. I’m sure that you being there is essential for her. You’re being strong for her.” I couldn’t even imagine how I would have reacted if I were in his position. My mother was everything to me. Sometimes I wondered why God had set out such cruel destinies for people.
“Being strong is the only thing I can do,” he said, sounding heartbroken, and I halted in the middle of the hallway that led to my room. I’d just finished classes for the day, and I was exhausted. Now, listening to Jared, I was also agonized and melancholy.
“You’ll get through this.” All the reassurances I might have made seemed pointless. Every word or sentence was trivial. There was nothing anyone could say in the face of the harrowing reality of cancer. All we could do was wait, endure, and hope to emerge victorious.
Jared changed the subject to ask me if I’d settled in, if I was getting alongwith Logan’s friends, and about other inconsequential information. He was clearly trying to distract himself and avoid thinking about the difficult time he and his family were going through.
After ten more minutes of banal conversation, we said goodbye and I went to my room, tossing my bag down on the bed. I peeled off my coat and stretched my arms up over my head, working muscles that felt tense and sluggish.
Suddenly, a series of strange noises followed by breathless, angry gasping drew me back out into the hallway. I followed the sounds out of my room like I was Hansel and they were breadcrumbs. I stopped at the end of the hallway in front of the half-open door to a private gym and leaned forward to peer inside.
Resting my hand on the doorframe and trying to even breathe silently, I watched Neil, focused on his training.
A bright red punching bag oscillated under violent strikes from his fists. Spellbound, I examined every inch of his tensed body. His track pants clung to his clenched quads. His bare chest was covered in droplets of sweat, outlining his pumped pectorals and an abdomen so sculpted that it would have been the envy of any other man. The thick black lines of his tattoo seemed almost to be dancing around his right bicep. Everything but the top tip of the pikorua on his left hip, however, was covered by the elastic of his low-waisted pants.
His body was a series of natural protrusions and reliefs, a blend of harmonious individual parts that came together to form a living sculpture. He was as beautiful, as worthy of admiration as any piece in an art museum.
I gave myself a shake but continued to watch as Neil landed precise, calculated blows. I didn’t know much about boxing, but I knew that the sport required a great deal of speed, strength, and endurance. He wore gloves to protect his own knuckles from possible fractures, such was the power that moved through his masculine form.
His stare, however, was dark and focused. It was all there in his eyes: the weariness of someone who had hoped for something that never happened.
Neil had been let down by life and was now a prisoner of his own hate.
But what exactly had made him this way?
All at once, he stopped and turned his head right toward me. I sucked in a breath, and his golden eyes dominated even that large room, obscuring everything else.
I had two options: I could run away like the worst sort of coward, or I could accept the consequences for being caught spying on him.
“You planning to stay there much longer?” His baritone rocked me just as surely as he’d rocked the punching bag he was now ignoring. Our eyes stayed locked on each other’s for what felt like forever, until I decided to enter the room.
The gulf between Neil and me was obvious: I was as jittery as a gazelle standing before a hungry lion. He was arrogant, fully indifferent to what anyone else felt or thought. I moved across the room with uncertain steps, making my way slowly toward his imposing figure as I tried to gather the courage I would need for this moment.
