Page 20 of Bend & Break
He doesn’t reply, which is worse than if he’d said something else smart assed or angry, to be honest. I hate feeling like I’ve disappointed him or anyone else on the team.
Mads is hovering. He has no reason to be here, but I can feel his presence circling me like a shark in the shallows. I don’t have to look to know he’s watching me tie my laces, watching the way I move, probably watching the pulse at the base of my throat to determine if I’m about to collapse.
I do not collapse. Though my head does still feel a bit swimmy.
I didn’t tell Mads about the sickness rolling through me, the certainty that I’d been drugged on top of being tied up.
I don’t want to dump that on him, not when it’s my mess, the kind of shit I’ve probably dragged onto myself. The drive is still hanging over me, too, and I know there are people from Briarwood who probably want it back.
People who likely wouldn’t hesitate to break into your apartment and rifle through your shit.A small voice whispers in the back of my mind.
They don’t know I haven’t even been able to crack into it yet, but that doesn’t make it any less dangerous. So I keep it all to myself, letting him think the worst is over when I’m not sure it is.
I stand up, square my shoulders, and jog into position like I wasn’t zip-tied to a bed less than thirty minutes ago by someone who has to be a deranged psychopath with a very specific plastic-bondage kink, desperate to find the incriminating evidence they think I’m holding over their head.
Mayson sidles up to me. “You okay?”
I don’t answer. Mostly because I’m out of breath, but also because if I say anything right now, it’s going to come out high-pitched and vaguely feral. In the heat of the moment, I was fully prepared to call her and beg for help. But now that it’s passed, I’m not sure dragging her into this is the right move. Mostly because I don’t even know whatthisis.
And asking for help means admitting I can’t handle it on my own, which is its own kind of terrifying.
Chelsey jogs past and narrows her eyes at me. “You look like shit.”
“Thanks,” I huff out.
My body protests with every movement I make. My lungs are tight. My legs feel like overcooked noodles. My brain is still doing backflips over the fact that I woke up in restraints andam now pretending to be a functional athlete while trying not to scream.
Coach notices. Of course he does.
“Aster,” he barks. “You injured?”
“Nope,” I lie cheerfully.
“Are you hungover?”
“Not unless the water in our apartment is secretly vodka.” As if I would actually drink the tap water from that shit hole.
He squints at me, then at the compression sleeves. “Why the hell are you wearing arm bands? Are you playing tennis now?”
“Blood circulation,” I say. “Very hot in Europe, according to Keller.”
His eyes narrow even more. “You were late. You look like you haven’t slept. And you’re moving at half speed.”
“I oversleptonetime, Coach. I’mfine,” I insist.
I am not sure if he’s grilling me because he’s actually worried or if he’s pissed because he thinks all of this is somehow Mads’ fault, which is fair.
He doesn’t respond. Just blows the whistle and signals the next drill. I dig deep, ignoring the dull throb in my wrists and the sharper ache in my ribs from where I tried—and failed—to body-slam the headboard into submission.
I catch glimpses of Mads from the corner of my eye. Leaning against the fence near the bleachers, arms crossed over his chest. He doesn’t move much, but his eyes track every step I take. Every drill. Every misstep.
It’s unnerving.
We don’t make eye contact. I don’t even outwardly acknowledge his presence. But I know he’s there. I can feel it in the tension between my shoulders. In the way my skin prickles when I turn too fast and almost catch his gaze. I try to block him out, but I can’t shake the sense of being studied.
After practice, I don’t plan to wait around for him. I jog to the cooler—the one meant for towels, not hydration—and dunk my whole face in it. I come up with a gasp that earns a look from at least three freshmen.
Someone laughs. Someone else offers me an energy chew. I wave them off and towel down my arms discreetly, double-checking the tape beneath my sleeves.
