EASTON'S POV
Ten Years Prior
Football conditioning leading up the start of my senior year had been intense. I'd been training all summer to stay in shape, but the start of the season always hit like a ton of bricks, especially now that I had so much riding on this final year. I was the quarterback of the Wellsprings Vikings, just as my father had been before me. And just like my father, the Vikings were set to take the state championship with me as captain. Unlike Michael Clarke, however, I was not just blessed with the athleticism of a God. I had to work for it tirelessly, and my father never let me forget how much easier it came for him than it did me. He pushed me to train longer, harder, and heavier each day until I'd threatened to quit. It was then that he suggested I try working out with a little bit of aid. Gone were my pre-workout and protein shake routines. Instead, my dad had testosterone supplements delivered to our doorstep, expecting me to pop pills like candy until I learned how to inject them myself.
"It's just until you win states, bud," my dad had told me, using the nickname he'd given me as a kid. He only ever called me bud when he wanted me to do something I didn't--or shouldn't--want to do. "You'll be a shoo-in at Ohio or Alabama for sure."
Ohio State. The University of Alabama. Most parents dreamed of their kid going to an Ivy League. Not mine though. My father dreamt of me getting a full-ride football scholarship to a Big Ten despite having enough money to send me to school anywhere I wanted to go. But paying my way through school wasn't my dad's idea of good parenting. He wanted me to earn my piece just like he did. And ever since my mom died, there was no one to stick up for me when I said I didn't want to play football anymore. Nor was there anyone around to tell him no when he decided I was going to start taking steroids. Michael Clarke got his way, just like always.
His intervening was working, though. It was because of these supplements that I'd put on mass, landed my spot as senior captain of the team, and had college scouts trailing my games. So even though I had more of an interest in math and science than I did weight-training and drills, I took my medicine just like my father wanted without complaint. I even began to enjoy the contented looks he threw my way on the rare occasions that he managed to make it to my games.
Even though I knew it was wrong, I injected every day before practice, showing up at the locker room before everyone else arrived to make sure no one else saw what I was doing. I acted like I was there because I wanted to be—always early, talking to the younger teammates, joking with the coach, acting like the leader I was supposed to be—but I was really harboring my dirty little secret. It was my father's secret, really, but I was the one with the dirty hands.
On a particularly muggy August morning, though, my secret stopped being just mine to keep. It was around nine a.m., and I was sunburnt and a little hungover after spending hours out on the lake the previous day. I was alone in the locker room, nearly naked except for a pair of boxer briefs, digging around in my locker for the syringes hidden at the bottom of my sports bag. I knew my father was going to be at practice this afternoon watching me run drills, and the last thing I needed was to look as weak on the field as I felt. I knew Coach would be wandering into the locker room around nine-fifteen, his baseball cap covering his bald spot with an extra-large cup of coffee in one hand and his keys in the other.
I needed to shoot up now and I needed to do it fast. And so, just as I did every time, I pulled my boxers down on the left side, taking a deep breath as I inserted the needle directly into my muscle. After months of practice, I hardly even felt the pinch anymore. It had just become a part of my daily routine, as mundane as showering and brushing my teeth. What wasn't part of the routine, however, was the door to the locker room swinging open while I had a needle in the side of my ass.
I froze, my first thought being that coach had shown up early. If he found out I was taking anabolic steroids, I'd be kicked off the team, I'd lose my shot at a full ride, and my dad would lose that prideful look I'd only seen him throw my way since I started shooting up. But it was not coach that walked through those doors. It wasn't even a man. It was a teenage girl with dark, unruly hair, skin the color of printer paper, a ratty old Weezer t-shirt, and a resting bitch face. I'd never seen her before in my life and I was sure my half-naked body and the needle sticking out of my ass made one hell of a first impression.
I expected her to look surprised. I expected her to turn around and walk out. Most of all, I expected her to apologize for barging into the boy's locker room unannounced. But all she did was stare. Her eyes went from my face down the length of my torso before resting on the syringe sticking out of my ass. Five agonizing seconds crept by as she stared directly at the needle, her facial expressions flipping from confusion to curiosity. It wasn't until her eyes drifted back up to my face that I really started to panic. She looked like she was studying me. Memorizing how I looked. Like she planned on reporting what she saw.
I pulled the needle out of my ass so quickly that it should have hurt but I was too pumped up on adrenaline to feel it. Tossing it into my locker, I looked at her in expectation. She stared back unabashedly, her defiant gaze never wavering from my face.
"Are you aware you're in the boy's locker room?" I asked, my voice cold and hard despite my racing heart rate and trembling hands.
"I am now," she said back, her stare just as cool and collected as the moment she walked into the room. She had a slight southern accent that sounded about as white trash as she looked.
"Well, do you have a dick tucked up in your shorts or something?" I gestured to her crotch. "What the fuck are you doing in here?"
"I was looking for the guidance counselor's office."
"Obviously, this isn't it," I snapped. "It says boy's locker room right on the door."
"I saw it," she said slowly, apparently immune to the aggressive way I was speaking to her. Anyone else would have been terrified. "I was just looking around the school. Considering classes don't start for another week, I wasn't expecting anyone to be in here. I apologize for interrupting," she gestured towards my half-naked body.
"I hope you found the place to your liking," I sniped. "What's your name?"
"Rina Burnett. And yours?" She asked. That little Appalachian accent of hers made her sound like a Beverly hillbilly. What the hell was she doing in Wellspring?
"None of your goddamn business," I barked. She didn't need to know who I was. Not yet. Not until I knew she'd keep her mouth shut about what she'd just seen. "You new here, Rina?"
"Yes, obviously. Just moved here last week."
"Glad to hear it. Tell me, Rina, do you want to start the year with an enemy?" I demanded.
"Not particularly. Why? Are you threatening me?" She blinked her big brown doe eyes at me, an innocent drip in her voice like she was mocking me. It pissed me off.
"Not a threat, sweetheart. A warning," I snapped, stalking forward. Seeing me barreling towards her was the first time she looked taken aback throughout this entire conversation. Good. She should be afraid of me. I got within a foot of her, leaning down so our faces were level, and whispered, "If you don't want any problems, you'll keep your mouth shut about today. In fact, you're going to stay the hell away from me and anyone I associate with. Otherwise, if you rat on me or give me any indication that you're about to, you will walk into school next week with an enemy you don't want. Are we clear?"
I glared down at her, expecting her to be intimidated, but she just rolled her eyes. "Listen, I couldn't care less about whatever you were injecting into your ass when I walked in. I don't care about you and, if your friends are as delightful as you seem to be, I doubt I'll have any interest in them either. Calm down," she said, glaring back at me. "Your dirty little secret is safe with me, Roid Rager." I swallowed sharply at her use of the term Roid Rager, and she laughed under her breath. "So, now that we're on the same page, would you be so kind as to point me in the direction of the guidance counselor's office?"
"It's the room adjacent to the main lobby," I growled. She moved to leave, but my hand came down hard on her shoulder. "You sure you aren't going to rat me out, Rina?"
"It's not my MO to get involved with other people's bad decisions," she laughed. "See you around."
Without waiting for my response, she turned on her heel and headed out the door, her curly brown hair nearly whipping me in my face as she passed. It was only then that I realized that she smelled like coconuts. Based on her rather unruly appearance and that thick Appalachian accent, I wasn't expecting that. If I were being honest, I'd expected her to smell like cheap cigarettes.
But Rina Burnett was just full of surprises.