Drumline

by Stacy Kestwick

  His face turned a blotchy, ruddy color. “What are you implying? Go on and say it outright.”

  I tipped my head back and focused on the thin white contrail from a jet passing overhead. I sighed. We only had five games left in the regular season. Five games left before my career as a snare drummer was over.

  And I was starting to look forward to it, just to escape this asshole.

  “I’m saying, your whim to redo the snare duel all of the sudden is not my main priority. It’s just not. Maybe next week, man. I’m out of here.”

  I didn’t wait for him to respond.

  I didn’t have to.

  I was the fucking captain of the best damn snare line in the whole Southeast.

  And I had a turkey and cranberry sub to deliver.

  Reese

  Despite summer melting into fall, temperatures still hovered in the eighties as we slogged through the choreography for a new song at Tuesday’s practice. This would be the final song we added to the show—Bon Jovi’s “Who Says You Can’t Go Home”.

  It was a pointed reminder I’d only answered my mom’s endless calls with short texts for the last two weeks. Guilt added to the weight of the snare drum hanging heavy on my shoulders.

  And maybe it was some lingering dehydration from the stomach virus, or the fact that I’d barely seen or heard from Laird since last Thursday while he wrestled with his video game project, but I was off today. I couldn’t concentrate on the footwork, I struggled with my entrances on the chorus, and I’d quit sweating twenty minutes ago—never a good sign.

  By the time practice ended, I wasn’t even sure I’d get to reclaim my spot on the field that I’d been forced to yield to Heath last week. He’d been on point today, and I wouldn’t blame them for picking him over me. I needed to step it up on Thursday.

  As we put away our equipment, the room reeking of male sweat and trampled grass from the practice field, I tucked an extra pair of drumsticks in my bag, planning to practice on the drum pad in my dorm later. I didn’t want to lose that damn spot. I’d worked too hard for it.

  Glad to be rid of the cumbersome snare harness, I rolled my stiff shoulders and in the process, glanced over and spotted Laird slumped against the wall a few feet away, scrubbing his face with his hands.

  “Did you get the bug in the game worked out by midnight?” I knew that’s when he’d needed to turn the next stage of his project in.

  Around us, guys packed their bags and traded insults, typical after-practice behavior.

  “No.” His voice was curt as he looked at his phone impatiently, checking something on the screen. “But I got the professor to give me an extension until tomorrow night since my game was more ambitious than most.”

  “That’s good!” I winced as my words came out weaker than I’d intended, sounding almost sarcastic instead of encouraging. I’d been hoping to grab some dinner with him tomorrow, and I tried to wipe the disappointment from my expression.

  “Yeah.” He waited as I drained the last of my water bottle. “You feeling okay? You had a rough practice.”

  My ears burned. He was right, but I was hoping it hadn’t been noticeable. I peeked around the room to see if anyone was listening to us, but everyone seemed engrossed in their own conversations.

  “I’m good. Just a bad day. I’ll review the music some more before Thursday so there won’t be any problems for this weekend,” I assured him.

  “Good.”

  My brows pinched. I didn’t like this distracted, short-tempered version of Laird. He was still gorgeous, those tanned forearms crossed over his broad chest and his full lower lip sticking out in a slight pout, but stress radiated from him like steam from the sidewalk after the rain.

  I slid a little closer, leaned against the blessedly cool concrete wall next to him, and bumped him softly with my hip. He shot me a questioning glance. Laird was shirtless like half the other guys on the snare line, and while I tried hard not to openly ogle the carved lines of his abs, seeing that inked G on his chest gave me an idea that might cheer him up.

  “I can tell by the way you’ve talked about him that you’re close with your brother—have you thought about giving him a call? Seeing if he can make it to the game this weekend?”

  “My brother?” His words sounded strangled and unnaturally loud.

  The whole room froze as if someone had paused a video while they ran to the kitchen to grab a soda. No one moved or spoke, but a dozen pairs of eyes volleyed between Laird and me.

  He’d gone rigid, the blood draining from his face.

  Alarm rippled from my spine outward, until my fingers tingled with it, until I could barely breathe from the weight of the stares on me, heavier than a thousand snare drums.

  “What?” I whispered.

  Marco’s voice lashed out. “Wow, hotshot, I can’t believe you went there. Bringing up his dead brother like that. Good one.” He started a slow clap, staring at me pointedly. No one joined in.

  “Wh-what?” My eyes whipped to Laird, but all I caught was his back as he charged out the door, pushing it open so hard it slammed against the wall in his wake. I looked back at Marco, the words not making any sense. “He’s dead?”

  My mind spun, trying to put together the broken puzzle pieces of our prior conversations, trying to see the whole picture instead of just the edges.

  The inked G on his chest. Does he have an L on his? I’d asked. But Laird hadn’t answered.

  The stories from when they were kids. But none from when they were older.

  The way Laird seemed so taken with Eli at the hospital.

  Dizziness swamped me.

  “What happened?” My voice was thick and garbled as I forced the words out. “When? How?”

  Marco snorted. “You really don’t know?”

  I could only shake my head mutely, silently pleading with him to tell me, to tell me so I could figure out how badly I’d just fucked things up.

  “Cancer. Leukemia or something when he was a kid. It messed Laird up real bad for a long time.” Marco’s face softened infinitesimally.

  Leukemia.

  The word hit me like a sledgehammer, and I slid to the floor, covering my face with shaky hands.

  Marco huffed derisively. “Fucking girls. This is why we never had them on the line.” Grunts of agreement came from the corner.

  He walked out before I could reply, not that I could find any words.

  Leukemia. Like me.

  But I’d survived. And his brother, his brother that he’d clearly loved, had died.

  What did that mean? How did that affect him? And did that—did that affect us? Was that part of why he was with me? Pity? Or some weird hero complex? Did he want to try to save me where he’d failed his brother?

  But I don’t need saving—or pity, dammit. I’m not a fucking victim.

  My stomach churned, and acid rose until its bitter taste filled the back of my throat. Had I misread everything? Was this thing between us, this murky, undefined thing that had started to feel so damn real—the most raw, real thing I’d ever felt in my life—was it all built on the memory of a ghost?

  I vaguely registered the other guys filing out, until Smith was the only one left. He crouched in front of me, waved his hand in front of my unseeing eyes until I blinked and he came into focus in front of me.

  “What have I done?” I stared at him, stared through him, asking my best friend, asking the universe.

  My world sublimated with one innocent question, leaving me lost in a cloud of gray vapor with no sense of direction.

  Smith just shook his head and moved next to me, wrapping his arm around my shoulder as I sat there, stunned and blinking.

  Minutes passed—or maybe hours, time seemed irrelevant—and my confusion morphed to anger.

  Why hadn’t Laird told me? The other guys on the line all seemed to know—even Smith. I was the only one who was surprised.

  Was it purposeful? Had he been hiding it? It’s not like he never mentioned Garrett. H
e told me all those stories from when they were kids—about the tire swing and the broken arm.

  Did he not think I could handle the truth? That I was too fragile to hear it? Of course, I knew some kids died of leukemia. That had been the biggest danger of making friends during treatment—the day when your friend never showed up again and you were left behind, fighting the invisible enemy alone.

  Or had I not been important enough to mention it to, even in passing? Especially after all the times I’d seen him at the hospital volunteering? Or had he thought we wouldn’t be together long enough that I’d need to know some of the most basic facts about his family history?

  And if he’d lied about something that major in his life—by omission or otherwise—what else had he lied about?

  My heart cracked, a searing heat filling the hollow cavity in my chest, until even breathing hurt.

  Everything hurt.

  A tear snaked down my cheek and Smith pulled me to his side, not saying a word, just letting me lean against him as I cried silently.

  For Garrett, who I’d never get to meet.

  For Laird.

  For me.

  The truth hit as hard as cancer. Out of the blue. When I wasn’t expecting it. When I’d made myself comfortable and my defenses were down.

  I wasn’t sure what to think or believe.

  Except…

  I wasn’t sure I could trust Laird. Not anymore.

  Not when it came to my heart.

  Reese

  I called him from the haven of my dorm room about an hour after the bombshell dropped, hating to text about something so deeply personal.

  “Hey,” he answered, his voice low and raw.

  I hesitated, not sure how to broach a subject he’d purposefully avoided around me. “Laird…”

  “I know,” he paused, a rasp filling the silence as if he’d blown out a hard breath, “I know I should’ve told you about him. And I will. But not right now, not while I have this damn project hanging over my head. I need to focus on getting it done. No distractions.”

  I blinked, not saying anything, because suddenly I fell under the distraction category.

  “Look, this project is my whole fucking grade for this class, and—”

  He kept talking, some justification about needing the elective to graduate on time, but it was just noise in my ear at that point.

  That word—distraction—echoed in my head.

  “Okay? We’ll talk later.”

  I didn’t get a chance to reply before he hung up.

  I hadn’t heard from him since.

  Not later that night. Not this morning, and not once during classes today.

  The rejection stung and jagged insecurities swamped me.

  I was in the middle of wiping the sticky crumbs from my peanut-butter-and-honey sandwich off my hands when the phone buzzed after dinner on Wednesday. My anxiety bubbled up and I grabbed it, ignoring the honey I smeared across the screen in the process, both hoping and dreading it was Laird telling me he’d finished up early.

  While part of me couldn’t see past the hurt and humiliation, the other, bigger part argued that he deserved a chance to explain his side of the story. To tell me why he kept such a huge part of his life a secret from me for months.

  But the text on the screen wasn’t from Laird.

  Marco: Extra practice tonight because somebody didn’t have their shit together yesterday. 7 @ Shark Tank. No drums. We’re just going over choreo.

  Marco: Laird won’t be there, he’s got that project due, so I’m handling this one.

  I pinched my lips with a flash of irritation. It was already after five. And a quick glance out the window confirmed heavy, gray clouds were rolling in from the west side of campus, covering the sky and making it seem later than it really was. Frowning, I typed out a response.

  Me: There’s a storm coming.

  His answer came swiftly, almost as if he’d been anticipating it.

  Marco: Scared of a little water, hotshot? Gonna melt?

  I bristled, but refrained from texting back a snarky reply. Instead, I sighed and spent the next hour flying through my calc and biology homework before changing into running tights and tank top. I dug out my oldest tennis shoes, since sandals weren’t allowed for practices and whatever I wore was going to get soaked.

  By the time I reached the stadium on the far side of campus, the clouds had moved firmly into the offensive position, angry and squatting over the field, which was fine by me because it matched my mood perfectly.

  This was going to suck.

  As I emerged from the North archway, entering the field near the end zone, it became clear this was either a private practice or everyone else was late.

  Instantly wary, I slowed, pausing to stow my bag with my phone where it’d stay dry under an overhang. Wiping my sweaty palms on my thighs, I reminded myself that I could handle Marco. I’d dealt with him since the season started and there were only a few weeks left. But my eyes flickered everywhere, searching for anything out of the ordinary.

  I’ve got this.

  Marco leaned against the opposite goal post, looking tiny and inconsequential in comparison, and watched me from under straight dark brows as I walked closer. The rain started with a hiss, small, prickling drops that lowered the temperature a handful of degrees.

  I shivered as I approached, wondering what fresh hell he intended to dish out tonight.

  “You sucked yesterday at practice. I noticed. Laird noticed. Everyone fucking noticed.”

  “I’m sorry.” It made something twist and pinch inside me to apologize to him for anything—but he was right. And damn if that didn’t sting to admit.

  “I think you’re weak, Holland. I don’t think you can keep up. I don’t think you belong on the line, yet here I am, taking time out of my busy-ass schedule to come down here just to help you.” The drizzle dotted his gray shirt.

  I sucked in a breath, purposefully keeping several feet between us. There was venom in his voice. Not just simple dislike, but something that went deeper than that. I threatened his fragile masculinity, had made him look like a fool in front of his peers—his friends—at the party. And I’d known he couldn’t just let that go.

  “I had a bad day.” I internally grimaced at the defensiveness of my tone. “I practiced the snare part for an hour earlier, I’ve got it down now. I’ll be ready for the game.”

  He curled his lip. “We’ll see.” Straightening, he indicated the damp field in front of him with a tilt of his head. “I’ve got the music on my phone. Get out there and show me you know the movements.”

  My brow furrowed. This—this wasn’t standard, not that Marco had ever followed the rules unless it suited him. To some extent, I memorized the drill by my relative position to the drummers next to me, to the rest of the band flowing around us. The whole idea of marching the song solo seemed awkward and wrong and doomed to fail from the start.

  I took my mark on the midway point of the thirty-yard line and looked over to where he’d positioned himself on the fifty.

  “Ready.” I pitched my voice to be heard over the rain that was falling steadily now, making my clothes cling to my torso.

  He pressed his screen and I could barely hear the end of the previous song over the wind.

  5, 6, 7, 8, and move.

  I kept my shoulders back and rolled my feet as I crossed to the forty and then shifted back along the painted line. I normally stopped when I was even with the trumpets, who of course weren’t there to use as a landmark. I fumbled through the rest of the song, marching with confidence at times, and haphazardly at others. How did I mime weaving in and out of the other snare players when they weren’t here?

  When the last note of the song faded out, I was two steps off the thirty-five, closer to the sidelines than the middle of the field. Right where I was supposed to be.

  He stalked over to where I stood, my ponytail dripping down my back and water squishing in my socks.

  “What the f
uck was that?”

  “A new Bon Jovi classic stunningly reimagined by the Rodner University marching band?”

  He didn’t appreciate my smartass answer, if the glower darkening his face was any indication.

  “You seem out of breath, NAD. Is stamina the problem?” He reached out to wipe the precipitation off my cheek, a useless attempt considering the full-on storm we were standing in.

  I recoiled, not missing the way his eyes dipped down, assessing the way the cold had made my nipples bead behind my sports bra. Hunching my shoulders, I tugged at my sodden shirt.

  Thunder echoed in the distance like a timpani, and bursts of lightning lit up scattered fragments of the sky.

  I licked my lips, tasting the sweetness of the raindrops, knowing it was pointless to deny his accusation.

  He smiled, an earnest, magnanimous smile. “Maybe running some stadiums would help? A little extra cardio for missing practice last week?”

  My eyes skipped up the endless rows of seats. While the Shark Tank wasn’t as steep as Death Valley at Clemson, it was still a long way to the top.

  A bone-jarring boom of thunder crashed nearby, making the hair on my arms stand up. I ducked reflexively. Marco stood stoic, as if he didn’t feel the wind or the storm pelting us, as if the clouds were an audience he was performing for.

  Then he shrugged indifferently, turning toward the end zone. “I’m just trying to help you, hotshot. I’d hate for you to lose your spot on the field this week too.”

  The threat hung between us despite his nonchalant posture, the implicit dare that I couldn’t hack it.

  Fuck that.

  And fuck him.

  Yeah, I could leave, but then what? Lose my spot because of a bully who was threatened by a girl? I’d never been one to back down from a challenge, if for no other reason than for years people gave me a pass, an exception.

  Oh, Reese. The cancer girl. Well-intentioned teachers offering breaks on homework, more time to take the test or run the mile, giving me a different—easier—version of the exam everyone else was taking.

  Everyone treated me differently and I was fucking sick of it.

  If nothing else, Marco’s scorn was refreshing in a sense. Not only was he not cutting me any slack, he pushed me harder than everyone else. And I refused to back down, the same way I’d refused to be held to different standards in school.