by Harper James
“Alright, alright. I’m Rickson Farrow, of Farrow and Associates, and I’m excited to have you all on my team this year,” he says with a smile that’s friendly, but a little scary too— like he might give you that smile while he destroys you in a courtroom. “My team is going to be taking on a particularly tough project, because it deals with a school tradition that goes back decades. Too many decades, if you ask me. New Recruits Week.”
Heads nod all around me, but I barely know what he’s talking about. I seem to remember someone mentioning New Recruits Week in passing. Maybe? Is everyone else faking understanding this too? I hope so. This is what I get for locking myself in my bedroom and studying most nights.
“Now, you look like a nice collection of students,” the man says with a smile. “And I know most of the time, those wishing to advance themselves by being a part of something like the student advocacy group would not partake in such a tradition. So perhaps you aren’t familiar— let me explain. New Recruits Week is when the school allows high school players being scouted for the football program to attend Berkfield for a week, ostensibly to become familiar with the program and the school. But, as is so often the case with young men unleashed, the reality is a week filled with sex, drinking, parties, and debauchery.” Farrow’s eyes harden, like he’s telling us the deepest, darkest secret he knows.
“The problem with New Recruits Week is twofold— one, it is bribery, which is against conference rules. Secondly, these players use their power and influence at the school to break laws, engage in clear violations of the student code of conduct, and persuade good young ladies to act against their more proper instincts. It’s a mess, and this year, we aim to stop it.”
A quiet snicker travels the room— Farrow is super old school, apparently. The fact that he said “more proper instincts” in that thick Southern accent only makes him sound more like a 1950s senator. Farrow begins to hand out folders and discuss all the available positions within the project. I blank out for a moment, staring at the folder in my hands, thinking about my aunt. Thinking about myself. Football players really do seem to be able to convince women to act against their instincts— “more proper” or otherwise.
I knew I shouldn’t be with Sebastian, yet there I was last night, wearing his clothes. My aunt surely knew Dennis Slate was trouble, but she still couldn’t get out of the relationship before he killed her. How many girls at Berkfield sleep with players at New Recruits Week because they’re hypnotized by the charm of a popular athlete who’s always gotten whatever he wants?
Farrow might be old school, but he isn’t wrong. New Recruits Week is more than just good old fashioned “boys being boys.” It continues a tradition of victimizing women, girls as innocent in their way as my aunt was.
And that innocence is exactly what these people prey on.
I feel burning anger in my chest as I picture Sebastian with his easy confidence, good looks and entitlement.
And to think, I was actually charmed by a Slate boy.
He’s a chip off the old block, no doubt.
“And let’s see, who’s left?” Farrow is saying, just before his milky blue eyes slide to me. “Ah! You, darling— would you be interested in doing some more in-depth research for the team?”
Research? I am a star at research— I consider it an actual super power that I know how to cite my sources without plugging them into an internet bibliography machine. I nod eagerly. “Absolutely. Whatever I can do to help.”
“Perfect!” Farrow says, and scribbles something down on his notepad. “Now, do you already know any of the football players? Or will you need to set up an introduction, somehow?”
My eyes widen. “Um, I—“
“One of the cheerleaders lives on my floor,” Sarah jumps in helpfully. “She could probably introduce you.”
“Sure,” I say weakly. “Do you need any library-based research, though?”
“Oh, no, we’ve got that covered,” Farrow says, tapping his pencil at the names on his list. “We just need some hands on research within the football player community, particularly during New Recruits Week later this fall. Make sure you bring a pencil and paper to write down everything you see there.”
“Or a phone with Evernote installed,” someone says under their breath.
“Sure,” I stumble. “So— you need me to go to New Recruits Week?”
“No, I need you to learn more about the football community,” he says. “The problem with the football players at this school is that they’re seen as gods. We need someone who can prove they’re using that status to engage in unbecoming behavior— which means we need someone who can get into their world, but doesn’t care about burning the bridge either. And believe me, I intend to burn some bridges,” Farrow says with a dire, but excited, look. “Are you not up to the task?”
I nod, trying to keep my jaw from dropping in confusion and surprise. “No, that sounds— I can do it,” I say quickly. I have no idea if this is true or not— but I know this much: I need to do it. I need to do something to remind not only myself, but the football players— Sebastian Slate and family included— that they aren’t kings, immune to laws and rules and common decency. I need to do it, even if that means going deep into enemy territory.
And, I’m making no mistake this time: Sebastian Slate is definitely the enemy.
5
I can’t believe that in less that twenty four hours, I’ve gone from hating football players, to being kissed by one, to hating them, to volunteering (if mostly by accident) to spy on them from the inside.
I also can’t believe I thought I could actually do it— because how the hell am I going to get into the football players’ inner circle? Yes, Sebastian Slate seemed a tiny bit interested in me, but that lasted all of two minutes and then he was over it.
I don’t look a thing like the girls who are regularly installed at their parties— and now I’m supposed to go to those parties, hang around and watch their antics and report back?
While working my shift at Papa Pig’s, I wonder if I can get another shot at delivering to the players’ house and maybe just sort of fade into the wallpaper once I’m there. I need to be at their parties, not actually participate in them. I bet if I waited until late and swung by with a pizza, no one would ask questions, and I could sort of creep around, always pretending like I’m trying to find someone to sign the receipt…
Of course, that’ll mean sneaking around wearing my ridiculous outfit. Just the thought of that makes me want to die of embarrassment.
I’m nearly halfway through my shift at Papa Pig’s when there’s a flurry of excitement around the server station. I crane my head around the soda machine to see what everyone is so jumpy about, and gasp lightly. It’s a group of football players, each of them so large that they make our booths look like doll furniture. It takes me no time at all to spot Sebastian Slate among them. Naturally, they’d come by the parlor on one of the few nights I’m scheduled to the floor rather than out on deliveries.
“They’re in my section! Yes yes yes,” another waitress says in a squealing voice, bouncing up and down on her heels.
“They’re just football players. They’re literally just big guys who are good at getting hit in the head,” I answer.
“You’re such a downer,” the other waitress says, rolling her eyes, and making no attempt to hide the fact that she’s bounding over toward the players. They’re crowded into a booth, two on each side and one— Sebastian— in a chair at the end. I watch him through the stacked cup skyscrapers.
I need to get to work on investigating New Recruits Week, of course, but I also feel a disturbing tingle low in my belly when I look at Sebastian Slate.
I remind myself that if I try and talk to him again, it is purely to put a stop to the sleazy antics that he and his fellow teammates get up to at our school.
And a little payback for what his dad did to my aunt doesn’t hurt matters either…
Maybe I can say hello or drop off some ch
eesy bread or something. Something small and casual.
Yeah, I can do that, I think, nodding to myself. I begin filling soda cups with ice, and when the other waitress returns, I help her carry their drinks to the table.
“Here we go, I’ve got two diet sodas, a Mountain Dew,” the other waitress says, collecting drinks from my hands and passing them out. “Annnnnd—“
“It’s you!” one of the players says. The drinks slosh a little— he said that so loud and sharply that it startled me. I look toward the voice— it’d come from the end of the table. It’s the guy who answered the door last night, the one who insisted on getting that #ImAPapaPig picture.
“It’s me,” I say in the strongest voice I can muster, which isn’t saying much.
“You totally sat on half our order last night, then snuck out,” the guy says in a condescending, I’ll-be-speaking-to-your-manager way.
“You did what?” the other waitress asks.
I’m starting to turn red, but I forge ahead anyhow. “I tripped over some girl. It was an accident,” I saw quickly, with a shrug and a smile that I think looks like the one the player house girls were wearing.
He scoffs in the way that only a guy who has never heard “no” can scoff. “Yeah, an accident, but our—“
“Conor, chill, it’s just pizza,” Sebastian says in tone that brooks no argument. His voice draws my eyes to him, and I inhale sharply at how dark they are. How beautiful they are, even here in the crappy pizzeria lighting. His voice is calm and firm, and it does that hypnotizing thing to me again, where I feel like I can’t look away or move or swallow or—
I snap out of it, shivering a little from surprise. “It’s fine,” I say to Sebastian without looking at his eyes— don’t want to get trapped again. “And Conor, right? Conor, I’ll bring you a cheesy bread on the house for the trouble last night.”
Conor looks smugly pleased; I flash him a quick smile. I hear Sebastian clear his throat, but turn away. I walk back to the station, punch in the cheesy bread order, and try very, very hard to not think about Sebastian’s eyes. Or the way he put his arm around me last night. Or the way his eyes moved over me. The way he spoke to me. The way he kissed me—
Nope, nope, nope. I roll my eyes at myself, and decide I need some fresh air. No one’s sitting outside tonight, so I slide out to the patio for a few moments. The night air clears my head; it’s quiet out here, sort of. There’s plenty of noise from the downtown strip, and I can hear the bar next door’s live music, but everything feels muted and far away. I flick on the string lights arcing over the patio space, and sit down on hearth of the old outdoor pizza oven (it’s just for show— we use a sleek steel industrial thing inside, which is probably why our pizza is a grease-fest). I don’t have long out here— I have tables, and a boss who won’t understand the need for fresh air. I close my eyes and tilt my head back, trying to shake the memory of Sebastian’s eyes from my mind.
The door clicks. I jump and duck down, worried it’s a manger out for her not-so-secret smoke break. But it’s not my manager. It’s Sebastian.
His face is hard; his face, not his expression. It’s something about how angular he is, that ninety degree thing I noticed when he and I first met. It looks like you might cut yourself on the line of his jaw, or the turn of his eyebrows. His expression itself is unreadable, at least from where I’m sitting— I can’t see his face without rising up so high he’d see me.
Sebastian has his hands in his pockets, shoulders back, chin up. He tilts his head up to the sky and observes the few stars visible despite the city lights’ interference. He lowers his chin, looks left, then right. He’s looking for something. No, he’s looking for me— I know it’s true, impossible and terrible as it seems.
I feel a war of conflicting emotions.
I hate that I like knowing he is looking for me.
Little ‘ol me.
And if he wasn’t a Slate boy, I’d be jumping up and down for joy inside myself at the notion that someone like him was potentially interested in me.
But then I remind myself I’m simply lucky I know what he’s really like under the surface. I know the kind of person he is because he’s publicly standing by his horrible father despite all of the evidence that says his dad is a cold-blooded killer.
I press myself down into an even smaller ball, hoping he’ll go away before I get trapped in his eyes again. What the hell is he doing? I totally messed up the whole kissing thing, so why the hell would he seek me out? Maybe I’m wrong, maybe he’s not looking for me, maybe he just wanted to step outside—
“Are you hiding from me?” Sebastian asks.
I flinch, and look up through my lashes and hair spilled in front of my face. “No,” I lie.
“Really?” he asks doubtfully.
“I was looking for an earring,” I say quickly, and run my fingers across the obviously bare ground. When I look back up, Sebastian appears to be barely holding in a laugh. I rise, brush my hands off on my skirt, and try to cut past him. “Well, can’t find it. Better get back inside, Marcie will be by for your order—“
Sebastian catches my arm as I go past him, and I jolt away, even though his touch was light. He’s still a Slate, after all, I can’t just let him put his hands on me—
“Did I make you that angry by kissing you?” he asks, voice firm, but doubtful. I swallow, still avoiding those dark brown eyes. I wish he hadn’t mentioned the kissing. I really wish he hadn’t mentioned it in that voice, all controlled and smooth. His voice makes my stomach clench and my heartbeat quicken.
“No, of course not.“
“Then why are you trying so hard to give me the cold shoulder tonight?” he presses.
I turn back to him, hold my hands out at my sides, and dare to meet his eyes— I steel myself for it first, of course, by taking a deep, affirming breath. “I’m at work.”
“You were at work last night,” he says, still firm, still unyielding. His voice holds me down as easily as his hands could. And they could, of course. So, so easily. He could take my wrists in one hand, I’m sure, lock me in place--
Stop thinking like that, I scold myself.
Sebastian takes a step toward me. “I’ve been thinking about that kiss, actually. I’ve been trying to work out why you didn’t kiss me back.”
“Look, my tables are—“
“Because everything about you is saying you want me to do a lot more than kiss you.” He tilts his head to the side as he says this, like he’s seeing one such thing about me at this very moment.
My lips part and I step back. “That is incredibly presumptive. I barely even know you.” Except, my voice is sort of a whisper. It’s the opposite of his— wary and nervous where his is calm and confident.
He takes another step toward me, undoing my retreat. “I barely know you, but I know I want to do a lot more than kiss you.”
I take a breath, and wish I hadn’t— he’s close enough that my lungs fill with the scent of him, and it clouds my mind. He’s so good-looking, but it’s more than that; he’s so…intoxicating.
I wonder if this was how my poor aunt felt about his father. The thought should make me afraid, but I’m not.
Nothing about him frightens me, other than his last name.
Everything about him makes me want to step forward, makes me want to press my body against his and feel his strong arms around me. I can feel myself losing the where-with-all to stay away, and when he takes another step forward, I swear, he knows it— because he smiles a bit, like he’s won something.
And he has, I suppose, because my heart is pounding and my stomach clenching with anticipation. I want him to take another step. I want him to kiss me again, and this time, I want to kiss him back instead of freezing up.
“But of course,” he says, voice a growling whisper, “if you want me to leave you alone, I will.” He’s so close now, and his hands rise, fingertips hovering just above the curve of my neck, so close to touching me that I shudder. He moves his hands
along the line of my shoulder, still not touching me, but coming so close that I actually whimper out loud.
“Ashlynn,” he says sternly. “Do you want me to leave you alone?”
I swallow, close my eyes. I can’t speak, but I know my answer. I shake my head quickly— no, I definitely don’t want you to leave me alone, Sebastian.
6
Sebastian’s fingers touch down on my shoulder, then run down my arm. My eyes are still shut, and I almost overbalance and fall into him. My eyes spring open when I take a tiny step to keep this from happening, and I see he looks incredibly pleased with all that’s happening. He takes my arms in his hand and tugs me closer to him, and I turn my head against his chest. I can hear his heart beating, and the fact that it seems to be keeping time with mine secretly thrills me. Am I really turning this guy on so much?
“I do make you nervous, but not the way I thought I might,” Sebastian says under his breath, moving a hand to my back and running it down, stopping just before it slides over my ass. “You just aren’t used to enjoying yourself, are you? You get so tense…”
I nod against him, and shakily lift my arms to wrap them around his body lightly. He makes a pleased sound deep in his throat, then ducks his head down so his lips brush against my hair as he speaks. “Let yourself trust me, Ashlynn. See what happens.”
This is easier said than done, of course, and I want to tell him as much, but I can’t find my voice. Sebastian, however, doesn’t need an answer this time. He moves his palm from the small of my back down to my ass, where he cups one cheek firmly, then squeezes. I jump in surprise— which was exactly what he wanted, I think, because in that moment he sweeps his other hand down to grab my other ass cheek and lift me up against him.