Page 43 of Dirty Hit
Now I have to live with both, because I can see what everyone else sees.
And worse, I think I’m starting to understand why they miss the rest.
Dominic
Theskyisthatwashed-out, late afternoon color that makes the stadium lights look harsher than they are, bleaching the field in a way that always makes me feel like I’m under a microscope.
I stand in the huddle with sweat running down my spine, ball in my hands, cadence rolling easily off my tongue. Everything here is simple and easy. I say the count, they move. I throw, they catch. I call, they listen.
Out here, no one questions that I’m in charge.
Coach Keller blows his whistle and calls practice, his voice cutting through the chatter like a knife.
“Bring it in!” he yells. “Volkov, my office.”
A couple of guys shoot me sympathetic looks. Colton claps my shoulder pad as we jog toward the sideline. “What’d you do this time?” he mutters.
“Maybe he found out I skipped that study hall last week,” I say.
He snorts. “If he’d found out, you’d be benched already. You’re not that sneaky, Dom.”
“Watch me,” I reply, smirking.
I drop my helmet on the bench, peel my gloves off, and jog up the tunnel. The air shifts as soon as I leave the field; it’s cooler, and stale with cleaning supplies and old sweat. My body is still humming from drills, muscles loose and warm, brain locked into that smooth, focused place that only ever really exists for me during games and kills.
Lately, there’s been a third category trying to wedge itself in, and it has a name and a soft fucking whine that plays on a loop in my head.
I shove that thought down as I reach Keller’s office. The door is half-open, light spilling into the hallway. I knock once out of habit and push it wide.
He’s behind his desk, tablet in hand, glasses perched low on his nose. He doesn’t stand up, but he jerks his chin at the chair across from him.
“Sit,” he says.
I drop into the chair, shoulders relaxed, trying not to drip too much sweat on his carpet. “What’s up, Coach?”
He taps the tablet, then looks at me over the frames. “Progress reports came in.”
There it is.
I keep my face neutral. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he repeats. “Last time we had this conversation, you were one bad quiz away from academic probation. You remember that?”
I smile a little. “Vaguely.”
He doesn’t bother hiding his eye roll. “You’re a pain in my ass.”
“Comes with the territory,” I say.
He shakes his head, but there’s a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth now. “Well, congratulations, you’ve somehow managed not to tank our season and my reputation. Your Con Law grade isup to a B-minus. Ethics is at a solid B. Whatever that TA is doing with you, it’s working.”
I feel my mouth curve before I can stop it. “Told you I’d handle it.”
“I told you to let him handle it,” Keller corrects. “And for once in your life, you actually listened.”
If only you fucking knew.
Images flicker up without permission. Brendon at my dining table, pen in hand, eyes narrowed in concentration.
