His Offer

I dropped my gaze to my still throbbing fingers, feeling Coach's eyes on my face.

It was the day after the brawl at the rink, and I hadn't even fully entered the school gate before Coach's voice came over the speakers, demanding to see me in his office.

"...We had a deal, Myles. What were you thinking?!"

I had no clue, but I knew what I thought after it all happened: run! And I did—taking my bag and the strange money home after the biology teacher discovered no one else's was missing.

Things to worry about just kept multiplying.

Now Coach stood up straight. "All you had to do was lay low."

"Which I did."

"That wasn’t laying low, Myles."

"He fucking came at me!" When Coach said nothing, I quickly toned down my voice. "I know you're trying to help, but goddammit, it gets hard when you're punched in the midsection."

Coach sighed and sat down. "I understand." He gestured for me to sit down too, but I didn’t. "That’s why I said it’s going to be hard. George doesn’t want you there. I don’t know why he wants to make your life a living hell, but you can’t handle it by punching him back."

I thought sacrificing my dignity was going to be so easy, but it turned out it wasn’t—not in the least.

"Lucky for you, George decided he doesn’t want you punished." He paused as if unsure how to relay the next part. "And Tristan wants an apology."

My brows knit. What the fuck was he talking about? I wasn’t going to do that! He was the reason I was in this shit—he took my position.

But minutes later, I found myself walking toward the team bathroom where Coach said Tristan was.

Was I really doing this? Reaching the door, I pulled my hoodie up and reached for the knob. It was just an apology; I didn’t have to mean a word of it.

I pushed open the door and walked in just as a locker clicked closed. I froze at the center of the bathroom.

Steps away from me was a back turned toward me, with the largest and undeniably the most beautiful tattoo I had ever seen.

It was in the shape of a cobra, with gleaming scales that ran up to his upper back and shoulders. Tattoos weren’t allowed here. Had the school seen this? Or did they not care when he was the heir?

"Why are you here?" His deep baritone knocked me out of my trance.

Why did it sound familiar?

I stood straight, trying not to stare as he put on a black shirt, covering the tattoo completely. He turned to me. "I don’t like repeating myself."

I grit my teeth. Just say the apology and never cross paths with him again.

"I came to apologize for hitting you." My eyes spotted the slight red bruise at the side of his mouth, and my heart did a happy dance. "It was a fight-or-flight situation."

He said nothing, continuing to look at me as if I hadn’t spoken. Then his gaze dropped to my bag.

Coach said he wanted an apology. So why was I being stared at that way?

Finally, he spoke. "Are you apologizing or making excuses?"

My fingers clenched into fists. "Perhaps if you hadn’t grabbed my hand, your face would still be intact. Try not to creep up on people next time."

He chuckled. "You hate me."

"You wish you were that important."

"You think I took your position." Quietly, he shut the locker and stepped even closer. "You fail to realize that maybe if you were just a bit as good as—"

"You?" I leaned in closer, strangling the thought that, up close, he was even more majestic. "What’s that? Daddy’s money stroking your delusion?"

I thought I saw him flinch, but it disappeared quickly, and he chuckled again, turning back to the locker to insert the key.

"I accept your apology," he said. "Just don’t be quick with your hands next time." He took out the key and winked. "I know how to hurt people without *daddy’s money.*"

He was sly, I realized—maybe even dangerous.

I began to backtrack, turning toward the door, ready to get the hell out of his sight. Just as my fingers touched the knob, his voice echoed.

"Hey, Myles."

I stopped in my tracks, waiting.

"Did you get your money back?" he asked.

I clutched the strap of my bag like the money was still in it instead of buried in the newly dug hole beneath my bed. The story must have really made the rounds for him to hear about it.

"Yeah," I answered. After a pause, I quickly added, "I’ll be taking it to the police."

That was a lie. But no way would he know.

He sighed. "Now, why would you do that?" I could hear the slyness in his voice. "After all, you worked really hard for it."

Silence.....longer silence...then my breath caught in my throat.

It was as though I had been bathed in ice, my soul leaving my body as I turned around.

The prior amusement had vanished. His grey eyes had become blank, staring at me under lazy lashes as if he had expected me to know.

He was the one that night.

It couldn’t be… The back tattoo flashed before my tired gaze as he walked out of the room. The familiarity of his voice...

'Not exactly your best move.'

I feel my stomach churn.

Unable to reach for my rage, immediately the door behind me clicked open, with head lowered, I dashed out of the bathroom.

***

The rest of the day, I spend in an empty stall behind the school, my back pressed against the wall, staring wide eyed and breathless at the ceiling as the memories slammed into me.

I buried my fingers into my hair, yanking hard as I cursed at myself, anybody but him, any other darn person but him!

Time and again, my phone beeped signaling messages from my socials. I don't have to look to know it's Jade, and every second that I don't reply was an hour of berating.

"Shit..." I whispered in the dimness of the room, my heartbeat quickening. How was I to ever face him? Most of all, how was he in the party that night?! None of this was making sense.

I pinched myself...it was no dream.

The phone beeps again and groaning out loud, I yanked it out of my bag, and just like I predicted, Jade's name blared bright.

But just before I can tap her unread message, there's another beep, and a message that isn't hers appeared on the screen.

'We need to talk.' it read.

The picture on the DP, of a frame sitting lazily on a gym bench is unmistakably, his, Tristan.

Shit. My hands tightened around the phone. How did he get my number... What did he want to talk about?

Another beep.

'I'll be at the cafeteria in two hours.'

First of all, the audacity of the son of a bitch.... Secondly... I began to type, 'There's nothing to talk about. Forget anything ever happened that night. I'll bring your money to you on monday.'

Immediately it sends, he begins to type again, then stops, then typing...

I wait, sweat streaking into my shirt. The money, ten thousand... It would have done a lot, but I had to protect the remaining dignity I had left.

A beep shatters the silence.

I look into the screen, another message. 'The money is yours, you worked for it. "

'Stop saying that shit! ' I typed and sent furiously.

There's silence, no floating icon, just me glaring at the screen and hating my life. It was the way he made me lose control with just words.

I never hated anyone, not even George as much as I hated him.

Yet when there's another beep, I'm rushing for the phone.

And on the screen are two simple sentence, that leave me struck.

'I have an offer for you. I want another night.'