The Boy Who knew My Knock

Chapter 9: The Boy Who Knew My Knock

Aima's POV

Dom didn't look at me once on the team bus. I wasn't expecting him to.

He sat at the front with his headphones on, and I sat near the back with the box of towels on my knees. Neither of us had said more than ten words since that night in the store cupboard.

"Good morning," I had said at practice.

"Morning," he had said, and looked at the clock.

That was it. That was all we had left.

I stared out of the window at the grey motorway and thought about the shadow in the corridor, wondering who it could be. The person already knew that our whole relationship was a game, and I had no idea who it was.

Every time a player glanced at me, I wondered if it was him.

---

The away game was in a huge sports hall full of noise. I stood by our bench in Dom's navy and gold jacket, with a pile of towels over my arm, and tried to look like a girl who belonged there.

The cameras were already on us. When Dom came out for the warm-up, he glanced at me and gave a small nod. It was the kind of nod you give to a stranger. Then, because the photographers were watching, he walked over and kissed my forehead.

His lips were warm. His eyes were empty.

"For the cameras," he muttered.

"I know," I muttered back.

It hurt more than I wanted it to.

The game started. I handed out bottles, wiped the floor when someone slipped, and kept the stat sheet. Dom played like he was angry at the whole world. He scored twelve points in the first quarter, and when a player on the other team shoved him, he got up and kept running.

Then, halfway through the second quarter, I felt it.

It was as though someone was staring at me.

It is hard to describe, but when you spend six years loving someone, you can feel their eyes on your skin. I looked up into the stands, slowly, and found him.

James was sitting in the third row, in a black coat, with a baseball cap pulled low. Two men in suits sat beside him, and I knew they were from the agency. People were nudging each other and taking photos of him. He was a celebrity now, so nobody asked what he was doing there. I guessed he was scouting.

But he wasn't watching the court. He was watching me.

I turned my back on him and bent over the towels. My hands were shaking again.

At half-time, the players went to the locker room, and I went to refill the water cooler. The corridor behind the court was long and quiet, with concrete walls and a flickering light. I was alone—or so I thought.

"Aima," he called.

I stopped.

I didn't need to turn around. I knew the voice better than my own.

"Please," James said. "Just listen. Two minutes."

I turned around slowly. He had taken off the cap. Without the cameras, he looked tired. There were shadows under his eyes, and he hadn't shaved. It would have been easier if he had looked cruel.

"You have one minute," I said.

"I'm sorry."

I laughed. It was a hard little sound. "You're sorry."

"I panicked." The words came tumbling out. "That night, on camera. The agency told me weeks ago that I had to look a certain way. Single, free, clean. They said a girl from a poor background, with no connections, would hurt my image. Then you turned up with flowers in front of six thousand people, and I froze. I said what they wanted me to say. I hated myself the second I said it."

"You told security I was a stalker."

"I know."

"You said you'd never seen me before in your life."

"I know." His voice cracked. "I think about it every night. I can't sleep. I miss you, Aima. I miss you so much."

A year ago, I would have done anything to hear those words. Now they just sat in the air between us, like something that had gone bad.

"You slammed the door on me," I said quietly. "I had forty pounds and nowhere to go."

"I was wrong."

He stepped closer, lifted his hand, and tapped on the concrete wall beside us. Three quick taps. Two slow ones.

Our knock. The one we made up when we were nine, over the garden fence.

My eyes burned. For a moment, I was nine years old again, with a cheese sandwich wrapped in foil, waiting on the other side of a fence for a boy who was always hungry.

"Don't," I whispered. "Don't you dare use that."

"I never forgot it," James said. "Come back, Aima. Leave the Titans. Leave him. I'll fix everything. I'll tell them the truth."

For one second, I almost believed him.

Then he smiled sadly, and said the one thing that cut deeper than all the rest.

"Do you really think he cares about you? Dominic Isaiah needs a girlfriend to save his name, that's all. He found a sad girl the whole country felt sorry for, and he is using you for his image." He looked straight at me. "The same way I did."

The corridor went completely silent.

The worst part was that it wasn't a lie. Not all of it. Dom had needed me for his image. That was the deal. I had said so myself, a hundred times. But I remembered the tape in my hand, the warmth of the cupboard, and Dom's face when he thought I might be saying it was real.

And I remembered his voice last night saying it was just a game.

I couldn't speak. James saw it, and he took another step closer.

"Aima—"

"Get away from her."

The voice came from the far end of the corridor—low, flat, and dangerous.

Dom was standing there in his sweat-soaked kit, with a towel round his neck and a fury in his face that I had only seen once before. His hands were clenched at his sides. He walked toward us slowly, and the lights flickered over his shoulders.

James lifted his chin. He tried to look calm, but I saw his throat move.

"Isaiah," he said. "We were just talking."

"I heard." Dom stopped between us, so close to James that their shoulders almost touched. "She's got a job to do, Dakas. Go back to your seat."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll finish this on the court," Dom said quietly. "In front of the whole country. And you know I will."

The two captains stared at each other. It was like watching two storms meet.

At last, James stepped back. He looked at me one last time, a long, sad, careful look, as if he was memorising my face.

"Think about what I said," he told me. Then he put his cap back on and walked away down the corridor.

Dom didn't move until he was gone. When he turned to me, his eyes were furious, but I could tell the anger wasn't for me.

"What did he say to you?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"Aima."

"He said he was sorry." I picked up the water cooler with shaking hands. "It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me," Dom said, and then he stopped, like he had said too much. He looked away. "You're my responsibility. That's all. For the deal."

"Right," I said. "For the deal."

He nodded stiffly and walked back toward the locker room.

I stood alone in the corridor, holding a cooler of water I had forgotten to fill. My head was spinning because I couldn't tell which of them was lying, or if they both were.

When I finally went back out to the bench, the second half was about to start. I looked up into the stands again, without meaning to.

James had gone.

But two rows behind his empty seat, a girl in a cream coat was sitting very still. She had dark hair in smooth waves, and diamonds in her ears. She was not clapping, and she was not looking at the game.

She was looking right at me.

It was Jemima Vanterpool.