CHAPTER THREE- Something to Prove
He hadn't been looking for trouble, really. It just seemed to be attracted to him, for some bizarre reason. No, Rob Wesley rather enjoyed sliding just under the radar, as it were, and had done so quite successfully until he'd been somewhat shockingly nominated captain of the football team at the start of term.
It was a bit insane, really, and brought more insanity with it. After all, he reasoned, if it weren't for the bloody captainhood, he'd not have Lucia dogging his every step. But whether that was fact or not, Rob found himself scanning the hallways for her in the precious few minutes he had before practice, wanting to apologize for his behavior that morning. She'd merely caught him off guard was all, and it wasn't as though an apology really was that big a deal. Good manners, was all. Good rearing.
He heard the blow before he saw the source, the loud, resounding smack that cracked through the hallway, and his eyes shot to the source of the noise; as soon as he had it located, the blood rushed to his face.
Drake buggering Mallory had his hand near Genevieve, by the looks of things, had nearly stricken her.
In this sort of situation, Rob found no reason to stick to his manners or his rearing, or the rules, for that matter.
The sleaze wasn't worth ten of Gen, and what was more, would never in a million years have any good reason to talk to her, in Rob's opinion. He'd had classes with the git, watched him parade around the school like God's gift to academia, and had never once flown under Drake's radar. No, the peaky, blond little bastard always seemed to have something snide and superior to say to the athlete.
Well, he wouldn't have anything to say to Genevieve at all, if Rob had any say in it.
"I'd just love to know what in the hell you're doing talking to my sister, you slimy git." Rob crossed his arms over his chest and looked directly into Drake's eyes, the bright, shocking blue meeting cold, indifferent gray. There was something in those eyes, a certain attitude, that nearly had Rob backing down.
But that would be quitting, and Wesleys didn't quit.
"Stop, Rob," Gen said, which didn't particularly shock Rob, independent as she was. "It's fine."
Fine my arse, he thought, noting the rise of color in her cheeks. "I hardly think it's fine, Gen. Why's he bothering you?" The million dollar question, he reckoned. This didn't look like a random harassment at all. No, it looked very… purposeful.
"Oh-ho, that's rich," Drake snickering in that maddening way of his. "Not only am I harassing beloved baby sister, but I'm also going to get my arse kicked by an addle-brained athlete who can't even fasten his shoes. Surely, Wesley, they can find some boots that don't require any motor skills to put on."
Rob bared his teeth, ready to rip Drake's throat out just to stop that flapping mouth.
"Stop!" Gen commanded with all the aplomb their mother would have wielded. "Listen, Rob, I've been assigned to tutor him. I got in a spot of trouble last week, let my temper get away with me. It's only a temporary punishment, Rob."
He didn't particularly want to listen to reason just this moment; what he wanted was to take one of those unlaced boots and mash their pattern right into Mallory's face. It would serve the pretty boy right, Rob thought, to walk around with a neatly matched set of holes in that sneering, smartass, snide, rude-
Gen laid her hand on his shoulder and spoke quietly. "You don't want to lose your temper, too. You'll be removed from the team."
She was right. He bloody well hated when she was right, and he bloody well hated how his day was ending up. If he'd only been able to start with a normal, leisurely practice… "I don't like this," he stated, but found he had no other words to say to her. She had fire in her eyes, and Rob suspected that if she'd wanted to, she could have Mallory shredded to ribbons in a matter of seconds without any help from him.
But there was just that feeling of protectiveness he couldn't shake, so he stuck one long, blunt-tipped finger in the other young man's face and glowered. "You don't want to be crossing her or me, Mallory. She'd chew you up before you'd even have time to squeal for Daddy, and I'd do it twice as fast," he concluded.
His mouth was still clamped in a thin, tight line as he stalked onto the practice field, and he was not in the least surprised to see his newly appointed second shadow sitting in the stands once more. She hadn't bothered pulling her skirt down over her knees this time, and the wind was stiff again, blowing hair and skirt and notebook pages, and for just a moment, Rob got a glimpse of one long, golden thigh.
"Wesley!" the coach bellowed. "Onto the field, you're already late. Be an example, Wesley. An example!"
No, this day was absolutely not turning out satisfactorily.
He let his mind drift from her as his attention narrowed to the patterned ball, the span of green grass, the white nets at either end of the field. He built a rhythm step by step and with every strike of his foot on the ball, a melody made up of step, slap, and heartbeat punctuated by the counterpoint of his and his teammates' breathing.
He took his aggression out in the game, as he always had and likely always would. The peaceful Rob Wesley turned into something else entirely on the field, something he'd never really be able to see, his awkward first tries at the sport still branded in his mind like a constant assurance of uncertainty. He'd come quite a long way from the fumbling player he'd once been, but no matter how smoothly he made things run, no matter how accurately he would always be able to pinpoint the proper play, to his own way of thinking, Rob would always need to prove something.
His adrenaline was high when they finished practice, his hair wet and curling with perspiration and the water he'd taken time to dump over the locks during breaks. Sweat stung his eyes and he squinted, trying to see through salty tears if she still sat in the stands.
What had she written? She was infamous for her scandal-stories, infamous for her wild speculations and farfetched rumor-mongering. He had no doubt she never meant ill, but he worried about what was scratched on that notebook.
And in his uncertain mind, she was writing in a fine, feminine hand that he did, indeed, have something to prove, that his skills were lacking and he was a poor leader. Rob Wesley was a big joke, and perhaps she'd already added onto that the observation of his prattiness.
It was the game still coursing through him that had him climbing the stands to her, taking long, loping strides up the seats rather than walking up the stairs, and when he stood over her, he ignored the fact that he was dripping sweat and water at her feet. "I'm not going to give you an interview," he said between breaths. "I don't know what the hell you're writing, Lovejoy, and frankly, I don't care. Write about someone else."
She'd been frozen to the spot the minute, nay, the very second he'd started climbing toward her, his boots leaving muddy prints in a track all the way up to her, her breath caught in her throat. It was like, she thought, being spotted and stalked by some sort of predator.
It was a bit exciting, and then he'd opened his mouth.
At his words, her eyes widened and her breath shot back into her lungs in a hurt gasp.
Don't fall in love with a source, eh? Fat chance of that here.
She was ready to throw a retort at him, to shove him down the seats with both hands, to watch him topple right onto his arse, and then Lucia took a good, long look at his eyes.
He was afraid.
It shouldn't have made a difference to her; after all, he'd been as rude as rude could be, but for some reason, it softened her, nearly charmed her. Something in him was scared of something in her, and judging by the glances he was sending her notebook, it didn't take a genius to figure it out. He was afraid of what she might write.
She wanted to say something, wanted to reassure him, so she stood and looked up at him, her chin tilted back, her pale hair falling down her back, the tips of it touching the pleats of her skirt. Before she could say anything, however, he had backed off, his eyes now shifting and wary, as though he knew he'd said something wrong.
"I'll not write about someone else," she said softly, the hurt now coming from his retreat, from his withdrawal. She'd made a mistake agreeing to this one, a juvenile mistake to go hand-in-hand with a childish crush. "I'll write about you, and I'll do it without asking you questions if I have to."
She stepped around him, walking down the seats as he had, her steps light and careful, and when she was a few tiers below him, Lucia turned to look back at him, at his drooping shoulders, his odd, somehow heartbreaking stance. "But don't count on me having to," she said, so unwilling, so unable to let him be. She recognized that shifting, uncertain, insecure stance. She'd seen it enough from her own father, a man more comfortable surrounded by papers than people, a man who hadn't been sure of a thing ever since his wife's death.
Robert Wesley needed something, needed someone.
He just didn't know it yet.