Total pages in book: 72
Estimated words: 69734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69734 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 232(@300wpm)
He shakes his head. “I don’t think it’s a good fit for you.”
Asshole. I’m not surprised. I shouldn’t be disappointed. I knew he would answer this way based on what just happened, yet it still hits me like an arrow to the heart. It still feels like an affront to my art. I straighten my stiff shoulders. “Right. Okay, well, I hope it works out for you.”
He takes a slow survey of the parking lot, like he’s getting his bearings and suddenly has no idea why he’s here. His lip curls in familiar sneer. “Well. I hope this teaching thing works out for you.” He infuses a world of pity and condemnation in his voice.
A few days ago that pity and condemnation might have hurt because I felt it for myself, too.
Now, though, I could not give a fuck. I’ve been far too wrapped up in myself and my career to see what’s important. Love is what matters.
And I love Asher.
I will do anything in the world to keep him from being expelled from school and banished from the pack.
Asher
“Get in.” Coach Jamison grabbed me outside and hustled me to his pickup truck.
“Coach–”
“Get in, Asher.” His voice is hard. Angry. But his scent has a tinge of stress in it. He’s scared for me.
I climb in the cab of the pickup truck and scrub a hand over my face. “I’m done, right?”
“I don’t know.” He throws the car into reverse and whips out of the parking space. The entire team–Varsity and JV–stands at the gate watching us leave. He peels out when he puts it in drive. “I’m getting you off-property before anyone can make that call. I want you to get a fair trial with the council before anything’s decided.”
My stomach’s filled with rocks. “Thanks, Coach,” I mutter. “But it’s all right. I was never going to make it here, anyway.”
“Dammit, Asher. I would love for you to just pull your head out of your ass for three seconds and stop fighting against this pack.”
I drop my head into my hands and freefall off a cliff. Because, of course, Coach is right. All this time I’ve been playing the part of the rebel, feeling like Lotta and the pack did my dad dirty. It defined my entire personality.
Or maybe solidified it. My dad was really the one who made me into a rebel. I rebelled against his tyranny in the ways I could growing up. But when he left, I somehow made him out to be something much better than what he was. I was missing a father figure in that crucial time of puberty and my first shift, and I’d glorified him and demonized the pack.
But now I know he was a louse who deserved it all. I suddenly remember and recognize what an asshole he was. How he knocked me and my mom around. Belittled us. Bullied us.
“Have you ever considered that pack members treat you like a punk because you act like one? All you have to do is step up and be a leader. Instead of pushing against, you could be fighting for something. For yourself.”
Coach’s words are too deep for me to even process, but I close my eyes and let them wash over me. I know he cares, and it means more than I’ve ever let myself feel before.
In fact, I suddenly feel everything.
Way too much.
Shame over my behavior. Over leaving Lotta this morning. Over being such a dick to her when she was the one protecting me. Regret over not noticing that I’ve had an amazing father figure for the last four years–a coach who cares about me like I’m his own. Bitterness toward my dad for attacking my mate and being a shitty father and husband to my mom.
We speed up the hill toward the center of town. “You want to tell me what happened?” Coach demands.
Right.
The incident at hand. The human I just flung through a plate glass window.
“He was…” I draw a breath, trying to remember. It was all a red haze at the time. “He was touching her. She told him to stop. I–”
I have to stop and drag a deep breath in through my nostrils to quiet the red haze in front of my eyes.
“You helped him stop,” Coach fills in.
I nod faintly. My focus is on the road ahead, but I’m not seeing anything.
“Okay. Call your mom. Tell her what happened, so she’s not surprised by hearing it from someone else.”
“Yes, Sir.” My hands move mechanically, fishing my phone out and dialing my mom.
When I tell her what happened, her fear comes across the phone like a cold cocoon. “No, Asher,” she whispers.
“It’s okay, Mom. I’ll be all right, no matter what happens.”
“No… you won’t. You–”
“Don’t cry, Mom. It’ll be okay. I love you.” I’m choking up now, too, but only because I let my mom down. She doesn’t deserve the shame I’m bringing on her with this. A repeat of the shame my dad brought on our family. I end the call before she can answer because there’s nothing more to say.