Over the next hour, Killian sits stiffly next to me as President Whittmore hands out awards. Marcus gets one for the highest GPA in the football program, and when he stumbles on the steps up to the stage, a spattering of obnoxious applause erupts from various tables. LDZ, I eventually realize, is scattered throughout the athletic programs. Marcus brings the award back to the table and lets the other players ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ over its cut glass and etched words.
But it’s a trinket compared to what Saul Cartwright hauls up to the podium.
I’ve spent the last hour staring at the back of his balding head, but the moment he breathes into the microphone, my body goes rigid.
“I’m sure you all know by now,” he begins, voice sending a slimy shiver down my spine, “that Forsyth’s football department has had an excellent year. And that’s what I want to talk about right now. Excellence.” The more he talks, the more wound my muscles get.
I watch from my periphery as Killian slides his arm from the back of my chair, hand disappearing beneath the table.
A second later, I feel it on my thigh, thumb sweeping soothingly against the satin of my dress.
“Our player of the season is someone who excels,” Cartwright is saying, “both on and off the field. Tonight, it’s an honor to personally present this award to star quarterback and all-around Forsyth royalty, Killian Payne.”
A rush of chants swells from the same smattering of people who’d laughed at Marcus before. LDZ is shouting, “Killer Payne! Killer Payne!” and I barely get to give his hand a squeeze before he’s rising from his seat, buttoning his blazer, and stalking up to the stage.
There’s a moment when Killian approaches the podium, reaching out to shake Cartwright’s outstretched hand, that I notice the tightness in his jaw. The belligerence in his eyes. The way Cartwright’s eyes narrow in response.
If I had to guess, Killian is crushing that man’s hand.
He doesn’t even look at the award he’s handed, setting it heavily onto the wood of the podium before looking out over the room. Now I’m tense for an entirely different reason, wishing I could be beside him. Wishing I could tell him he doesn’t have to do this. Wishing I could see the softness in his eyes I’d put there earlier, with nothing but a smile and a tentative touch.
Now, his face is hard as stone.
But he’s looking right at me.
“When I was young,” he begins, bending his neck to speak into the microphone, “people used to tell my father I had a problem. They’d complain about me being too aggressive. Too angry. Too physical.” There’s a pause, but he holds my shocked gaze, adding, “Among other things.”
“Too sexy!” one of the LDZ guys in the back shouts.
Killian pays no attention to it, addressing the room in a somber voice. “But out on the field, there’s no such thing. You can be angry. You can tackle some guy from thirty yards out and absolutely crush him, and afterward, he’ll shake your hand. Your coach will tell you ‘good job.’ The student body will start calling you by a cool nickname. Your parents will hang your jerseys and brag about you to their friends.” There’s a murmur of agreement from our table in particular, but it doesn’t last long. “I think I’ll always appreciate this game the most for giving me that. For allowing me to point my anger at something that weighs two-fifty and is wearing armor. For showing me I have power that’s all my own. And I’d like to thank someone else,” he says, dropping his gaze to the award, “for helping me realize I don’t need it anymore.”
A grim hush falls over the room, and even though I see Marcus’ gaze flick to me, everyone else’s is plastered on Killian and the tense line of his mouth.
“This week, I’ll be formally withdrawing from the Forsyth athletic program—” He pauses at the swell of protest from the crowd, but quickly recovers. “—to pursue a different path, both at this school and in my life.” He lifts the award, rushing out a hasty thanks, and then steps away, brows set low as he lumbers back to the table.
I’m stunned. Not because he quit the team, or even that he announced it. It’s the realization that football meant so much more to him than just some dumb game that gave him the glory to escape his father’s plans for his future. It’s the knowledge that this is an even bigger sacrifice than I thought it was.
When he takes his seat, flashing me a glance, he shakes his head. “Don’t.”