Chapter 4
1426 Words
AIDAN’S POV
The gym at Aurelian heights wasn't just a gym; it was a cathedral of physical perfection.
It looked more like a high-performance facility where Olympic athletes might spend their off-seasons training for gold, and even that felt like a gross understatement.
The floors were a polished, high-grip maple that didn't just shine; it glowed under the recessed LED lighting.
The air was climate-controlled, filtered to a crispness that lacked even a hint of the usual adolescent sweat found in a normal high school locker room.
Here, even the scent of exertion was expensive.
I was changing in the furthest corner of the locker room, wedged between a row of sleek, slate-gray lockers and a concrete pillar.
I was trying to occupy as little physical space as possible, keeping my head down and my eyes glued to the laces of my sneakers.
I knew how these places worked. At a school like this, eye contact was a challenge.
If I looked at someone for a second too long, I was "looking at them funny."
If I looked away too fast, I was "being shifty."
It was a lose-lose game, and I had already used up my lifetime supply of luck in the Headmistress’s office.
The last thing I needed was to be summoned back to that office because I’d accidentally offended some sensitive heir.
"Aidan. May I have a word with you?"
The voice hit me like a bucket of ice water.
I pulled my gym shirt over my head, the fabric catching briefly on my ears before I smoothed it down and turned around.
Weston was standing there. He looked sickeningly perfect.
He was dressed in designer athletic gear that featured moisture-wicking technology I probably couldn't afford for the next decade.
He looked like he’d been plucked straight out of a luxury activewear campaign, all lean muscle and effortless grace.
The sight of him made my stomach do a slow, painful flip.
Even though he had shattered my heart into a million jagged pieces on the side of a dusty road just weeks ago, I couldn't help the Pavlovian response of my own heart.
I was still painfully, embarrassingly attracted to him.
We were supposed to be together.
We were supposed to be the exception to the rule.
Looking at him now, the breakup felt like a fever dream I wasn't quite ready to wake up from.
"I thought you said we shouldn't talk," I said.
I kept my voice flat to mask the fact that I still wanted to reach out and touch the sleeve of his shirt.
I couldn't let him hear the sadness; I couldn't let him see the cracks in my foundation.
"We shouldn't," he hissed.
He didn't look at me with longing; he looked at me with panic.
He glanced nervously over his shoulder at a group of his friends who were laughing near the benches, making sure they were sufficiently distracted.
"But I heard what happened with the Headmistress. My God, Aidan, are you trying to get expelled? On day one?"
“What’s it to you?” I asked, leaning back against the cold metal of the locker. “That should be something that would make you happy, right? If I disappeared, you wouldn't have to worry about the 'mistake' you made this summer.”
“What the hell is your problem, Aidan?” he snapped, his eyes flashing with a mix of guilt and irritation.
“Excuse you?”
“No, excuse YOU, Aidan. You’re already making a scene, and it’s only Monday. Do you have any idea how much weight the Crawford name carries here? You can’t just go around picking fights with Ethan.”
"I wasn't the one who started it, Weston. Ethan was the one who stepped on my things.”
"I don't care about Ethan!" Weston stepped closer, invading my space.
For a second, I smelled his cologne.
It was the same one he wore when we’d watched the stars from the hood of his car and it nearly broke me.
But his voice was a low, desperate whisper, stripped of any warmth.
"What I care about is my reputation. If people find out I was dating a 'diversity' kid who gets called into the office on his first day, I’m done. My social standing will be tanked”
“Oh, poor Weston,” I said, the bitterness finally bubbling over. “Life must be so hard for the boy with the designer shorts and the sterling reputation.”
“Now you listen here, Aidan. My dad is already breathing down my neck about making the right 'connections.' This year is about networking. It’s about building a future with people who actually matter.”
"Connections," I repeated, a bitter, jagged laugh escaping my throat. "Is that all I was to you? A bad connection?"
"Aidan, be realistic. We aren't in some indie movie where the rich guy and the scholarship kid walk off into the sunset.”
“What the hell, Weston”
“Just... lay low. Don't mention us. Don't even look at me. If you see me in the hall, keep walking. If you ruin this for me, I swear to God, Aidan……”
He stopped abruptly.
The heavy double doors of the gym swung open with a violent, metallic bang that echoed off the high ceilings.
The chatter in the room died instantly. It was as if someone had flipped a master switch, cutting the power to every conversation.
Ethan Crawford walked in.
He moved with the entitlement of a king entering a vassal state. He wasn't alone, either.
He had a pack of four guys behind him. All of them looking like they were ready to start a riot or a corporate takeover.
They were an intimidating wall of muscle and privilege.
Even the gym teacher, a man whose neck was thicker than my waist and who looked like he could bench press a small car without breaking a sweat, actually took a step back.
He lowered his clipboard, his authority evaporating in the presence of the Crawford heir.
"Coach," Ethan said. His voice wasn't loud, but it dropped into the silent room like a lead weight. "I need to borrow the gym for a moment.”
His gaze swept the room, dismissive of everyone until it landed on me.
He locked eyes with me and a slow, predatory expression crept up his face.
It made my heart drop into the pit of my stomach.
“My team needs the extra practice for the tournament,” Ethan continued, though he never looked at the coach.
He kept his eyes on me.
"Ethan, we have a scheduled lesson plan for the freshmen," the coach started, his voice lacking any real conviction. "And you already know the policy about unscheduled….”
"Did I stutter?" Ethan asked.
His tone was deceptively conversational, but there was a sharp edge underneath it that suggested the coach’s job security was directly tied to his next three seconds of silence.
The teacher swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
He looked at the floor, then at the clock, and finally blew his whistle with a short, sharp blast.
"Everyone out! Field laps! Ten minutes! Move it, move it!"
The locker room erupted into a frantic scramble.
Students snatched up their gear and hurried toward the exit, desperate to avoid whatever storm was brewing.
Weston was among the first to move, scurrying out of the room like a frightened rabbit, his head down, never once looking back at me.
He had chosen his side, and it wasn't mine.
I tried to follow the crowd, keeping my head tucked and my shoulder against the wall, hoping to blend into the sea of blue and white gym shirts.
But as I reached the threshold of the door, a hand shot out and caught the front of my shirt.
I was yanked backward with enough force to make my teeth rattle.
It was one of Ethan’s friends, a guy whose nametag said ‘Nick’.
I recognized him from the courtyard earlier; he had been the one laughing the loudest while Ethan insulted me.
"Not you, scholarship," Nick smirked. “We would like to have a word”
He shoved me backward, sending me stumbling until my back hit the slate-gray lockers.
Ethan was standing there, tossing a ball casually into the air and catching it.
Behind him, his friends fanned out, cutting off every exit.
I was alone, trapped and I knew right then and there that I was so screwed.
- Writer
