Chapter 8

POV Stas

I caught the pass, took a step, and jumped—the ball sailed into the basket in a high arc.

“Great, Frolov! That’s your second three-pointer!” The coach’s whistle stopped the game, and we all exhaled, clapping each other on the shoulders.

“Not a bad game, guys, but you can do better. Much better!” Mark Stepanovich said sourly. The closer the competition drew, the harder the coach pushed us, regularly running us ragged. We were all worn out now, too, after two straight hours of dribbling up and down the court, but I didn’t mind—I threw myself into the game. Unlike the guys who’d cried out in protest, I needed some kind of release. “I expect a great performance from you by the end of next week! Remember: the school’s best players will compete in the regional championship as early as March! And after that, we’ll make it to the regional tournament! So tomorrow, everyone better be at practice at three sharp! And now, eagles, get home—move! I don’t want anyone still in this gym a minute from now!”

I pulled off my jersey and wiped my face. I slung it over my shoulder as I headed for the exit. Somewhere up on the second-floor balcony, girls watching the game squealed, but I couldn’t have cared less. I’d already given one of them more than enough of my attention today. Enough. I wasn’t about to tear off another piece of myself.

Marina’s pale, cold face surfaced in my memory. The way I’d leaned toward her and kissed her—only I hadn’t even tasted the kiss. I hadn’t felt anything. Just someone else’s mouth and the desperate movement of my own lips, which I’d wanted to wipe off immediately. Roughly. Spitting a salty mouthful onto the floor.

Just as thick and bitter as the taste in my mouth now.

I wiped my mouth again on reflex and swore under my breath, angry at myself for being such an idiot. Fucking fool! I liked what came after a kiss much more, and the bolder it was, the better—ending in pleasure, sharp and as necessary as air. Thank God for the older women in my life who understood that and didn’t insist. Everything else was a waste of time.

“Stop, Frol! We need to talk. Alone.”

Voropaev caught up with me by the locker room and put a hand on my shoulder. I easily shrugged it off without even looking at my friend. I’d kept him at a distance throughout the game, and even now I still wanted to hit him. Much more than I wanted to answer:

“Fine. Where?”

“Behind the school.”

“We can talk…”

…I rarely ignored him, but this time I didn’t light it for him. I struck my lighter right in front of his face and blew the smoke out in front of me as I pocketed it. If Voropaev was surprised, he didn’t show it. Undeterred, he tapped a cigarette out of the pack and lit it himself.

“So what did you want to talk to me about, Seryoga? Hopefully not Polozova? Tell Raevsky to hit on her—I’m not interested.”

“I couldn’t care less about Lenka, either. No, not her. Marina.”

It took some effort to look surprised, but I tried.

“And? What’s bothering you, Seryoga?”

“Frol, come on! Don’t play dumb!” Voropaev smiled cautiously, studying my face intently. “You know Marina’s been crazy about you since she was a kid. Remember how she wrote you letters like a fool when she was ten, and I delivered them? We used to laugh our asses off at them. If I didn’t know my sister was okay with it, I’d have punched your face in already, but…”

“What’s with the ‘but’? Are you feeling sorry for her, or are you scared?”

“Give it a rest, Frol! It’s more that I don’t get it. Did you really decide you liked her back? Seriously?”

That was exactly the question I’d been waiting for, and I answered easily with a question of my own—about something that mattered much more to me right now than Voropaev’s sister’s feelings.

“What about you?”

We stared at each other, and I wanted to believe he’d understand. Figure out for himself who I meant.

Seryoga understood. He looked away for a moment, bit his lip, and rolled the cigarette between his teeth before stubbornly lifting his head and looking back at me.

“I like her. A lot. From the first time I saw her.”

Well, it was unpleasant, but at least he was honest. My hands clenched into fists again, and blood raced through my veins, heating my skin. I wasn’t going to dodge the issue with my friend, either.

“I don’t. I couldn’t care less about her.”

Voropaev laughed. Low and strained, more like he was using it to laugh off the tension between us.

“I don’t see the problem, buddy! Why should this matter to you?”

Apparently, he really didn’t understand.

“It matters to you. A lot.”

“How so? I like her, you don’t. Let it go, Frol! Life is good when you’re living it! Get over it—I’m not backing down. But I promise I won’t rub it in your face, and I’ll be careful with the girl.”

His cheerfulness was already irritating me, along with his impenetrable stupidity.

“You don’t get it, Seryoga.” I tossed the crushed cigarette away and swung my backpack onto my shoulder. “I don’t like your sister. Never have.”

“Marina?”

“Exactly.”

“But…”

I hadn’t wanted to spell it out, but he’d left me no choice. I raised my hand to my face and wiped my mouth with my fist in disgust.

“Stupid girl. Yeah, I could bet on her, too.”

There it was at last—the silence and understanding in his eyes. Finally. Not a trace of laughter remained on his slack lips.

“You won’t do it.”

“Why not, Seryoga? How is she better than the others? You used to enjoy our games.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“No!”

“Yes, damn it! Yes, Voropaev! Or we both back off!”

Anger boiled in my throat, pulsed at my temples, and prickled in my hands. We were ready to go at each other, but I said it anyway, quieter now but no less furious, my fingers digging angrily into my friend’s collar:

“Never go near my stepsister, or you’ll regret it. I—and only I—will decide who she’s with! Who the hell gets to paw at her! Do you understand me?!”

He understood. He knocked my hand away with equal fury, but stepped back. He hissed through his teeth, spitting bitterly onto the ground.

“Unexpected, Frol. I seem to remember you saying something very different not long ago. What, Stas the spoiled rich kid’s little stepsister got under your skin? The pathetic poor relation?”

I hit him after all, making him shut up. Watching my friend wipe his split lips, I prepared to hit him again. What I felt wasn’t any of his fucking business, and I wasn’t going to answer to him for it.

“I hate her, and that’s all you need to know.”

POV Nastia

“Galya, stop. Stas isn’t a little kid anymore. I got through to him, and he’s fine, hear me? He’s at some friends’ dacha, not far from here. They were celebrating a birthday, so he stayed over. Why are you getting so worked up? It’s not the first time.”

“Oh, at a dacha…”

“Galya…”

“That little brat! What have we come to? His own mother doesn’t mean a thing to him anymore! Grisha, I swear, if that good-for-nothing pulls something like this again, I’ll throw him out of the house myself and let him fend for himself! Let him struggle and get a taste of what I’ve been through—maybe then he’ll learn to appreciate his parents!”