Time pinwheeled out of line. For one second or sixty, I just stood there and stared at what I had done. A single drop of milk beaded on a strand of Wesley's dark hair before splashing to the table.

Then Patrick erupted in laughter, and we were at full speed again. I sprang forward, missing the apologies of the kid who'd pushed his chair in front of me because I was too busy scrambling to make my own. "Holy shit, dude, I'm so sorry. That was—I just didn't see—" I grabbed a napkin and started brushing cheerios off of Wesley's shoulders.

Wesley reached up and wrapped his fingers around my arm. I froze. His palm was hard—calloused. Smaller than I'd expected, but very strong. His thumb ground against the joint of my wrist.

"Leave," he said. His eyes were brilliant and cold, and something about the way he was staring into me made my heart beat faster. "Right now."

I jerked my wrist free and stumbled back. Even Patrick had stopped laughing—he was watching me now with a dark, nervous expression. "Uh, yeah," I stammered. "Going right now!"

I turned and fled. Patrick's voice echoed behind me, saying quietly to Wesley, "C'mon, ease up. It was just an accident…"

It wasn't until I'd made it out of the dining hall that I realized I'd forgotten my duffel bag. I groaned, running a hand through my hair and walking with no destination in mind except away. A couple of people had seen what had happened, and they were staring at me. I ducked my head to avoid making eye contact. Crossing the street, I ignored the path and scrambled up a hill, coming through a flower bed on the other side to the quad. A massive jacaranda tree grew there, and I collapsed in the shade against its trunk.

From where I sat, I could see the old stone pillar of the clocktower announcing 10:53 in the morning. Thankfully, the quad was nearly empty. A group of girls sat on a blanket thirty or forty feet away, listening to music. A boy on a skateboard rattled up and down the sidewalk. Above me, birds flitted between branches and chattered to each other. They sounded way more cheerful than I felt.

I tipped back my head against the tree trunk with a thud. If Wesley hadn't had a reason to hate me before, he definitely had one now. I'd wanted so badly to make a good first impression. With everyone else, I seemed to have succeeded. How did I keep striking out so spectacularly with this guy?

"Hey. Cheer up, buttercup."

My duffel bag landed in the grass beside me with a thwump, and a second later so did Duncan. He stretched himself out full-length on the turf, crossed his arms behind his head, and winked at me. "At least it wasn't tomato soup."

I grimaced, almost as mortified that Duncan had seen the whole thing as I was that it had happened to begin with. Where had he been? He hadn't been at the table with Wesley and Patrick. "I must have the worst luck on the planet," I said.

"Oh, I dunno." Duncan buffed his nails on his shirt and made a show of examining them. He still had the word sicc on his knuckles, but it had faded to just a ghost of black ink. "Bad hit with a cereal bowl, you could've concussed him."

"Great. Real supportive, Duncan."

He grinned. His perfect teeth stood out very white against his dark skin. "Okay, look," he said. "I know Wesley's super-extra-mega-serious about soccer, but Patrick and Juan and all them swear that deep down, he's really a sweet guy. He's just a little…you know, intense."

I rolled my eyes. "Really? I hadn't noticed."

"Hey man, I'm trying."

I sighed. "You're right, you're right. Maybe I just need to give it time. Maybe…I don't know, maybe he's got something else going on. Family in the hospital, or something like that." I knew firsthand how that could screw with you. "Do you think this has ruined my shot at being in the starting lineup?"

Duncan winced and shifted himself off of some root or rock in the ground. "Noooo," he said slowly, in a tone of voice that I didn't find at all reassuring. "Just…maybe you should stay out of his way for a little while, right? Let him cool off. Then you can start over."

I sucked on my teeth. Wesley and I had gotten off to such a terrible start, a redo seemed like a smart idea. "Start over," I echoed. "Yeah. That sounds really, really good."

I showed up to practice that afternoon determined that whatever Wesley's deal was, I wasn't going to let him get to me. I was here to work hard, play fair, and be cheerful, dammit. Wesley's glare prickled on the nape of my neck the whole time I was going through my stretches, but I pretended not to notice. I would not take the bait. I was going to do great, and he was going to learn to like me.

The other guys were all in good spirits. It was after lunch, and everybody's schedules were starting off slow. Juan and Patrick, knee-deep in a conversation with each other, gave me chummy fist-bumps when I showed up, and I felt optimistic that nobody but Wesley was going to hold the cereal thing against me.

Coach sent us for a few lazy laps around the field to warm up, and then we started on suicide speed drills—something I'd never really loved. My strength was in my precision rather than in my speed. That was, I suppose, exactly why suicides were important for me, but I still wished I could have done something that played to my strengths in the wake of the cereal bowl incident that morning.

To make things worse, Coach put Wesley in charge of supervising us. Because he was team captain, I guess. Wesley stood on the sidelines and shouted encouragement to everyone but me.

"Pick up the pace, Beckett!" Wesley screamed at me. "My grandma runs faster than you, and she uses a walker!"

From anyone else, that line would have been funny. From Wesley, it was just mean. Sweat dripped into my eyes and plastered my bangs to my forehead. Duncan, who had already finished his set and sat near Wesley's feet with a water bottle in his lap, shot me a sympathetic look.

I wanted to yell something back, but I was too out of breath. I hit the cone, smacked the ground with my palm, and raced back for the touch line.

"Give me ten more!" Wesley shouted.

I thought, Fine, and dumped the last reserves of my energy into my legs. I'll give you ten more, asshole. I ran back to the cone, counting down in my head. Nine…Eight…Seven…

My lungs burned. Exhaustion made my legs heavy and clumsy. I'd made it down to three when my foot slipped and I fell like a downed antelope, too tired even to catch myself. My chest heaved, and I sucked in big mouthfuls of air. I didn't even want to move. When had the ground gotten so comfy?

Wesley's voice rang out over the field—speaking to the rest of the team, not to me. "See that, everyone? If you can't stay on your feet, don’t expect to start a game."

So much for the starting lineup. I closed my eyes. Maybe I wouldn't even get to stay on the team.

It took me a minute for me to get back enough of my strength to haul myself to my feet. Nobody came over to help—out of pity or spite, I didn't know. Humiliated, I dragged myself back to the touch line and gathered myself up on the side of the field, still struggling to catch my breath.

The rest of the guys had all bunched up a little ways away, talking about something that didn't include me and pretending not to pay me any attention. Duncan seemed to be telling a joke—maybe trying to distract them on purpose. The man was a damn saint.

Whatever Duncan was talking about, his spell didn't seem to be working on Wesley. As soon as I'd started to get my breath back, Wesley detached himself from the cluster and headed for me like a lion preparing to finish off a kill. He threw a water bottle at me. By some merciful blessing of good luck or reflexes, I caught it.

I tried not to let it show on my face how surprised I was to have pulled that off. Instead, I unscrewed the top and took a long, grateful drink.

Wesley stopped beside me, staring down at me with his hands fisted on his slender hips. Hinging forward, he bent down close and whispered the words I'd been trying my best not to think about. "If I were you, Beckett, I'd be worried about my scholarship."