Only the strange thing is, I’m not all that sad. I’m just…exhausted. Exhausted by the idea of dealing with girls like Blythe. Exhausted by the thought of trying to meet my grandmother’s expectations. Exhausted by the routine of St. John’s in general. I’m thinner than I should be because I’d rather stay away from the dining hall during meals to avoid the stares. I bought a rice cooker the last time I went into town and I use it to make food every now and then, especially when I’m desperate. To further avoid everyone, I study in a corner of the library that’s rarely used. So what if there’s poor lighting and a few spider families that fight me for the territory? I make do.

But the real secret, the embarrassing truth about what has kept me afloat this year is that I use Emmett Mercier the way some people use alcohol and drugs. I’ve built him up in my head. The way you can count on a favorite meal, a favorite book…Emmett is my reverie.

Chapter Three

Emmett

I’m the first to admit I don’t play fair on the soccer field, but apparently neither does the guy trying to defend me. This whole game, he’s been an asshole, faking injuries, shouting for the referee to call fouls, jabbing me when he thinks no one can see him.

Now, he nearly trips me up as I’m headed downfield, and I curse but break away. When he catches me again, he shoves me, playing dirty. It makes no sense. There are only a few seconds left on the clock and they’re up two goals. Still, I’m not one to back down from a challenge. Some of these guys need soccer to keep their athletic scholarships. I don’t. I enjoy the sport. I enjoy running until sweat is dripping into my eyes. I love the ache of a hard-earned victory. So when he shoves me, I go low and slam my elbow into his stomach hard enough to send him keeling over in pain, but not for long. He’s up and swinging before I step back, landing a solid punch to my jaw before the ref gets ahold of him. My teammates don’t have to pull me back. I know when to quit. I smile like a prick as they drag him away from me, tacking on a departing remark because I just can’t help myself.

“Sac à foutre.”

French is my native language, so the insult rolls off my tongue in such a pleasing way. Nobody but Alexander understands it. He laughs beside me.

“I could have said worse.” I shrug, already heading toward the sidelines where my coach is waiting for me, fuming.

“Sure, like tu es un sac à foutre.”

I laugh despite the ache in my jaw.

“You’re a real idiot, you know that? We could have pulled out a win there at the end.”

I shoot him a sidelong glare. “We? You played three minutes the whole game.”