JAMES
The atmosphere in the locker room is tense, with a palpable electricity in the air due to the adrenaline that floods us. These minutes, just before the coach speaks to us and we finally step onto the field, are simultaneously the worst and the best. In these moments, everything seems possible: victory and defeat, pride and shame, joy from triumph, and unbearable frustration. At no other time is team spirit higher or motivation more elevated.
From outside, we hear the shouts of encouragement from our teammates, as well as those from the opposing team's supporters. It's incredible to think that five years ago, nobody cared about lacrosse at Maxton Hall. Back then, it was the sport for losers: those who didn't excel as rugby players or footballers were assigned to lacrosse, resulting in a team that was subpar. It consisted of a motley crew of skinny, acne-ridden teenagers who didn't know what to do with their overly long arms and legs.
I thought it would be fun to sign up there. My main goal was to get under my father's skin. I never would have imagined that I'd actually enjoy it. Or that within a few weeks, I'd feel the ambition to do more with that team. I convinced my friends to switch, and I even threatened Director Lexington with my parents' wrath if he didn't let us participate.
It facilitated a better coach, and I asked our best designer to create a new shirt. It was the first time in my life that I could passionately get involved in something. And it was worth it. Because today, five years later, after training several hours a week, through blood, sweat, tears, some broken bones, and three championships won, we are the damn flagship of the school. We've all busted our asses to get here. And it always fills me with pride to see the determined faces of my team before each game. Like now. However, today I experience another feeling. It's dark and painful, and it means that, for the first time in all these years, I struggle to put on my helmet: this will be the first game of my last year in school. When the season is over, I won't play again. Then lacrosse won't be part of this slow and cruel countdown that I can't stop. No matter how hard I try. 'Is everything clear?' Wren asks, tapping my shoulder with his. Making a great effort, I push the thoughts aside. There's still time, a whole year ahead where I can do whatever I want. With a half-forced smile, I turned to him. 'Let's teach those Eastview jerks a lesson.' 'McCormack is mine,' Alistair interjects immediately, as if he'd been waiting for the opening. 'I still have unfinished business with him.' 'Alistair,' Kesh intervenes on my left. He rubs the bridge of his nose with his fingers, right where he broke it a year ago. 'Let it go.' The tone of his voice and the meaningful look he gives Alistair leave no doubt that it's not the first time they've touched on this topic.
—No —Alistair replies curtly.
Unfortunately, I share my first name with McCormack. He intentionally struck Kesh in the face with his lacrosse stick just after Kesh had removed his helmet. I still remember the shock when Kesh collapsed on the ground. How blood gushed from his nose and splattered his jersey. The minutes he remained unconscious in front of us are etched in my memory.
Although McCormack was penalized and spent the next three games on the bench, the memory of Kesh's injured face fills me with rage. It's clear that Alistair feels the same way, as he looks at Kesh with a determined expression.
"Don't do anything without thinking," Kesh says as he puts on his blue jersey. He then gathers his hair into a messy bun and closes his locker door.
"You know him," Wren murmurs, leaning against the locker with a wry smile.
"I don't care if I'm suspended for the rest of the season," Alistair declares. "McCormack will pay dearly." He playfully taps Kesh on the shoulder. "You can be glad that I care so much about your honor."
Before he can withdraw his hand, Kesh grabs it. He glances over his shoulder. "I mean it."
Alistair narrows his amber eyes into two thin slits. "So do I."
Both of them lock eyes for an uncomfortably long moment, and the already charged air thickens further. It's time to go.
"You'd better save your energy for the game," I say in a tone that makes it clear I'm not speaking as their friend but as the team captain. Two pairs of indignant eyes turn toward me, and before they can retort, I clap my hands firmly.
"The team instantly gathers in the center of the locker room. As I walk, I pull the jersey with the number seventeen over my head. The fabric feels familiar, as if it's a part of me. Yet, that dark feeling threatens to take over again. I suppress it with all my strength and focus on Coach Freeman, who emerges from his locker room and approaches us.
Freeman is a tall, lean man, with limbs that could be mistaken for those of a long-distance runner or an athlete rather than a lacrosse player. He covers his thinning hair with a cap, adjusts the visor, and envelops Cyril and me in his arms—Cyril, the captain, and me, the co-captain.
His gaze sweeps across the room. 'For some of you, it's the first season, and for others, the last. Our goal is the championship,' he growls. 'Anything less is unacceptable. So make sure you take down those guys.'
Coach Freeman isn't one for grand speeches, but he doesn't need to be. The few sentences he utters are enough to elicit a resounding cheer from our ranks.
'I want this to be the best season Maxton Hall has ever seen,' I add, standing a little taller than the coach. 'Is that clear?'
The boys cheer again, but Cyril still wants more. 'Is that clear?'
This time, the uproar is so loud that it reverberates in my ears. Just as it should be.
Next, we don our helmets and grab our sticks. Leaving the locker room, we head outside, feeling as though we're diving—sounds from the outside reach us muffled, almost as if we're experiencing pressure in our ears. I grip the stick tighter and lead my team onto the field.
The stadium is packed to the brim. The crowd cheers as we step onto the field, and the cheerleaders dance. Music blares from the speakers, causing the ground to vibrate beneath our feet. Fresh air fills my lungs, and for the first time in weeks, I feel alive.
As the substitutes and the coach take their positions at the edge of the field, we gather in the center and face the members of the opposing team, who appear equally motivated.
"It's going to be a good game," Cyril murmurs beside me, expressing what I'm thinking.
While we wait for the referee, I scan the stands. From here, I hardly recognize anyone except Lydia, who always sits at the very top with her friends, pretending not to be interested in the spectacle. I glance at the sideline, observing the other team's substitutes and their coach, who now approaches Freeman to greet him.
Then, a chestnut mane catches my attention. A girl approaches the two coaches, exchanging a few words with them and pointing to something in her hand. When the wind blows her hair away from her face, I recognize her.
"I can't afford to be seen with you."
The memory of those words hits me like a punch to the gut. No one had ever said anything like that to me before.
Usually, it's the opposite. People want to be seen with me at all costs. Ever since I entered school, my classmates have been chasing after me, trying to capture my interest. That's what happens when your last name is Beaufort. Since my maternal family founded the classic gentlemen's clothing store one hundred and fifty years ago and built an empire worth millions from there, there's no one in this country who doesn't know our name.
Beaufort is synonymous with wealth. With influence. With power. And at Maxton Hall, the world of privilege and wealth has its own set of rules. People assume that because of my last name—Beaufort—I can grant them favors or at least a sliver of influence if they flatter me enough. I've lost count of how many times, after a night of revelry, someone has shown me their sketches for suits. How often they've approached me under some pretext, only to pivot the conversation toward obtaining my parents' contact information. And the countless attempts to worm their way into my family's circle, hoping to leak privileged information about me and Lydia. Two years ago, the image from Wren's sixteenth birthday party, where I was snorting a line of cocaine, is just one example among many. Not to mention all that Lydia has endured.
That's why I choose my friends carefully. Wren, Alistair, Cyril, and Kesh aren't interested in my money; they're well-off themselves. Alistair and Cyril hail from England's old aristocracy, Wren's father amassed incredible wealth through stock trading, and Kesh's father is a famous film producer.
People clamor for our attention.
Except...
My gaze lands on Ruby. Her dark hair gleams in the sunlight, and the wind playfully tousles it. She futilely fights with her bangs, smoothing them down with her hand, but within seconds, they're unruly again. I'm fairly certain I hadn't noticed her before the incident with Lydia. Now I wonder how that's even possible.
"I can't afford to be seen with you."
Everything about her makes me wary, especially those green, piercing eyes. I want to approach her, to see if she looks at others the way she looks at me—with fire in her eyes and utter disdain.
The weight of family reputation and the constant scrutiny of the media can be suffocating. The Beaufort name carries both privilege and burden, and I've navigated its complexities with practiced caution. The headlines, the rumors—they're all part of the game, but sometimes the stakes are higher than anyone realizes.
Ruby, with her penetrating green eyes, is an enigma. She's seen my sister in a compromising situation, and now she's here, capturing moments with her camera. Is she biding her time, waiting for the opportune moment to detonate a bombshell? The press would feast on it, spinning tales of scandal and downfall:
*"Mortimer Beaufort's Affair with a Twenty-Something."*
*"Cordelia Beaufort Plunges into Depression."*
*"James Beaufort's Battle with Addiction—Will It Destroy Him?"*
My father's dinner with an employee became a romantic entanglement in the media's eyes. My parents' argument morphed into deep depression. And as for me, they painted me as a near-overdosing addict in desperate need of salvation. The thought of what the papers would say if they caught wind of Lydia and Mr. Sutton's situation sends a shiver down my spine.
I'm not able to assess Ruby accurately—whether she's genuine or harboring a cold, calculating facade. Perhaps I should have offered her more money. Or maybe she desires something else, waiting for the right moment to make her move.
The fate of my family, especially Lydia's, rests in her hands. "I can't afford to be seen with you," she said. But what does that mean? Only time will reveal her true intentions.
In this high-stakes game, where secrets and reputations collide, I'll have to tread carefully. The field awaits, and the lacrosse match is about to begin. But beyond the goals and victories lies a more intricate battle—one that Ruby may hold the key to.
Stay vigilant, Mortimer Beaufort. The game isn't just on the field; it's everywhere.
-•-
RUBY
I'm completely overwhelmed. Lacrosse is a fast-paced sport. The ball goes from one goal to another, and I can barely keep up with it, neither with the camera nor with my eyes. I should have understood that without Lin, I wouldn't be able to document this match on my own.
Normally, we divide the articles about sports activities: one describes how the competition unfolds, and the other takes the photos. But Lin's mother suddenly asked her to go to London, and in such a short time, we couldn't find anyone from the events committee who could replace her.
Since the articles about the lacrosse team are by far the most visited on our activities blog, we didn't want to miss publishing this match. The only problem is that, in order to write a chronicle with the headline 'Maxton Hall vs. Eastview: Clash of Giants,' I would need to understand what happens on the field. However, amidst the players' shouts, the curses hurled by the coaches, and the cheers and boos from the spectators, it's challenging for me to maintain an overview of specific plays, let alone capture the right photos of important scenes. Especially since I have to take them with a camera that's surely more than ten years old.
'What the hell!' Coach Freeman exclaims loudly, startling me.
I raise my eyes with the camera in hand and realize I missed Eastview's second goal. Damn it: Lin will be furious. I move closer to the coach. When you're watching a live game, there are no play replays like on television, but maybe he can explain what happened. However, before I can say anything, he starts shouting again:
'Pass the damn ball, Ellington!'
I turn my gaze back to the field. Alistair Ellington runs toward the opponent's half of the field so fast that I don't even bother lifting the camera—it's impossible to capture the play in a single image. He tries to weave through two defenders, but then a third player appears and crosses his path. Although Ellington is incredibly fast, he's shorter compared to his teammates. Even I can see clearly that he doesn't stand a chance against three opponents.
One of the defenders charges heavily into him with his shoulder.
Ellington holds his ground but retreats about half a meter.
'Pass it!' the coach shouts again.
Alistair continues to face off against the player; even from the edge of the field, I can hear them jabbing at each other. Suddenly, Alistair's already tense demeanor becomes even more rigid, and for a second, he and his opponent freeze in their positions. Freeman takes a deep breath, likely to continue shouting more instructions, but then Alistair lifts his stick backward, propels himself, and strikes his opponent's side with all his rage.
Horrified, I catch my breath. Alistair strikes again, this time hitting the other player in the stomach, who cries out in pain and falls to his knees. The other defender lunges at Alistair, falling to the ground with him and pummeling him with gloved fists. Alistair also strikes back with his stick. The shrill whistle of a referee sounds, but it takes several players to separate the combatants. I hear James Beaufort's dark voice. He yells at Ellington, and I can imagine that as the team captain, he'd be delighted to decapitate him.
Beside me, Coach Freeman doesn't stop spewing profanities. Among them, 'I swear at everything' is the mildest; the others are definitely not suitable for minors. He's taken off his cap and yanks at his hair with such brutality that I think I see a couple of strands fall to the ground. Shortly afterward, the referee ejects Alistair from the field.
He approaches us along the edge of the field, removes his helmet and mouth guard, and carelessly tosses them to the ground.
'What the hell was that, Ellington?' the coach growls.
I cautiously step back to avoid being caught in the crossfire.
"He deserved it," the young man responds. His voice remains completely calm, as if he hasn't just been involved in a fight.
"You're..." I begin, but he interrupts.
"Suspended for the next three games?" Alistair shrugs. "If the team thinks they can handle it..." He walks past the coach, tosses his stick to the ground, and removes his gloves. When he notices me watching, he stops. "Is there something wrong?" he asks defiantly.
I shake my head without looking up. Fortunately, the referee's whistle spares me from having to give a response. I quickly return to my original position. I need a few seconds to locate the ball: it's in Wren Fitzgerald's stick net. He may not be as fast as Alistair, but he's stronger. Wren pushes an Eastview player aside with his shoulder, although another opponent soon steals the ball from him. But Beaufort is right on his heels, regaining possession when his opponent attempts to pass.
I raise my eyebrow in annoyance. Beaufort is truly impressive. Agile, elegant, and ruthless when someone stands in his way. Even behind that helmet, I sense his passion for the game. It's as if lacrosse is all he's ever known.
Suddenly, Alistair's voice sounds beside me. "What are you doing here?" Not only does it startle me, but it also reminds me why I'm here. I quickly open my notebook.
"I'm writing the article about the match for the Maxton Blog," I reply without looking up. "What's the name of the defender who just stole the ball from Wren?"
"Alistair," he answers.
Alistair's eyes linger on me as Coach Freeman continues his tirade of profanities. Apparently, Beaufort lost the ball while I was engrossed in my notes. The ball is back in Eastview's possession.
"Come on, Kesh," Alistair murmurs.
The Eastview forward leaps a meter and a half into the air to catch the ball. Back on the ground, he takes two short steps and hurls it forward with a powerful motion. Everything happens so quickly that I can't immediately tell if it landed in the net or not. But then, in the Maxton Hall stands, the crowd erupts in applause as Keshav holds his stick high. It seems Alistair's whispered plea was effective—Kesh stops the ball just in time.
"Let me read it when you've written the article," Alistair points out as I jot down in my notebook, "Kesh stops the ball at the last second."
I give him a skeptical look. It's the first time I've seen him up close, and I can't help but notice that his eyes are the color of whiskey.
"You've hit another player without any reason," I say. "Why should I trust your opinion?"
A shadow passes over his face, and his gaze returns to Keshav.
"Who says I hit him without reason?"
I shrug. "At least from here, it didn't seem like you'd put much thought into your actions."
Alistair raises an eyebrow at me. "I've been waiting months for the chance to give McCormack a taste of his own medicine. And when he opened his mouth and insulted me and my friends, I finally found the opportunity.
One of his blond curls falls onto his forehead, and he brushes it away with his hand. Then his gaze lands on my notes, and he wrinkles his nose.
''How are you going to decipher all this later? It's impossible to read anything."
I'd like to protest, but he's right. Under normal circumstances, my handwriting is good, and if I put effort into it, it can be quite beautiful. However, the speed at which I've had to document everything has turned it into scribbles.
'Normally, there are two of us doing this,' I justify, although I shouldn't care what Alistair Ellington thinks about my handwriting. 'And it's not easy to take photos, observe the game, and keep track of all the plays simultaneously so that I can describe them later.'
'Why didn't you just record the game?' he asks. His interest seems genuine, not like he's looking for a reason to mock me.
Without commenting, I hold up my camera. Alistair wrinkles his nose.
'And when is that from?'
'I think my mother bought it before my sister was born,' I reply.
'And... how old is your sister? Five?'
'Sixteen,' I answer.
Alistair blinks a couple of times, then a smile spreads across his face. Now he doesn't look like the tough lacrosse player who, just a few minutes ago, was wielding his stick against an opponent. Instead, he appears more like an... **angel**. His attractive and harmonious facial features, combined with his blond curls, give him an innocent look. But I know it's deceptive. Alistair is one of James Beaufort's best friends, which means he's far from harmless.
'Wait a moment,' he suddenly says, turns around, and disappears through the door leading to the locker rooms. Before I can wonder what he's up to, he's back by my side, holding a black iPhone in his hand."
"I don't have enough storage space to record the entire match, but I can take a couple of photos," he explains. He unlocks the device, opens the camera app, and rotates the phone so that the lens points toward the playing area. When he realizes I'm not moving, he raises an eyebrow.
"You're the one who should be watching the game, not me."
I blink, perplexed. I'm so surprised that I'm not even annoyed that he caught me staring at him again.
"Are you going to help me?"
"Anyway, I don't have anything better to do right now," he replies, shrugging.
"It's... very kind of you. Thank you."
I try not to appear too suspicious, but it's not entirely convincing. The situation feels surreal. I can't believe he's Elaine Ellington's brother. She would never have helped me. On the contrary, she would have mocked my camera and made sure everyone knew about it the next day.
For a while, I observe Alistair out of the corner of my eye, and he seems to take his new task seriously. He takes photo after photo, occasionally lowering the phone to cheer on the team or jeer at the opponents.
I focus on my notes, which now come more easily. When the coach approaches us, I initially think he'll kick Alistair off the field for the obscenities he shouted at one of the Eastview forwards. Instead, he comes over to me and starts explaining the plays, mentioning some of the maneuvers by name.
In the last ten minutes, it starts raining, but that doesn't discourage anyone in the stands or on the field. Quite the opposite. When, after a pass from Cyril Vega to Beaufort in front of the goal, Maxton Hall wins the match, the crowd goes wild. The referee lets out an animalistic shout, turns toward them with clenched fists, and raises his arms in victory.
I quickly close the notebook and put it in my backpack. By now, my hair is soaked, and my bangs cling to my forehead. It's absurd to straighten them, and I refuse to push them back since I've inherited my father's high forehead.
One by one, the players leave the field and applaud Alistair, everyone except Keshav, who heads toward the locker room without even looking at him. Alistair's face reveals an emotion I can't quite define. For a split second, his smile disappears, and his eyes darken and become opaque. But he blinks, and it all vanishes so quickly that I fear I imagined it.
Alistair surprises me again by looking at me. He raises an eyebrow.
"Thanks again," I hurry to say before he can beat me to it. I'm not sure if he'll continue to be friendly with me when his friends are around, and I'd rather not wait to find out—especially not for the photos.
"You're welcome." He taps the touchscreen of his phone and then hands it to me. The numeric keypad appears on the monitor. "Give me your number so I can send you the photos."
I take the phone. Before I've pressed the last digit, I hear a voice that now feels familiar.
"What are you two doing?"
I look up. James Beaufort stands in front of me, drenched by the rain. His reddish-blond hair is darker than usual and covers his forehead, emphasizing the features of his face. In one hand, he holds a hockey stick, and in the other, his helmet. He doesn't seem to mind the water streaming down his face and mixing with the mud that has accumulated on his jersey during the game.
Reluctantly, I let my gaze linger on his wet body. This sight awakens something in me that has nothing to do with distrust or rejection. It's an emotion I don't recognize, but I'm fairly certain that James Beaufort is the last person in whose presence I should be experiencing it.
James Beaufort's icy gaze pierces through the rain, and I feel a sudden chill. His words hang in the air like a warning, and I'm caught off guard by the intensity of his reaction.
"I don't know what you're talking about," I reply, trying to sound bolder than I actually feel.
He emits a brief sound—a laugh or perhaps a snarl. It's hard to tell. All I know is that he's even more tense now, and his expression has hardened.
"Don't get close to my friends, Ruby," he says, his voice cutting through the raindrops.
James Beaufort strides past me, the crowd's cheers following him as he heads toward the locker room. His absence leaves me with more questions than answers. His words linger, leaving me with a mix of confusion and curiosity. What connection does he have with Alistair and the others? And why does he care if I get close to his friends? The rain continues to fall, and I decide it's best to heed his warning—for now.