Chapter 23: THE KING'S CONCERN
Practice ran late.
Coach Phillips was in one of his moods—perfectionist mode, running us through plays until every cut was sharp and every pass hit its mark. By the time he blew the final whistle, my legs were burning and my stomach was screaming for fuel. The caloric cost of sustained physical exercise was different from power use, but the result was the same: hunger that demanded immediate attention.
The locker room cleared out fast. Guys showered, dressed, and fled for freedom, leaving behind the smell of sweat and cheap body spray. I took my time, letting the hot water work out the knots in my shoulders, giving my body a chance to reset before the drive home.
When I finally made it to the parking lot, most of the cars were gone. The Camaro sat alone under a buzzing streetlight, blue paint catching the last of the day's light.
Steve's BMW was still there.
He was leaning against it, arms crossed, staring at nothing in particular. The posture was familiar—someone lost in thought, working through problems that didn't have easy solutions. He'd been off all practice, distracted in ways that affected his game. Coach had noticed. The team had noticed. Steve didn't seem to care.
I could have walked past. Could have gotten in my car and driven home without acknowledging the guy standing ten feet away, clearly struggling with something. It would have been easy. The original Billy would have done exactly that—or worse, would have used the moment to score points, to establish dominance while his rival was vulnerable.
I wasn't the original Billy.
"Waiting for someone?"
Steve's head turned. He blinked like he was surfacing from deep water, taking a moment to register my presence. "What? No. Just... thinking."
I leaned against the Camaro, maintaining distance but establishing presence. Not threatening. Not challenging. Just two guys in a parking lot, both apparently in no hurry to leave.
"Thinking about what?"
"Nothing." He looked away. "Everything. I don't know."
Silence stretched between us. The streetlight buzzed. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.
"You ever feel like..." Steve started, then stopped. Tried again. "Like everything you thought was solid is just... falling apart? Like the ground you've been standing on your whole life is suddenly made of sand?"
Nancy. Had to be. The show had put their breakup somewhere around now, though I couldn't remember the exact timing. The lead-up had been gradual—distance growing between them, Nancy pulling away while Steve tried harder and harder to hold on.
"Sometimes," I said. "What helps?"
Steve laughed, but there was no humor in it. "If I knew that, I wouldn't be standing in a parking lot at six o'clock trying not to go home."
"Why avoid home?"
"Because home means pretending everything's fine. Means sitting at dinner with my parents, talking about bullshit, acting like I'm not..." He trailed off. Shook his head. "Sorry. You don't need to hear this."
"I'm still here."
He looked at me—really looked, the way people do when they're trying to figure out if someone can be trusted. Whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him, because he kept talking.
"It's Nancy. Wheeler. You know her?"
"Know of her."
"We've been together for a while. A year, almost. And it was good, you know? Really good. She made me better. Made me think about things I never thought about before." He kicked at a pebble, watched it skitter across the asphalt. "But lately it's like she's somewhere else. Like she's looking at me but seeing someone different. Someone disappointing."
I knew the feeling. In my old life, I'd been on both sides of that equation—the one pulling away and the one being left behind. Neither was comfortable.
"When things fall apart," I said slowly, choosing words carefully, "you find out what's real. The stuff that was built on bullshit collapses. The stuff that's real survives."
Steve was quiet for a moment. "That's surprisingly deep for a jock."
"Takes one to know one."
A small smile cracked his expression—the first genuine one I'd seen from him today. "Yeah. I guess it does."
More silence. But it was different now—less heavy, more companionable. Two guys standing in a parking lot, both carrying weight they couldn't put down.
"Can I ask you something?" Steve said.
"Sure."
"Why are you being nice to me? Everyone said you'd come in here like a wrecking ball. Tear through the school, destroy the hierarchy, make yourself king. But you're not doing that. You're just..." He gestured vaguely. "Being normal."
"Would you prefer the wrecking ball?"
"No." He shook his head. "Just trying to figure you out."
Join the club. Robin was trying to figure me out too. Max had asked the same questions back in Oklahoma. Even I wasn't sure who I was anymore—the dead man from another life, the borrowed body of a troubled teenager, or something new that was being forged in the space between.
"Maybe I'm tired of being what people expect," I said. "Maybe I want to try something different."
"Does it work? Being different?"
"Ask me in a year."
Steve considered that. Then he pushed off his car, reached for his keys. "Hey, Hargrove? Thanks. For not being a dick about it."
"Anytime."
He climbed into the BMW. The engine started, headlights cutting through the gathering dusk. He paused before pulling away, looked at me through the window.
"Same team, right?"
I nodded. "Same team."
The BMW pulled out of the lot and disappeared down the road. I watched it go, processing.
That had been... unexpected. The original Billy and Steve had been enemies, their rivalry fueled by aggression and testosterone and the kind of pointless dominance games that teenage boys excelled at. This was different. This was the beginning of something that might actually matter.
Steve Harrington was going to break when Nancy left him. I knew that, could see it coming like a train on a track. But broken things could be rebuilt. And the Steve who emerged from that breaking—the one who protected kids and fought monsters and found a family he'd never expected—was going to be worth knowing.
My job was to be there when it happened. Not to fix him, not to solve his problems, just to be present. Available. Someone who'd listen without judging.
Martinez had called it. Back in California, during our last conversation. "Don't waste it on anger." He'd seen something in me worth saving. Maybe I could pass that on.
I got in the Camaro and headed home. The hunger was getting worse now, demanding attention I couldn't ignore much longer. Susan would have dinner ready, and Neil would be avoiding me, and Max would have stories about her day with the Party.
Normal. Almost.
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