“I don't understand, Jude. What do you mean it’s gone?” Russell hissed, having dragged the guy next to a nearby wall, the closest thing to a privacy he could get.

Jude licked his dry lips. “I'm just gonna be straight with you, man. It seems there had been some sort of, uh, miscommunication between us.”

“Miscommunication?” Russell repeated, his hand twitching by his side. He badly wanted to make the guy look him straight in the eye. “Are you trying to tell me I somehow misheard you over the phone, is that it?”

“Well—“

“Well, lookie what we got here,” a voice interrupted.

A giant of a man walked out of a huddle of onlookers nearby. A trimmed mohawk topped the man’s shaved head, and his beer belly put Jude's paunchy stomach to shame. While Jude was all height like a drainpipe, this man had both height and width, with his natural physique built for a single purpose on a football field—anchoring the entire offensive line.

The familiar man met Russel's gaze with a nasty smirk, a smirk Russell had long grown tired of seeing back in high school.

Tommy freakin’ Thompson. Their football team's starting center.

With a mental snap, everything became crystal clear. The sudden call out of nowhere, the job offer that was too good to be true, the momentary doubt Serena had shown earlier, the awkward behavior Jude had displayed.

“If it isn't good ol' Rusty Flynn.” Tommy stood beside Jude, overshadowing the taller guy with his presence. The former starting center was even larger up close, his wide neck disappearing somewhere between his second chin and his massive shoulders, and the buttons of his white dress shirt strained against the sheer girth of his waist. The guy looked to be a couple of cheeseburgers left from bursting.

Russel frowned in disgust as the strong stench of alcohol assaulted his nostrils. Tommy must have had a few bottles in him already.

“Damn! I haven't seen you in years, Rusty!” Tommy snickered. “It's like seeing Big Foot in the flesh, or should it be ‘Small Foot’ in your case?” He draped a large arm over Jude's scrawny shoulders, acting as if they were the closest of pals, and leaned his other elbow on the cocktail table, half-tottering, the sudden shift in weight causing Jude to hunch forward.

Russell was wrong; the large guy was hammered.

His stomach dropped. He needed to leave. He needed to leave now.

But more guys joined in before he could have a chance to move, surrounding the trio while still keeping a respectable distance. Helpless, he could only look on as they snapped their trap shut around him, a foolish deer surrounded by a pack of wolves—and these carnivores were starving.

They all wore suits and ties now, but Russell knew them well—or at least, he knew them back then. Many years ago, he had been proud to call them teammates. He wasn’t anymore.

From their thicker-than-average physiques, the handful who came with Tommy were mostly linemen like him, players who made up the O-line of the team. All except for one.

“Sup, boy,” said the “smaller” guy behind Tommy, his pearly white sneer a stark contrast to his dark complexion. Unlike the others around them, Russell easily remembered Caleb Jones. His fellow jock was of average height yet built like a brick house. Even after all these years, the arrogant running back remained Tommy’s accomplice in making Russell’s life a living hell.

Some things never change.

Russell shifted his gaze past their encirclement. He counted at least a dozen more of his old teammates hanging further back, staying seated with Bradford, watching in eager anticipation like a theater audience waiting for the play to start.

Bradford wasn't even looking in their direction. The former quarterback and team captain was frowning down at his phone, pretending not to notice what Tommy and his colleagues were up to. The douchebag wasn’t fooling anyone.

“Lookie here, boys,” Tommy said, addressing his spectators. “Looks like one of them trailer trash decided to show up to ruin our little get-together.” His smirk grew a touch more menacing. “Guess we got ourselves some good ol' party crasher tonight.”

Tommy's provocation was met with resounding boos, catching the attention of everyone else close by. Russell clenched his fists. It was high school all over again, and the memories were anything but pleasant.

His gaze inadvertently returned to Jude. The man hung his head in silence, and he wouldn’t meet Russell’s eye. Even after what the guy had pulled on him tonight, Russell felt no anger for the teammate he had once been close with, only disappointment.

The guy might have been a schmuck, but it was Russell who had been the fool.

Walk away, he told himself. He could simply walk away now, his night ruined, his reputation be damned. Walk away and go home, forget he ever bothered to even come tonight to begin with.

“Whatcha thinking, Rusty?” Tommy sniggered. “Surprised to see me?” He picked up a fork on the small table and stuffed his face with the slice of cake Jude had discarded.

Russell stared at the disgusting smirk on his former teammate’s ugly mug. Tommy knew he had gotten Russell good, knew his prey wouldn’t be able to escape.

And Tommy was right. It was too late to run.

Russell could only go forward.

With that simple truth, a sudden calm washed over him, silencing his doubts. Ice flowed in his veins. His heartbeat slowed to a crawl. He took a deep breath, and the turmoil in his mind vanished like dissipating smoke.

Russell kept his back to the wall, making sure to keep everyone from the offensive line in his sight. Bradford and all the rest stayed in his peripheral vision. Whatever happened next would only be unpleasant.

“Will you look at that?” a new voice exclaimed, cutting through the tense atmosphere, blindsiding Russell. “Looks like the show’s about to start. No one told me tonight's program was going to begin early.”

Russell shot their interloper a cursory look, hoping he wouldn't get ambushed from the side—and Russell nearly took a step back.

If Tommy was large, this guy was massive. The other guy stood a few tables away, towering over those around him. Unlike Tommy, this guy’s size didn’t come from excess body fat but from sheer muscle alone, making for an intimidating sight—if not for what he was wearing.

The guy approached with slow but deliberate steps, his buttoned-up maroon cardigan stretched taut around his hulking upper body, the rolled-up sleeves revealing strong arms both covered in tattoos, while a tweed flat cap rested atop his head. The striped bowtie on his thick neck was the final nail in the coffin.

“Here I thought I was the designated school comedian,” the guy with the bowtie continued. “Now whose genius idea was it to hire a clown like you for our reunion?”

“And who the hell are you?” Tommy eyed the approaching stranger with a disgusted frown. The rest of his buddies exchanged uneasy glances, while Caleb looked unsure of himself.

The corner of Russel’s mouth twitched. After seeing the guy’s questonable style—even for someone who was as fashion-impaired as Russell—he was also interested to know the answer.

“Sorry, was my joke too sophisticated for you?” The stranger stopped right beside Russell. Up close, the guy stood an entire head taller than him. Russell wasn’t tall, but he couldn’t recall anyone ever looming over him like this guy was doing.

But Russell didn’t bother to move from his spot. His gut told him Bowtie wasn't any threat—not to him anyway.

“Sophisticated?” Tommy blinked his eyes a few times. “Wait, did you just call me a clown?”

“Yeah, no. It's no fun if you're gonna make me explain it.” Bowtie casually took a swig of his beer, his large hand engulfing the bottle. “Maybe I should've opened with fat jokes instead, huh, Michelin Man?”

Russell stopped himself from snorting. Barely.

Who the hell is this weirdo?

“You askin’ to die, stranger?” Tommy snarled, shoving Jude aside like a rag doll. The bully stood to his full height as he stomped his way closer to them, his attention solely on the new guy, dismissing Russell as any kind of threat.

The stranger wore a large grin and made no move to leave Russel's side. As Bowtie stared down Tommy face to face, he hung his arm over Russel's shoulder—beer still in hand—as if mocking Tommy's earlier gesture with Jude.

Standing up close, Russell’s former teammate stood visibly shorter than the guy next to him. Smaller, too, if that was even possible.

Caleb, still standing ways behind Tommy, must’ve noticed it too, and he genuinely looked worried for his friend. And as drunk as he was, Tommy appeared to have finally realized his predicament, his eyes widening by a fraction, yet the bully in him still refused to back down.

Tommy closed the distance, his face flushing a deeper red, his pride not allowing him to turn his back from the confrontation. “I asked you a question,” he growled, his face inches from the stranger.

“Woah!” Bowtie exclaimed. “Calm your tits, dude. I don't even swing that way!” With his free hand, he shoved his forearm into Tommy’s chest, forcing the bully backward a few steps, the bully’s eyes growing wide.

The stranger had pushed him away with ease, and the former lineman didn't expect that. None of them did.

Bowtie shook his head. “You should really ask someone for permission first before you try kissing them.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Tommy said through gritted teeth.

“Some people treat that as a serious offense, you know?” Bowtie explained as if talking to a child. “Sexual assault is no joke, my dude.

Tommy gaped at the stranger. “But I wasn’t…”

“Fat jokes, though?” Bowtie shrugged, smiling. “Well, that’s always on the dining table.”

Tommy could only stare back in silence, his mouth hanging open, flabbergasted like the rest of his posse. Russell would've found the situation hilarious if he didn’t feel the large arm over his shoulder trembling.

Russell mentally groaned. The stranger beside him was all bravado, a docile sheep pretending to be the big bad wolf, and Russell was at a loss for what to do.

Seriously, who the hell is this guy?

“I was wondering what got Tommy all worked up,” another voice interrupted them. Bradford made his way toward them, the rest of the team following close behind him.

Took him long enough, Russell thought. After all, what kind of lead actor would allow mere extras to run his show to the ground?

“If it isn't our favorite teammate,” their old team captain said. He arrived at the center of the action with an entourage to match a Hollywood celebrity. The rest of the team formed a tighter circle around them, the guys staring daggers at Russell. They looked at him as if he were from a neighboring rival school here to ruin their reunion. But Russell didn’t care about them. He kept his attention on Bradford. The team captain was the mastermind behind all this. He always had been.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

How were so many of them even in town tonight?

Unlike the two bozos near him who stank of beer, Bradford was all expensive cologne and cigarettes. From his impeccable hair and stubble beard, to his luxurious-looking watch and all the expensive accessories on his person, the guy's entire look screamed money and confidence—two traits Russell was especially allergic to.

Douchebag.

“I said I could handle it,” Tommy grumbled.

Bradford narrowed his eyes at Tommy before turning his attention back to Russell. “How you doin', runt?” he asked by way of greeting. “Oh, my apologies. What did my good friend call you again? Was it Runty? Or Rusty…?” He snapped his fingers as he asked in jest.

Russell watched the one-man show, expressionless.

Bradford clapped his hands. “Russell! Of course, it was Russell!” he exclaimed to the watching crowd. As if they didn't already know who Russell was.

But Russell kept his thoughts to himself.

“Russell Flynn! Solace Spring's very own hometown hero!” Bradford said with a flashy smile, yet the mocking in his tone was clear. With a flourish, he took off his sunglasses, and his steel grey eyes bore down on Russell. “How could I ever forget?”

“I was wondering why you've been wearing your shades the entire time,” Russell said. “Thought you might’ve pissed off someone on your flight here and gotten a black eye as a souvenir.”

“Ah, there it is! There’s the Rusty we all know.” Bradford smiled, but he couldn’t stop the corner of his mouth from twitching. “It's so good to see you again, old friend. It's been too long since the last time any of us saw a glimpse of you.”

Russell snorted. The feeling wasn’t mutual.

“If only the coaches were here to see you now,” Bradford said with a regretful sigh. Then he paused, changing tactics, and he looked Russell up and down like a ranch owner eyeing his cattle. “But seriously, flannel?” he asked. “That’s tight, bro. Very tight. Very avant-garde for an event like ours.”

“Looks more like a bum to me,” Tommy added, causing their former teammates to snicker.

“I mean, couldn't you even afford to buy a suit?” Bradford persisted, not forgetting to slip in his insults. “Or at least rent a decent one?”

The snickers turned to mocking laughter. Still, Russell’s only reply was a placid stare.

“Ah, yes. I forgot you were originally the quiet type.” Bradford shifted his gaze to the stranger beside Russell. “And why are you still here?”

“Me?” Bowtie asked. He tipped his beer over and chugged a large amount, all the while keeping his eyes on Bradford.

“Well?” Bradford waved a hand, shooing the guy away. “Go on. Run along.”

After making the douchebag wait, Bowtie gave Bradford his answer—by belching right in the guy's face.

Bradford recoiled in disgust, jumping a step back. “The hell?”

“What am I doing here?” Russell’s newfound friend smacked his lips in satisfaction. “Well, I’m just here for the entertainment.”

Russell nearly let out a chuckle, but the stranger’s shaking had only gotten worse. The guy could be having a seizure on the spot, and no one there aside from Russell would be able to tell.

“Crazy bastard…” Bradford muttered, his smile a pale comparison to his usual cocky grin. “Is this guy slow, or did I not make my intentions clear enough?”

"Oh, you were clear enough, Collins," said a voice coming from behind their group. “He's just smart enough not to care.”

Bradford faced his wayward teammate and forgot about the stranger still shaking beside Russell. “And what does this have anything to do with you, Williams?” he shot back.

Only one guy would dare get into an argument with Bradford Collins—Rook Williams.

The bane of Bradford’s existence in the football team.

“I usually wouldn't have cared,” Rook said as he leaned back on his seat, looking unperturbed. “But my guys got curious when every single one of your lackeys bounced.” Rook had his dreadlocks styled short, looping them back behind his head to reach the base of his neck. And more than a few jocks remained seated with him

Something obvious stood out to Russell then, something he had missed—the jocks were divided in two.

Since he had spent most of his time with the offense back in high school, the less familiar guys who had remained behind were probably from the defense.

Was the entire football team here tonight?

With everyone from their high school team showing up tonight, what was supposed to be a small function was starting to become an actual reunion. And Russell had long grown tired of it.

Tommy stepped forward. “Well, why don’t you and your guys go snoop around somewhere else, yeah?”

But Rook ignored Tommy. “Seeing what’s happening, I can’t even say that I'm surprised at how predictable you fools can be.”

“Why don’t you mind your own business.” Tommy scowled and took another threatening step forward.

“I heard you were gonna be a father, Thompson.” Rook stared at Tommy with a bored expression. “That the reason why you’re getting shit-faced this early into the night?

“Everything’s Gucci here, Williams.” Bradford gave his old rival a confident smile as he grabbed Tommy by his collar and yanked, causing the former center to stagger back behind him. “We’re only here for our town hero…and whoever the other one next to him is.”

“The thing is, your business becomes my business whenever your side gets into trouble,” Rook said. “And for obvious reasons, you always get into trouble. And you end up dragging the entire team down with you every single time.”

Bradford forced out a chuckle. “Excuse me?”

“Ten years, Brad.” Rook rose from his seat and casually flexed his massive shoulders. “Ten damn years since we all graduated from high school. When will you finally grow up and find it in yourself to move on?”

“Move on…?” Bradford lost his smile then. “Cheap words coming from you. Someone like you wouldn't have gotten a single Division 1 offer if not for me and my boys on offense, and that’s the truth!”

Rook remained unfazedm but those sitting with him shot up to their feet. The dark expressions on their faces were easy to read.

As if Rook’s side had gotten one up on the offense during an afternoon scrimmage, the guy looked over Bradford's shoulder, grinning. “You heard all that, Coach?”

“Heard it like a goddamn fart in a funeral!” a voice boomed from the lobby straight through the lounge entrance. Beyond the open doorway, people were stepping aside to make way for a new group.

Russell grumbled. Of course, there were more. He guessed life decided the entire team being here wasn't enough to torment him. Why not throw the entire coaching staff into the mix as well? Russell's night had been a disaster so far. Reacquainting with their head coach, a person Russell loathed more than Bradford Collins, was only par for the course.

But the man who answered Rook wasn’t Coach Anderson but someone else, one of the assistant coaches who had worked for a long time under Anderson, and one Russell had liked.

“So, you won't even listen to your old co-captain, huh?” the familiar man said, striding toward them with a purpose. “Maybe you'll listen to me.”

Coach Sanders had more gray in his hair and looked a couple of inches wider at the stomach, but he was still the same coach Russell had known back in school. The matching cap and polo shirt he was wearing had the state's school logo embroidered on both, a huge upgrade compared to his assistant coaching job in a small high school ten years ago.

Russell relaxed his tense shoulders, letting go of the breath he didn't realize he was holding. His good luck hadn't run out just yet. And for the first time since all this began, he even felt like smiling.

Serena power-walked alongside the coach, pushing herself to keep up with his brisk pace. The new arrivals was the group that had been reported to her getting lost, and she had personally welcomed them into the clubhouse, escorting them into the restaurant where most of the alumni had gathered for dinner. Some looked familiar to Russell though many were unknown. Not the coaching staff then, but they were still likely part of the school faculty.

“C-Coach Sanders?” Bradford muttered, the color draining from his smug face. “Why, it’s good to see you again, sir.”

“Good to see me again, my ass!” Coach Sanders barked, causing Bradford to flinch. The clap of thunder reverberating from the open lobby entrance might have added to the guy's shock. But Russell knew the special kind of terror that could only be induced by a coach's scathing tone. The man had arrived steps ahead of the rest of his party, stopping right in front of his former quarterback, and Bradford’s face only paled further.

“Seriously, Russ? Bradford Collins?” Serena hissed as she appeared beside Russell, panting for breath. “I've only been gone for a minute, and I come back to this? Look what happened!”

Bowtie leaned in from Russell’s other side. “What happened is that Brad-hole over there is about to get his ass reamed out in public after getting caught with his pants down,” the strangerr whispered, eloquently describing the douchebag's situation. “And we’re about to witness it in all its glory…with front-row seats!”

The scolding was harsh but quick, the coach's reprimands sharp and to the bone. It ended too quickly, and Russell would have wanted to see the almighty Bradford be put in his place some more. But a minute of the public lashing must’ve felt like an eternity for the guy. Coach Sanders must’ve deemed his former star quarterback had been humiliated enough.

“Well?” the coach asked, his face flush from berating Bradford without a break. “What do you have to say for yourself, young man?”

“I…haven't seen you in years, Coach,” Bradford said, grinning from ear to ear. “How is Mrs. Sanders’ health these days?”

The coach gave the guy a blank stare; he was having none of Bradford's bullshit.

Bradford cleared his throat. “I believe Williams must have misunderstood something. You might not know about this, Coach, but Flynn never bothered to show up in any of our reunions for years. We were only here to welcome our good friend back in town.”

“I may be getting old, but I ain't gone deaf. And I definitely ain't going blind!” Coach Sanders said. “I saw what you boys were up to. Grown-ass men acting like a bunch of unruly children."

Bradford forced out a chuckle. “Boys will be boys, right, Coach?”

Coach Sanders snorted. “And here I thought you punks would've turned into fine adults by now,” he continued. “Ten years living in the real world should've been enough time to grow up even for boneheads like you.”

“C’mon, Coach. You know we were only messing around,” Bradford said, reaching a hand to their coach's shoulder in a familiar gesture—only for Coach Sanders to swat it away.

“So?” their coach asked. “What are you waiting for?”

Bradford blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“Not to me, you halfwit,” the coach said matter-of-factly. “Apologize to Russell.”

“What?” Bradford exclaimed, his voice rose a notch higher.

“What, sir!” Coach Sanders snapped. “I said apologize to Mr. Flynn over there. I ain't repeating myself a third time, son.”

Russell shared the douchebag’s sentiment, not expecting the turn of events.

After a tense pause, Bradford nodded and faced Russell, struggling to appear calm. “Sorry about the misunderstanding, Russ. You know we were just messing around, right? We're good.” He gave Tommy a good shake on the shoulder. “My buddy here gets a little carried away when he’s excited, right, man?”

“Y-Yeah.” Tommy’s eyes flicking back and forth between Russell and Coach Sanders. “Was too happy to see you, is all. Reminded me of old times, you know?”

A grimace pulled against his lips. The spectators waited for his reply to Bradford’s half-hearted apology. Or did the douchebag just lay the blame on Tommy?

“Apology accepted, I guess,” he told Bradford, matching insincerity with insincerity. Based on the guy’s stony expression, the douchebag was far from done with him, but Russell couldn't care less. He eyed Coach Sanders instead, gauging the man's reaction. “Coach?”

Their coach merely grunted in reply.

Before anyone else could add any more wood to the fire, Serena made up some kind of excuse and left, dragging Russell with her. He barely heard what she said as they made their quick getaway. His brain failed to comprehend her words, his mind reeling with the events that had unfolded.

What had been supposed to be a simple meeting with an old acquaintance ended up dragging on for so long, getting more and more convoluted with every new twist and interruption. His night had turned into a low-budget B movie, and the cinematic experience had only gone from bad to worse.

He had ended up meeting so many familiar people tonight. Turned out, many of them still hated him for what had happened ten years ago, but not all of them did. A part of Russell wanted to stay behind and catch up with the coach, a person from his past he was genuinely interested in meeting again. But he didn’t bother, not with Bradford and his goons still there.

In a way, the reunion had already been a success. Russell got to reacquaint with those he had been once familiar with. In doing so, he had heard their message loud and clear. Russell Flynn—the has-been hero of the football team and the fallen darling of their small town—was unwanted, unneeded, and essentially uninvited.

A crash of thunder pulled him away from his thoughts.

“—one problem after another,” Serena was muttering beside him, her arm wrapped around his.

Russell blinked. When did that happen?

“Busy night?” Bowtie asked Serena.

“You know it,” she answered with a huff. “I can't wait to see the mess these people will make once everyone finds out tonight’s going to be open bar.”

They had reached the edge of the crowd when Serena called a halt on their impromptu retreat.

“Why don't you guys go hang out somewhere else for now,” she said. “It seems to me that Brad and his boys remain painfully unaware of how to conduct themselves properly as adults.”

Bowtie snorted. “No shit?”

“I should've warned them about it before this all happened.” Serena closed her eyes and drew in a deep, centering breath. “We can't have those knuckleheads loose around here without a quick reminder on good manners and right conduct.” Without another word, she let Russell go and was gone once again, disappearing back into the throng of onlookers still busy gossiping.

Bowtie let out a chuckle. “Looks like your old buddy Brad’s not close to being done getting an earful.”

Russell sighed before walking toward the exit. His thoughts wandered, and his eyes barely focused on the windows away from the crowd.

Thunder echoed intermittently from outdoors, but not a single flash of light preceded them. He couldn't see a thing with the night sky outside too dark and the glare of the lights inside too bright. Aside from a weird orange glare, all he could see on the glass was the reflection of a room full of people dressed to the nines and a guy walking among them in a flannel shirt, jeans, and work boots.

He ducked his head and hid his hands inside his pockets, his skin cold against the warmth of his jeans. It was odd now that his mind finally caught up to what he had been through. For a moment, he had become a mere spectator of his own life, forced to watch one thing after another unravel in front of his eyes.

“Is it just me, or did it feel like we went through some kind of twilight zone back there?” Bowtie asked. “It's like we somehow traveled back in time and were forced to relive our worst day in high school all over again.”

Russell nodded, though his mind was somewhere else. With everything now over, he realized he didn't care about Brad or Tommy or any of his former teammates. Russell didn't even care about how the rest of the alumni had looked at him in displeasure or even disgust. He only cared about one thing, and he had shown up tonight with one purpose in mind—too bad it turned out to be all a ruse. A trap.

A freaking misunderstanding.

Beside him, Bowtie burst out laughing. “Damn! They're still glaring at you, my man! Being the hometown hero definitely has its perks. Even after a whole decade, you're still just as infamous as the day you left.”

“Whatever,” Russell muttered absently, his mind churning with worry. He already suffered through tonight's events. There was no reason for him to look forward to the actual reunion tomorrow.

And what about Jude's job offer? Sure, the guy had been in on it. Jude knew what would happen to Russell by inviting him here. But was it a complete bust, or was there some truth to his offer? Maybe Russell could ask around, confirm if his old teammate had some plan in the works. Maybe he could meet Jude somewhere without any of the others there to ruin it, not Bradford, not his goons, not even the weirdo back there. Maybe…

Wait. Russell stopped dead in his tracks, only realizing now that he wasn't alone. He reached his arm out, barring the stranger still walking beside him, causing the guy to grunt. Brown dress shoes, mustard-yellow chinos, the maroon cardigan, the grey flat cap, and that god-awful bowtie—it was the same weirdo from earlier.

Russell shot Bowtie a frown. “Who the hell are you?”