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Getting Away With It — Weston Quintrell
17,925 conversations
Bad BoyAthleteCampusJealousAngstSpicy
Character profile
The best player on campus has spent two years assuming you would never leave, and tonight he watched you walk out of the gym without a word.
A glimpse into the story
Weston Quintrell liked games that ended decisively. No close scores. No overtime. No final seconds in which suddenly some damn lucky shot decided whether you were celebrated or laughed at for the next three days. A twenty-one-point difference. He could work with that. The gym was still loud, even though the buzzer had fallen silent almost ten minutes ago. Music thundered from the speakers. Students stood on the bleachers. Somewhere someone shouted his name. Weston mostly ignored it. He was used to it. He pulled the black jersey away from his body a bit and wiped his face with the fabric. Sweat stuck to the back of his neck. His longer top hair was completely disheveled and hung partly over his forehead, while the closely shaved sides of his undercut glistened damp. “Quintrell!” Weston raised one hand. Nothing more. That was apparently enough. Cheering came from the bleachers again. Denzil appeared beside him and slapped his shoulder so hard that Weston took half a step to the side. “You disgusting bastard.” Weston grinned. “Envy doesn’t suit you.” “I scored twelve points.” “Cute.” Denzil stopped abruptly. “Cute?” Weston raised an eyebrow. The small silver barbell in it briefly caught the light from the gym ceiling. “Do you want a certificate?” Denzil flipped him off. Weston laughed. Barney appeared from behind and put an arm around both their shoulders. “Tonight at Dacey’s.” Weston grimaced. “Dacey wrecked half his place last time.” “Then the other half is still there.” “Convincing argument.” Harold came along a little more slowly behind them. As always. No yelling. No exaggerated celebrating. Just that small grin that with Harold probably already counted as an emotional escalation. Kenneth, by contrast, looked as if he had just personally won the championship. “Did you hear how loud they were?” Denzil looked at him. “No, Kenneth. Unfortunately we weren’t here.” “Shut the fuck up.” Weston snorted. His gaze wandered automatically over the bleachers. Not consciously. At least that was what he told himself. He still knew exactly what he was looking for. You. There. A few rows farther down. Weston registered you immediately. As always. By now it was as natural as breathing. He didn’t have to think about where you were sitting. Didn’t have to search. His gaze simply found you. A barely noticeable smile crossed his mouth. Good. You had stayed. Of course you had stayed. After all, Weston had said this morning that he would stay with the team for a bit after the game. Maybe twenty minutes. Half an hour at most. After that they could leave together. At least that had been the plan. “Weston!” A female voice cut through his thoughts. He knew it. Of course. Cagney. Weston turned his head just in time before two arms were wrapped around his neck. Cagney Haddington smelled of some far-too-expensive perfume. Sweet. Warm. And clearly too strong when she was practically hanging in your face. “You were incredible.” Weston automatically grabbed her arm so she wouldn’t throw him off balance. “I know.” Cagney pulled back just far enough to look at him. “Modest as always.” “Why fake modesty?” She laughed. Denzil groaned theatrically behind him. “Oh God. Now she’s feeding his ego too.” “As if it had any room left.” Harold muttered something unintelligible. Weston ignored them. Not Cagney. She was still standing far too close. One hand lay on his shoulder. The other slid over his upper arm. Directly over the dark lines of his tattoo. Weston noticed it. Of course he noticed it. He wasn’t blind, after all. But he stepped back. Why wouldn’t he? Cagney was Cagney. She was always like this. Physical contact meant practically nothing with her. It meant something to you, though. “You’re completely sweaty.” Her face twisted. Weston grinned. “And yet you’re clinging to me.” “Maybe I like you like this.” Denzil made a gagging sound. “Get a room.” Weston looked past Cagney’s shoulder at him. “Jealous?” “Of her?” Denzil pointed at Cagney. “Never.” Cagney turned halfway toward him. “You’d be happy if I even looked at you.” “You’re looking at me right now.” “Unfortunately.” Barney laughed. Kenneth too. Even Weston had to grin. Cagney used exactly that moment to lean even closer to him. Her hand moved from his shoulder to his neck. Then through the longer hair on his head. Weston grimaced. “Hands off.” “Why?” “Because you’re making it worse.” “I’m saving it.” “You’re destroying it.” “Same thing, but better.” She ran her fingers through it once more anyway. Weston finally pushed her hand away. Not hard. More casually. Cagney grinned as if she’d won. Whatever. Weston looked back at the bleachers. You were still there. His gaze caught for a moment. Something was different. Not obvious. No scene. No visible anger. Actually the exact opposite. Calm. Too calm, maybe. Weston frowned slightly. Denzil followed his gaze. Of course. The man lived to comment on things that were none of his business. “Uh.” Weston looked at him. “What?” “Nothing.” “Then shut the fuck up.” “I didn’t even say anything.” “Your face did.” Denzil grinned. “I was just thinking that you’re going to get in trouble again later.” Cagney tilted her head. “Because of me?” Barney laughed. “Because of who else?” Weston rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to get in trouble.” Denzil looked at him. Then at the bleachers. Then back at Weston. That grin grew wider. “Of course not.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Nothing at all.” “Denzil.” “It’s true though.” Denzil raised both hands. “You can do whatever you want anyway.” Kenneth grinned. Barney too. Weston could have contradicted him. He didn’t. Because... well. Denzil wasn’t completely wrong. Weston had been with you for almost two years. Two years. That was longer than any relationship any of his friends had managed so far. And in those two years they had argued. More than once. About parties. About his friends. About Cagney. About some messages. About pictures. About things that Weston usually no longer considered important ten minutes later. And yet they were still together. Because they loved each other. It was that simple. You knew him. Knew how he was. And Weston had never claimed he would suddenly become some perfect model boyfriend just because he was in a relationship. He went out partying. He flirted sometimes. He used to let himself be touched. Not now. He still went home with you. He kissed you. He fell asleep next to you. He bought you things when he knew he’d screwed up. He even already knew which little café he would visit tomorrow because you liked that one pastry there. Weston cared. In his own way. That had to count, didn’t it. “Quintrell.” Denzil snapped his fingers in front of his face. Weston knocked his hand away. “What?” “Cagney asked if you’re coming tonight.” Weston looked at her. By now she was standing beside him. One hand still rested loosely on his shoulder. “To Dacey’s?” “Mhm.” “Maybe.” Cagney’s mouth corners lifted. “That means yes.” “That means maybe.” “With you, maybe always means yes.” “Interesting theory.” She leaned a little closer. “I’m testing it.” Weston looked back at the bleachers. You had moved. Not much. But enough. Denzil noticed it too. “Oh.” Weston threw him a look. “What now?” Denzil visibly bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. “Nothing.” “Say it.” “I think your fan club has had enough.” Weston looked again. His forehead furrowed slightly. He didn’t like it. Not because he believed something was actually happening. Only because he had no desire to have some discussion later about Cagney having touched him. Again. As if Weston had asked her to. “Honestly.” Denzil leaned a little closer. “How do you actually put up with it?” Weston looked at him. “What?” Denzil gestured inconspicuously toward the bleachers. “This constant jealousy thing.” Harold immediately looked up. “Denzil.” “What?” “Drop it.” Denzil ignored him. Of course. “I said drop it.” “I’d go insane.” Barney nodded. “A little bit, yeah.” Weston could have simply ended the topic. One sentence. Shut the fuck up. Done. He didn’t. Instead he shrugged one shoulder. “You get used to it.” Denzil laughed. Barney too. Kenneth grinned uncertainly. Cagney smiled. Harold didn’t. Weston saw it. That brief, disapproving tightening of his eyebrows. “Don’t look like that now.” Harold crossed his arms. “Like what?” “Like you’re my therapist.” “God forbid.” Denzil laughed again. Weston too. Only briefly. Then his gaze fell to you again. And this time the grin disappeared a little faster. Because you didn’t look like usual. Normally Weston knew pretty exactly when trouble was coming. He knew every sign. The body tension. The look. The way you kept distance. The mood in the car. The silence. All of it. But this time none of it was there. No visible jealousy. No recognizable anger. No annoyed reaction to Cagney. Nothing. Weston should have been relieved. This was exactly what he’d wanted for months, really. No discussion. No drama. No: Why do you let her do that? No: How would you feel if I did that? No damn argument about things Weston considered unimportant. Perfect. So why did it bother him? Cagney pulled on his arm. “Come on.” Weston looked at her. “Where to?” “Photo.” “No.” “Weston.” “Cagney.” “Just one.” “You’re going to post it anyway.” “Of course.” “Then especially not.” She pulled anyway. Denzil called: “Just do it, princess.” Weston raised his middle finger in his direction. Cagney was already positioning herself in front of him. Then beside him. One hand on his chest. Her body tight against his side. Weston sighed. “Five seconds.” She grinned. “I don’t need more.” Someone held up a phone. Weston looked at the camera. That typical half-bored, half-arrogant grin. Cagney rested her head on his shoulder. Click. Another one. Her hand slid higher. Click. On the third photo she suddenly kissed him on the cheek. Weston blinked. “Seriously?” Cagney pulled away laughing. “That was cute.” Denzil whistled. Barney burst out laughing. Kenneth put a hand over his mouth. And Weston? Weston didn’t laugh at all. Because the situation was ridiculous. Because Cagney was grinning. Because Denzil made some shitty comment about lipstick on his ear. Because it was easier to look at the floor. Then he looked at the bleachers. And you were no longer there. Weston’s smile remained for a moment. Maybe two seconds. Then it disappeared. He searched the row. Nothing. His gaze slid to the exit. No idea when you had left. Shit. “What?” Denzil, of course, noticed immediately that Weston was no longer listening. “Nothing.” Weston reached for his sports bag. Harold looked toward the bleachers. Then Weston. “Gone.” Weston threw him a look. “I saw.” “Obviously.” Weston slung the bag over his shoulder. Cagney frowned. “Where are you going?” “To change.” “We were going to—” “Later.” He left. Not fast. Definitely not. Weston Quintrell didn’t run after anyone. Especially not when there was no reason to. You had probably just already gone to the parking lot. Maybe to the restroom. Maybe someone had texted. No drama. All good. And even if you were angry... Weston knew how this worked. He would drive by later. Maybe stop at that little shop beforehand. You liked those silver bracelets. Or he’d bring food. Something sweet. A few words. A kiss. Done. Not an apology. Weston opened the door to the locker room. Then he paused briefly. Harold’s voice from behind. Calm. Far too calm. “You probably shouldn’t assume that everything is always like usual.” Weston turned his head. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Harold shrugged one shoulder. “Just saying.” Weston snorted. “you love me.” Harold looked at him for a few seconds. No grin. No joke. Nothing at all. “I wasn’t doubting that.” Weston waited. Harold walked past him. Then he paused briefly. “But maybe someday love won’t be enough anymore.” Weston laughed quietly. Not because it was particularly funny. But because the alternative was absurd. You wouldn’t leave him. Not really. Maybe be angry. Maybe not answer tomorrow. Maybe sulk for two days. But leave? No. Weston knew you. You loved him. More than anything. And that was exactly why Weston was completely certain: No matter how often he screwed up. No matter how often Cagney went too far. No matter how often his friends made a stupid remark. In the end you would still be there. Weston just had to be a little sweet again. Maybe a gift. Maybe flowers. Maybe just that one smile that he knew you could never resist for long. All manageable. As always. At least that was what Weston believed.