Chapter 3 Always Knock

Later in the evening, I discovered that the fridge was empty at 9 p.m., after a day of film study, a fight with a compliance officer, and eight missed calls from my brother. I stood in the glow of the open refrigerator, staring at one jar of pickles and a bottle of mustard, and considered burning the entire house down.

"Move."

Dax nudged me aside with his hip, hauled out a loaf of bread and a block of cheese from a grocery bag I hadn't noticed him bringing in, and pulled a skillet from the cabinet.

"You went shopping."

"I went to a store. Shopping implies joy." He lit the burner. "Sit."

"I can make my own dinner."

"Sure you can. How can I forget how much of an amazing chef you are." He didn't look back. "I've seen you do it."

I sat down while pouting my lips. Clearly, he was mocking my cooking skills.

The kitchen smelled like butter. He moved around it like he'd lived in it his whole life, sleeves shoved to his elbows, forearms flexing every time he flipped a sandwich. I watched him and tried to remember a single time in ten years that I'd seen Dax Holloway be quiet.

My phone buzzed on the counter. It was Beck again. 

"Put him on speaker," Dax said.

"No."

He reached across, tapped the screen, and my brother's voice filled the kitchen like a thunderclap.

"QUINN. Why is my sister's face on every sports page in America?"

"Hi, Beck."

"Hi? Hi? Where's Dax? Is he there? Because I swear to God—"

"Right here," Dax said, flipping a sandwich. "She's fine. I've got her."

A pause. When Beck spoke again, the heat had gone out of his voice and left something colder behind. "You better, Dax."

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone. "He's never talked to you like that."

"He's scared." Dax slid a plate in front of me. "Eat."

"Stop telling me to eat."

"Stop starving yourself and I'll stop telling you."

"I'm not— I don't need a bodyguard, Dax." My voice came out sharper than I meant. "I don't need you to hover and cook and give me looks. I have handled every hit in this program by myself for three years."

"I know."

"Then why are you acting like I'm made of glass?"

He finally turned around. The kitchen light caught his eyes, gold-brown and steady. "I'm not. You're the toughest person I know. I think you shouldn't have to be."

The words sent chills down my spine.

"You called me Tadpole and made me play tackle football in the yard," I managed. "Don't you dare get soft on me now."

“Okay, but we can agree on the fact that you are not meant for the kitchen.” He laughed out loud, and the sound cracked something open in my chest, and then I was laughing too, helplessly, the kind of laughing that hurts your ribs and makes you cry a little. For about thirty seconds, we were just two kids in a kitchen who had known each other forever.

Then he muttered, "Let me see your side."

"What?"

"Priya said you cracked a rib."

"Bruised."

"Quinn..."

I lifted the edge of my shirt. The bruise had gone the color of a storm. Dax's face went flat and dangerous. "Marcus Deal."

"He apologized."

"And?"

"And I thanked him."

"Of course you did." He crouched, took a roll of tape from the first aid kit on the counter, and his hands were so careful, so unbearably gentle, that I forgot to breathe. His fingers brushed my skin. His head was bent so close I could smell soap and cedar, and I had a sudden, horrifying, wonderful thought, and then I shoved it back down where it belonged.

"There," he said quietly.

"Thanks."

"Anytime, Tadpole."

I fled upstairs before I could say anything stupid. Brushed my teeth in the dark. Shoved the bathroom door open to grab my toothbrush holder from the far counter, and walked straight into Dax, who was standing at the sink with no shirt on and a toothbrush in his mouth.

We stared at each other.

He took the toothbrush out. "Told you," he said, with great calm. "Always knock."

"I— the door was unlocked!"

"Eyes up, Tadpole."

I made a noise like a dying kettle and left.

————

At 2:47 a.m., my phone rang.

I was awake already, staring at the ceiling, replaying the kitchen scene, the laugh and a pair of hands on my ribs. The screen said Beck. I answered before the second ring and kept my voice low.

"Beck, it's three in the morning."

"I have something to tell you." He sounded wrecked. "Is he asleep?"

"Who? Dax?" My stomach turned over. "I think so. Why?"

"Quinn. I need you to listen. I called the housing office tonight. I wanted to check on you, to see what they had put in the report."

"And?"

"They told me the request to move you into that house wasn't Coach Briggs's idea." His breath shook. "It was filed eleven days ago."

Eleven days.

Before the note in my locker. Before the key was copied. Before anyone had said a single word to me about danger.

"By who?" I whispered, though I already knew.

"Dax. Quinn, he put in the request eleven days before any of this started. And last spring he asked me for your class schedule, your practice times, your dorm number. I thought he was being a good friend. I thought it was sweet." Beck's voice cracked. "How did he know, Quinn? How did he know to get you out of that dorm before anything happened?"

The line crackled. I sat very still in the dark, my pulse pounding in my ears.

Out in the hallway, a floorboard creaked.

A shadow slid across the strip of light beneath my door and stopped.

"Tadpole?" Dax's voice came through the wood, low and rough with sleep. "You awake?"