[THE WAYARKE SERIES, BOOK #1]
"Take it easy."
"It's never easy with you."
"Good."
୨୧
Ever since Austin Chanler was young, the NBA has been his dream. The one thing he's wanted for himself. Now a 19 year old sophomore, eligible for an academy one ste...
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AUSTIN
Step by step, I slowly inch down the stairs at the crack of dawn. One foot each time, taking ages to get to the next. I left ice on all of my sore spots— which was everywhere, but it barely helped. I woke up with an excruciating ache— tough tension, laced in my muscles and I just knew today will be a struggle.
When I finally reach the bottom, the flats of my feet hitting the cold tile, I revel in the silence. Thankfully, my dad has already gone to work and I have the undisturbed house to myself— the opportunity to chill downstairs comfortably, without an abusive asshole breathing down my neck.
I struggle to even cushion myself on the couch. I don't know how I'm surviving this week.
Him sentencing me to death would've been better than having to experience this ongoing pain. Once I feel better, he does it again. And again. And again. It never stops. I just permanently live with uncontrollable pain, throbbing pain.
Living in Boston— it was an escape. Finally. When my dad had nothing left at the old house, he moved to Wayarke. Moving here, I'd thought he'd have changed, bettered himself. I assumed his sole reason for moving was some sort of self development— starting fresh. Instead, I just threw myself back into the same loop. This time, with no escape. It's like being stuck in a mind altering maze— the sounds, being caged in your own thoughts, it scares you. But, there's no way out unless you find it yourself.
I sit in an uncomfortable position on the couch, applying an ice pack to all of my bruises. The soreness fades a bit and it's a lot more tolerable. Feeling more at ease, my phone dings, lighting up on the coffee table. I stretch my hand out, sliding it over to the edge, before scooping it up.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: This is Hayden. Want me to pick you up? Then, after school, we can take a ride together to practice. It's easier than having to wait for the bus.
Reading the message, I sit my body up more proper, my back to the sofa back. I completely forgot about school. I stand up, twisting— stretching my torso, arms and head urgently. I have fucking practice today and I am in no shape to play any good. This is my new chance and it's only been a few weeks. I can't miss practice already. I'll tough it out. It's only a week. Then, I can relax on the weekend.
ME: Sounds good.
Remembering last night, I had planned to ask Hayden for his number today. How the hell did this dumbass get my number? I type out another message, changing his contact name as I wait for a reply.
ME: How'd you get my number?
DUMBASS: From your sister.
ME: When did you talk to my sister?
What the fuck? He sure as hell didn't ask her for my number yesterday. She would've told me. What are they, meeting up privately now? A read receipt is displayed under my message, but there's no reply.
