Premium Seats [Klance] ✅

37 - Where Things Fall Apart

A/N
title says it all.

LANCE

It was the anguish on Keith's face that caught his attention.

But it was the familiar call of his name from the entrance of the court that put a halt to his bodily functions altogether.

Running would take him nowhere, especially not when Jorge McClain had planted himself at the doorway. Everyone, including Coach Kolivan, had paused. The ball thrown by Shay not a minute ago had missed its target, proceeding instead to roll silently on the floor. In bated breath, everyone glanced at the man, who appeared domineering in the way his arms were folded across his chest, completed by the inscrutable expression on his face that – in all of Lance's time growing up with his dad – could only mean one thing.

No-one had to make a second guess on who Jorge was here for. The only word he'd spoken could still be heard echoing around the now-silent court, growing louder at each passing second as each head turned, directing their focus on Lance.

It didn't help as well that he was currently in the middle; a literal delineation of "the centre of attention".

Lance was in a such deep shit.

Good thing Kolivan had called for a break just a minute before Jorge walked in, otherwise his dad would have to repeatedly yell his name from the entrance.

But the fact remained; his dad was here, and in one way or another, Lance would have to talk to him. And knowing there was no way out of this, he shuffled his way towards the man, fingers sliding down his shorts when they failed to find pockets. He kept his eyes trained on the polished wooden floor instead, wishing that everyone would stop staring at him.

"I'd like you to pack your things and go home," said Jorge once Lance stopped in front of him; shoulders hunched; ignominy colouring him scarlet. He really didn't know what to make of that calm tone.

He tried being indifferent, despite sensing it would be futile. "Is everything okay?"

"Back home? Yes," Jorge nodded solemnly. "But I need you to change and come home. Now."

Lance glanced around him, and his shoulders sagged in part-relief when he saw that everyone was already minding their own business. Well, everyone but Keith, who was watching the exchange with a rather perturbed expression. "But, my car—"

"You will drive your car home," his dad cut him off placidly. "I'll follow you from behind."

As much as Lance tried to remain calm, he couldn't seem to train his thoughts to settle down. He knew – he wasn't stupid; he knew – that he should've seen this coming. But growing up with a strict parent had sharpened this rash part of him; the tighter he was controlled, the more insistent his writhings became. Now he just wanted to break free of the restraints.

Though, at this point, any form of rebuttal would only be chucked over the shoulder. So Lance turned around and silently trudged up the steps of the bleachers. He shouldered his bag and picked up his phone from the empty seat beside Keith. "Your dad, huh?" Keith asked, nervous eyes flitting from Lance to Jorge and back.

"Yeah,"

"Are you going now?" Keith slowly queried him, his voice uncharacteristically timid.

Lance nodded, feeling numb this time. "Yep," he took a deep breath. "Well, I'll see you around."

Perhaps it was the way Keith watched him. Perhaps Lance was good at reading people in general. Because he could feel the gears in Keith's head whirring, as though the boy wanted to say something. So he looked at him intently, just waiting.