Clifton walked into the second-floor lounge with a dark cloud hanging over him. He spotted Branson immediately. Branson was slouched deep into the leather sofa, one leg crossed over the other, scrolling mindlessly through Instagram on his phone.
Clifton walked straight up to him and kicked the bottom edge of the sofa with his heavy shoe.
Branson's head snapped up. A fake, practiced smile stretched across his face, but Clifton caught the quick flash of jealousy and defensiveness in his eyes.
"Where did you find Justice Terry?" Clifton asked. His voice was flat and cold.
Branson sat up, puffing his chest out a little. He looked proud. "Ran into him in high-Elo ranked. The kid actually slid into my DMs begging for a tryout."
Hearing the words 'slid into my DMs' made the temperature in Clifton's eyes drop to absolute zero. It was the perfect confirmation of his theory.
Clifton leaned down, invading Branson's space. His voice dropped to a dangerous warning. "Don't think you can hire a gun to build your own little clique in my team."
Branson's face lost some color, but he threw his hands up, playing the victim. "Come on, cap. I'm just looking out for the future of the team."
Clifton let out a disgusted scoff. He didn't want to hear another word of bullshit. He turned around and walked toward the open-concept pantry next to the lounge.
As he stepped into the narrow doorway of the pantry, a thin body suddenly turned the corner, walking right into him.
It was Justice. He was holding two steaming paper cups of hot Americano, clearly running errands for the rookie coaches.
They were inches apart. Clifton could smell the cheap, generic laundry detergent on Justice's clothes, mixed with the faint, bitter scent of tobacco.
The second Justice saw Clifton's face, his entire body locked up like he had been hit with a stun gun.
Those deep eyes instantly flooded with raw, uncontrollable panic. His pupils shrank to pinpricks.
Clifton stood tall, looking down at him. His eyes were heavy with judgment. He deliberately planted his feet, refusing to step back and clear the doorway.
The narrow frame forced them into a tight, suffocating proximity. Justice's chest started rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths.
Desperate to escape, Justice turned his body sideways, trying to squeeze past Clifton's shoulder. But his nerves were completely fried. As he moved, his right wrist violently jerked.
The plastic lid popped off. Boiling hot black coffee sloshed out of the cup and splashed directly onto the bare skin of Justice's right hand.
Justice sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. A suppressed, strangled sound of pain escaped his throat. His fingers gave out. The paper cup hit the floor, splattering dark liquid everywhere.
Without thinking, driven by a muscle memory older than his anger, Clifton reached his hand out to grab Justice's arm to check the burn.
But the second Clifton's fingers moved toward him, Justice flinched backward with terrifying violence, like he was dodging a knife.
Justice stumbled back so hard he crashed into the metal trash can behind him. It tipped over with a loud crash.
Across the room, Branson popped his head over the sofa to see what the noise was.
Justice didn't even look up. He grabbed his bright red, scalded hand, tucked his chin into his chest, and bolted down the hallway like a terrified animal.
Clifton's hand was left hanging in the empty air.
Slowly, his fingers curled inward, forming a tight, shaking fist. He shoved it deep into his hoodie pocket.
He stared at the spilled coffee on the floor. The anger in his chest flared up, mixing with a dark, suffocating frustration.
It was exactly like that rainy night. Justice treating him like a disease. Running away the second Clifton tried to touch him.
Branson walked over, looking at the mess. He let out a loud, mocking laugh. "Jesus. The rookie's mental state is garbage."
Clifton snapped his head to the side. He glared at Branson with eyes full of pure murder. "Shut the fuck up."
Clifton stepped over the puddle of coffee. He walked toward the stairs. His blood was boiling. He wanted to get into the game and tear that coward to pieces.
He pulled out his phone and typed a message into the team group chat.
Scrim at 2 PM sharp. Nobody is late.
