Chapter 68 Garrett
Garrett
I’d been putting up with this bullshit for a week now.
A full week of smiling like a civilized human being while Trisha climbed all over me in public like I was a goddamn amusement park ride. Which was fine and perfectly acceptable.
I had a reason, right?
A perfectly legitimate reason to make out with my somewhat girlfriend in front of the entire academy.
But what the hell was his excuse?
What fucking excuse did Aslan have for kissing Aitor right in front of my face? Who gave him permission to even think of anyone else?
And who the fuck told Aitor he could look at my lion, breathe near him, or touch him—especially touch him?
Yeah, fuck… I know. Me.
I’m not delusional. I’m not in denial either. I told them both to do it. I was the asshole who emotionally blackmailed my cub to leave me, “if he cared for me.”
Which he clearly did, a lot apparently, because he had surely left me.
I respected that. Didn’t mean I had to like it.
Because I really, really didn’t.
Watching them together was like sticking needles in my eyeballs.
Trisha draped over my lap? Annoying.
Aslan kissing Aitor? Murderous.
Considering I felt absolutely nothing when Trisha kissed me. No sparks. No heat. No nothing. Meanwhile Aitor and Aslan looked like… like they meant it. Like they were real.
Which was complete bullshit, obviously.
But my brain didn’t seem interested in logic today, so yeah, I was blind with jealousy and rage.
The fun part about rage is the creativity it unlocks. For example, I spent a solid ten minutes imagining exactly how I’d break Aitor’s nose if he touched Aslan again. Nothing serious. Just enough to remind him of basic survival instincts.
Unfortunately, that plan had one tiny flaw. Well, two.
This was my idea, and I loved Aitor.
But still… Did he really have to touch his hair? Hug him?
Because watching him wrap an arm around Aslan like he belonged there was starting to test the limits of my already fragile self-control.
And my self-control was hanging by a thread.
“Hey, you ready for Canada?” Evan asked, dropping into the chair beside me, completely blocking my view.
I wanted to throw him across the room, but I took a deep breath instead.
“Hell yeah,” I answered with my biggest smile. “It’s gonna be fun this year.”
“Fun,” he repeated with a grin that already looked suspicious. “You mean drinking until we forget our names and hooking up with anything that moves?”
“Tradition is tradition,” I said.
Joe snorted from across the table. “Last year you tried to race a snowmobile drunk.”
“I won,” I reminded him.
“You crashed into a tree.”
“Details.”
Evan leaned forward conspiratorially. “So what’s the plan this time? Skiing, parties, girls…”
“I kinda have a girlfriend now, dude,” I said, jerking my head toward Trisha across the room, working on a project. “The random fucking around probably isn’t happening.”
They both stared at me like I’d just announced I was joining a monastery.
“What?” I asked.
Evan shrugged. “Nothing. Just didn’t think I’d see the day Garrett William didn't wanna fool around.”
I ignored him.
Truth was, I didn't wanna fuck anyone. At least not anyone that wasn't my cub.
The thought slipped into my mind before I could stop it. By then I’d be done with the goddamned maintenance sessions. Done pretending. Done playing along with this ridiculous circus. No Trisha commitment, Aslan would obviously ditch Aitor for me, and it'd be just us—me and my lion. Canada would basically be our honeymoon.
It made perfect sense.
Of course, before that fantasy could happen, midterms were coming, and my mother expected absolute excellence from me. Not just A's, but first place in everything. Including a spot—the spot—on the academy’s wrestling team, the one my father had proudly sponsored for three years now and one of the few events he ever bothered showing up for.
That part didn’t worry me.
I’d been training for months, and that spot was mine. I could wrestle. I could fight. That competition wasn’t even a question.
The straight A's in all else weren't a question either… What was a question was equestrian, because I could not ride a fucking horse. Let alone jump with one.
Our previous instructor, the one who actually understood how to teach me without trying to kill me, had apparently left the school for “personal reasons.” The new trainer had arrived two days later and had hated me from day one.
He used to train with my mother, according to him, and liked reminding me of it every five minutes.
“Back then,” he’d say, pacing around the arena like a drill sergeant, “students learned to ride like warriors. Not like spoiled little sissies.”
Which was rich coming from a guy whose entire personality seemed to revolve around yelling at teenagers on horseback.
So naturally, our first assignment with him—and our midterm grade—was clearing a one-meter jump.
Yeah.
Not a fucking chance.
I had been practicing all week, and it still wasn’t happening, which was unbelievably frustrating considering my mother was not only a fantastic rider but also the one who had basically founded the entire horse program at Crownwell. Failing that class would be a personal insult to her.
Which meant failing wasn’t an option.
Unfortunately, the horse hadn’t received that memo.
The animal snorted impatiently beneath me as I lined up for the jump again. My shoulders were tight, my grip too stiff on the reins, but at that point I was too irritated to care.
“Come on,” I muttered under my breath.
The horse approached the obstacle, jumped, and the landing immediately went to hell. The animal stumbled slightly, and I nearly went flying over its neck in what would have been a spectacular faceplant if I hadn’t managed to cling to the saddle like a desperate idiot.
“Fuck.”
I steadied the horse and brought it to a stop, my heart hammering from the near disaster. Fantastic. Another flawless performance.
I slid down from the saddle, rubbing my shoulder as I led the horse toward the fence.
That was when I felt movement beside me. I turned and saw him. Immediately my heart jumped inside my chest, and my hands started to tremble.
Aslan stood just outside the fence like some kind of stalking wildlife photographer, watching.
“Were you spying on me?” I asked flatly.
He didn’t even look embarrassed.
“I was practicing too,” he said calmly, gesturing vaguely toward the other end of the field as he entered my side, approaching the horse. “You’re pulling the reins too tight when you land,” he said, suddenly in my space, his hand so close to mine on the horse's rein that our fingers nearly touched. I recoiled, staring at him.
“Excuse me?”
“The horse thinks you’re panicking,” he continued, stepping closer to the fence. “If you relax your shoulders and shift your weight forward right before the jump, the landing will be easier.”
If I wasn't panicking on the horse, I was panicking now.
Too close. Too close. We couldn't talk. Couldn't have any contact. Not yet.
“Okay, ass-land.”
He stopped.
“Did I ask for a riding lesson?”
His mouth pressed into a thin line. “No.”
“Then leave me the fuck alone and go practice somewhere else.”
For a moment, he didn’t move. He just stood there watching me like he was debating something.
Our eyes met as the tremor in my lips almost betrayed me.
He looked sad. So goddamned sad that I almost kissed him…
Then he gave a small nod, turned around, and walked back toward the other side of the field.
And for reasons I absolutely refused to analyze, every jump, every thought, every breath… felt a lot harder after that.