The second they leave, I jump into action, gathering my stuff as I keep checking my phone. I double check with Reece to make sure he isn’t at the arena and somehow missed getting his duffle. Reece replies back that he hasn’t seen him in the locker room.
When I saw Boone last night, he said it was going to be a chill evening at Kappa. We’re gonna kick back with some beers and have a PlayStation tournament. His exact words. He was loose and in good spirits.
But he missed our morning run.
I open another text to him: Are u alive?
Nothing.
The alarming thing is that the messages show as read. It’s not like him to not respond.
I grab my keys and head out to the truck, that sinking feeling growing.
I drive around to the front of the Kappa house. There are empty kegs piled up on the porch, but that’s par for the course. It looks deserted, which means the brothers are probably inside, recuperating from partying.
But it’s after three.
I’m captain, and it’s my responsibility to keep the team together. If he doesn’t show up for this game, we’ll struggle. We have a freshman, Donaldson, on the second line, and he’s good, but not as skilled as Boone.
Slamming the door to my vehicle, I cross to the house and take the steps two at a time and bang on the door.
The door finally opens and Scott’s there, scowling. There’s a frozen bag of peas pressed to his forehead and his eyes are half-open. “What the hell do you want?”
“You look like shit. Where’s Boone?”
He manages a smirk as he tosses the peas on a table by the door. “Shouldn’t you be at your game? Word on the street is, they can’t live without you.”
I stiffen, my fists clenching. I lean in the doorway and glance around. The smell of beer and sweat lingers in the air. Solo cups and pizza boxes litter the hallway, and I think I hear the sound of someone vomiting. “Where are the pledges?”
He leers. “The smart ones are home sleeping it off. The dumbasses . . . who knows.”
Is he calling Boone a dumbass?
Nah, nah.
I throw open the door and march him inside a few feet as I get in his face. His breath is rotten, like something crawled into his mouth and shit. I shove his chest and he skitters across the floor. “Answer my fucking question. Where? Is? Boone?”
He flinches, his face reddening, and I think he’s going to talk, then several of his brothers stalk into the foyer and surround him, asking what’s going on. They bump against me, their eyes stormy. Fine. I hold my hands up as I back out onto the porch.
“Boone has a game,” I tell them.
Scott smirks as he pushes through his brothers. “Great, but it looks like he ain’t gonna make this one.” He slams the door.
Blood rushes through my veins. Is this on purpose?
Shit. Where is Boone?
I want to charge the house again, but fans have appeared on the street as they walk to the arena. The last thing I need is a viral video.
I pace on the curb, raking both hands through my hair, trying to think.
I’ve got to start considering Donaldson on the line.
I send a text to him and Reece: Can’t find Boone. Donaldson, b ready 2 start. Reece—run sets with him.
As I’m throwing open the door to my truck, someone comes down the Kappa steps. It’s a preppy looking kid in a hockey jersey and a cap. He starts to walk past me, and I’m set to ignore him, when he coughs to get my attention.
“Hey,” he whispers in stealth-mode. “You looking for O’Brien?”
“Yeah.”
He glances back at the house but keeps walking, slowly. At first, I think he’s going to pull an asshole Kappa practical joke, but then he mumbles. “They took the pledges down to the cornfields.”
My stomach drops.
There’s a giant cornfield outside of town. Supposedly, it’s haunted by a little girl that was murdered there over a hundred years ago. Locals say she wears a white dress and chases people through the stalks of corn with an axe.
It’s exactly the kind of thing that would make Boone’s skin crawl.
The property is owned by a Kappa alumnus. Every fall, he cuts it into a giant maze and charges admission. Adults only. The place is too eerie for a kid. The corn is around seven feet high and it’s easy to get turned around and lost.
But it’s three in the afternoon. Something’s not adding up. “Is he still there?”
He shrugs and jogs away.
Dammit. This means I have to make a pit stop at the fields, which happens to be nowhere near the arena.
Unease grips me. I’m going to be cutting the game close.
I speed off. Saturday traffic is shit with everyone trying to get in for the game, so it’s a crawl. By the time I make it to the fields, the sun is low in the sky, giving an orange glow to the brown stalks. I speed up the long dirt road and pull into an area cleared out like a small parking lot. The admission office—really a tent—is empty. They aren’t open today.