But he turned around and walked out of the locker room before I could finish apologizing.
I slung my backpack over my shoulder and ran after him.
“Easton,” I called. “Easton, listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say that—”
He stopped so suddenly that I slammed straight into his back.
“Ow!”
The moment I noticed what had made him stop, I swallowed hard.
“Young Mr. Cash, I have Mr. Presley on the line,” Franky said, holding out an old-looking cellphone.
Easton almost rolled his eyes before taking the phone and pressing it to his ear.
“What do you want?” he snapped.
He frowned and turned his head to glance toward the corner of the hallway.
“Seriously? Don’t screw with me… Yeah, yeah, I already know… You know what? Screw you. Go to hell.”
When the call ended, he handed the phone back
