Tuesday Evening: The Wine Shed Showdown
The Stellenbosch dusk draped the campus in a soft purple haze, the wine shed’s fairy lights casting a warm glow over its weathered wooden walls. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of fermenting grapes and candle wax, barrels stacked high, a cluttered testament to Rachel, JP, and Doug’s Chenin Blanc empire. Spencer Clarke stepped through the door, his black gym shorts snug, navy tank clinging to his chest, blonde fuzz catching the light. His blue eyes burned with a desperate edge, the captaincy loss to Dylan still a raw wound, Henk and Sarah’s potjie night rejection a bruise on his pride. The wine shed—his 15% equity pitch—was his last stronghold, the one goal he could still claim. He carried his laptop like a weapon, the PowerPoint within polished to perfection, Doug’s support secured in a sweaty, cum-slick night he thought guaranteed victory.
Rachel stood at the table, pouring wine, her dark hair tied back, her smile tight. “Spense, you’re here—grab a glass.” JP lounged in a chair, sandy hair flopping, his usual grin replaced by a wary squint, arms crossed. Doug hovered near a barrel, olive skin flushed, dark eyes darting to Spencer, then away, his silence louder than the clink of bottles. Spencer set his laptop down, forcing a Joburg grin, though his hands trembled slightly. “Lekker, Rach—let’s seal this deal, hey?” His voice was smooth, but the need beneath it cracked through, a City Shark circling his final prize.
He launched into his pitch, slides flashing—Paarl distributors, warehouse splits with VDMDW surplus barrels, profit margins mapped to the cent. “Your Chenin’s gold, but you’re choking on supply, distro’s a mess. I’ve got three contacts ready to triple your reach, storage sorted, 10% margins year one, 25% by three. I’m your guy—hustle, network, all in. For that, 15% equity, full partner.” His eyes flicked to Doug, expecting a nod, but Doug’s gaze stayed on the floor, lips pressed thin. Rachel leaned forward, JP’s fingers tapped the table, and Spencer pushed harder, voice rising. “This is it, bru—we build an empire together.”
Rachel exchanged a look with JP, then spoke, her voice calm but unyielding. “Spense, we sent your proposal to Jo and Piet—wanted their take, since they’re in the game.” Spencer’s grin faltered, a cold twist in his gut. Jo and Piet? He hadn’t counted on them, hadn’t thought the farm boys would weigh in. Rachel continued, “They ran it by Jacques. He tore it apart.”
JP cut in, blunt, no warmth. “Jacques spotted holes, bru. Your distro contacts? Two are tied to shaky co-ops, one’s under investigation—dodgy numbers. Warehouse split’s a cash sink; VDMDW’s barrels are locked in their own deals, not free for us. Margins look pretty, but they lean on best-case scenarios, no buffer for drought or pests. He said it’s a gamble, not a plan, and 15% for a consultant’s no deal.”
Spencer’s breath caught, anger flaring, blue eyes darting to Doug. “You knew about this? We had a deal—15%, you backed me.” Doug’s dark hair fell over his eyes, his voice low, almost a whisper. “I didn’t know, Spense—they sent it after. Jacques’s word… it’s solid.” The betrayal stung, Doug’s silence a knife, no trace of their night’s heat.
Rachel folded her arms, resolute. “We’re not taking it, Spense. Plan’s got good bits—distributors, we’ll chase those ourselves—but equity stays with us three. You can consult, no stake, or walk. It’s business.” JP nodded, his stare cold. “You pushed too hard, bru. Jacques said you’re selling flash, not substance. We’re good without it.”
Spencer’s hands clenched, laptop screen glowing mockingly, his empire crumbling. “This is mine,” he snapped, voice cracking, desperation spilling. “I built this—contacts, numbers, Doug’s yes. You can’t just—” Rachel cut him off, sharp. “We can, Spense. Jo and Piet trusted Jacques; we trust them. You’re out.” Doug looked away, guilt in his slumped shoulders, offering no lifeline.
Fury choked Spencer, his chest tight, blue eyes stinging as he slammed his laptop shut. “Fuck you all,” he muttered, grabbing his bag, storming out, the shed door banging behind him. The campus was dark, stars indifferent, his footsteps heavy on the path back to his dorm. No captaincy, no gang, now no wine shed—every goal shattered, his charm a spent bullet. The City Shark was beached, alone, Jo and Piet’s shadow looming larger than ever, Jacques’s verdict the final blow.
Wednesday Afternoon:
The Stellenbosch quad hummed with post-practice chaos, the late afternoon sun baking the grass where the water polo squad sprawled, beers cracked, laughter bouncing off the oaks. Kyle’s tanned face grinned as he tossed a ball, Liam’s dark hair damp from the pool, their banter light but edged with the captaincy’s aftertaste. The wine crew joined, Rachel and JP toasting their decision to go solo, bottles of Chenin Blanc glinting, Doug trailing behind, his olive skin pale, dark eyes distant. The potjie night’s fire scar lingered, a ghost of Spencer’s last stand, and his name hung unspoken, a shadow over the group.
Kyle, buzzed on Black Label, broke the silence, leaning back on a blanket. “Spense lost it in the gym, hey—glared at me like I’d knifed him when Dylan got captain.” His voice was half-laugh, but unease flickered, Henk’s potjie night gossip still fresh: Spense tried kak with me and Sar—too far. Liam nodded, quieter, his new girlfriend’s presence grounding him. “Ja, cornered me too—thought we’d locked it for him. Felt kak when it fell through.”
Rachel, sipping wine, raised an eyebrow, her pragmatism sharp. “He lost more than that—his wine shed pitch crashed. Jacques tore it to bits, said it was all flash.” Doug froze, bottle halfway to his lips, the mention of Spencer’s proposal hitting like a stone. He’d replayed their night—the shed, Spencer’s relentless pounding, the 15% promise—endlessly, guilt gnawing since he stayed silent in the meeting. Prompted by Rachel’s words, he muttered, voice low, “He didn’t just pitch. Got… close, pushed me to back him. Felt like a deal, not a choice.”
Kyle’s head snapped up, eyes narrowing, beer forgotten. “What’s that, bru?” Liam leaned in, his own guilt stirring, sensing a pattern. Doug’s jaw tightened, dark hair falling forward, then he spilled, raw and halting. “In the shed, after hours—he made it seem like… if I said yes, it was more than business. I fell for it, thought it meant something.” He didn’t say sex, but the weight landed, heavy in the quad’s hum.
Kyle’s bravado cracked, his voice sharp. “Fok, same. Before the captain vote, he had me over—said it’d seal my support. I thought it was just us, mates, you know?” Liam’s face flushed, his confession softer, laced with hurt. “Me too. Night before the trial, he… made me feel I owed him. Promised my vote, but Coach didn’t care.” The three locked eyes, shock settling—Spencer had played them all, sex his currency for control, each believing they were unique, not pawns.
Kyle slammed his beer down, anger flaring. “Bloody hell, he used us like tools—votes, equity, whatever he wanted.” Liam’s regret cut deeper, his voice low. “Thought he was a friend, not… this. I backed him to Coach, but it was about that night, not the pool.” Doug’s pain was quietest, his dark eyes glistening. “I thought we had something, but it was just his plan—15%, nothing else. When it failed, he was gone.”
Their talk turned bitter under the oak’s shade, the quad’s chatter fading. Kyle’s ego burned, his loyalty to Spencer ashes. “I pushed for him, got nothing but a glare.” Liam’s hurt was personal, his girlfriend a shield. “Should’ve seen it—guy’s all charm, no soul.” Doug’s betrayal stung deepest, his role in the wine shed a wound. “He didn’t care about us, just the deal.” They pieced it together—Spencer’s seduction, promises, control—left them used, trust shattered. No plan for revenge, just a quiet vow: step back, warn the gang, let Spencer’s world collapse.
The trio split, Kyle to his dorm, Liam to his girl, Doug to the shed, each carrying a new wariness. Spencer, holed up in his room, oblivious, stared at his silent phone—no replies, no invites, only vinyls and coffee’s faint musk. The wine shed was his final blow, but the quad’s reckoning sealed it—no captaincy, no gang, no equity, no allies. Jo’s freckled grin flickered, a ghost of first-year chaos, and for the first time, Spencer felt the weight of nothing, the City Shark drowned in his own game.
only my grandfather on my fathers side was Afrikaans…
