Varsity Tiebreaker

by Ginger Scott

  I only nod at her information, and after a long, painfully quiet stare, she moves on, apparently deciding to drop it.

  “Well, I’ll be down here, going through some old things in the garage. If you decide you want that lunch . . .”

  I’ve already begun my trip up the stairs.

  “I’ll let you know,” I say.

  I’m being cold. I’m also being civil. I can’t be both warm and polite right now. The two qualities are mutually exclusive.

  My bedroom looks like I left for college. My mom must have come in and cleaned up. The only reason she knows I left for my dad’s is because he told her. If he hadn’t, I sorta wonder if she would have noticed.

  I toss my bag to the floor and faceplant into my comforter, pulling my pillow down to bury my head. My dad’s rental isn’t set up for guests yet. He wasn’t planning on Hayden or me coming, so when I got there, my only bed option was the crappy couch that came with the place. Staging furniture is a lot like hotel lobby furniture. Stiff as fuck.

  I didn’t wake up hungover, which is a refreshing change after a McCaffey party. I didn’t get back from the woods until two in the morning. I quit drinking after my short talk with Abby. Instead, I sat in my dad’s truck for four hours and watched her have a good time with her friends. She laughed, and I haven’t seen her do that in a long while.

  She isn’t who she’s supposed to be when she’s with my brother. And yeah, that thought is steeped in jealousy on the surface, but what makes it honest is I don’t think she would be who she’s supposed to be with me, either. While we’re all growing up, Abby’s already there. She has her life mapped out and is full of ambition and drive. I’m broke because I blew my birthday money on an old squad car.

  Before the urge leaves my mind, I pull my phone from my back pocket and prop myself up on my elbows over my pillow, scrolling through my contacts until I land on June’s info. I’m not sure whether she’ll think this is a good idea or a bad one, but she must know that things in my life are chaotic at best. I haven’t filled her or Lucas in on the latest revelations. I need to process them on my own first.

  ME: Hey.

  I let that message sit there for a while like a test to see if she’s even around. I know she’s normally at the bowling alley at this time on a Saturday, but since it’s Abby’s birthday weekend, maybe she took the day off. She writes back after a full minute.

  JUNE: Well hi, stranger. You in Indy?

  I rub my eyes, still puffy from the long night and face still sore from my brother’s punch.

  ME: Long story, but no. Trying to keep some peace.

  I pause while she types, but before she can send her reply, I get my real motive out of the way.

  ME: I need to call Abby. Number?

  All signs that June is responding stop, so I drop my chin to my pillow and stare at the message screen with the weight of rocks in my stomach. It finally rings and I cringe. I’m so much better typing than I am talking. At least it’s June.

  “Look, I just want to apologize to her.” I don’t bother with hellos because I know June doesn’t plan to, either. She’ll dive right into how I told her I would be okay and that I was over it and how I’m clearly not. I keep telling her she needs to consider psychology in college. It’s not that she’s good as much as she loves to dig her hands into other people’s heads and find out their business.

  “I wasn’t going to say anything,” she says, a playful lilt to her voice. She’s such a bad liar.

  “Yeah, right.” I laugh.

  “Fine. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

  “Well, too late,” I respond, rolling to my back and pressing my fist against my head.

  The line is silent for a few long seconds, and finally I hear her breathe out a mixture of concession and pity—there it is again, goddamn pity.

  “Just try not to make things worse for yourself, okay?” She’s serious about her position, and all I can do is laugh because of course I’m going to make things worse. I’m going to torture myself endlessly until I get over whatever this infatuation is that has its hooks so deep in my skin that it actually burns.

  “Fine, got it. No making things worse.” My response is snarky, and I can tell June is not amused.

  “Hmmm,” she hums into the line.

  “All right,” she finally gives in. “I’ll text you her contact. But only because I admire you not dropping into her DMs like some creeper. Oh, and hey, you know we’re having her birthday dinner here tomorrow, right? You are coming to that, aren’t you?”

  “I guess that depends on how this phone call goes.”

  “Tory! You can’t not come. It will be weirder if you’re not here. And my mom made cake, and she has these games planned, and it only works if we have enough people show up—”

  “I’ll be there.” I say it just to shut her up. She’s spiraling and Lucas is way more equipped to deal with that than I am. “I promise. I’ll be there.”

  I promised. Shit.

  “Okay, well . . . good luck.”

  “Thanks,” I say.

  We end our call and a few seconds later, Abby’s contact info shows up on my phone. I let my finger hover over the call icon for several minutes, running through all the reasons I could use as an excuse for calling. I told June I want to apologize, but that’s a lie. I just want to hear Abby’s voice, and maybe talk for a while without all of the noise that comes between us. I want to hear about her court case, and about her in general. I want to do nothing but listen.

  With my eyes closed, I let my finger fall to the phone, and then hold my breath as it rings. I move to my side so I can rest on the phone and keep it close. I’m about to give up when she finally answers.

  “This is Abby Cortez.”

  Instantly, my lips twitch with a sharp smile. She’s so professional. Much better than my “Yo, what up” greeting.

  “Hello, Miss Cortez. This is Salvatore D’Angelo. I was calling with some important information.” I put on a deeper voice, expecting it to make her laugh, but there isn’t a response for several seconds. Finally, she sighs.

  “What do you want, Tory?”

  Ouch. She doesn’t want to know all the things I want. They aren’t mine to have. And while I thought, for a while there, that maybe there was some reciprocation in her feelings, I’m pretty sure it was all on my side.

  “Sorry,” I say, going with my lie to June. Seems I do need to apologize to her after all. “I just . . . I wanted to call and apologize. I made you uncomfortable, maybe more than once, and I’m just . . . I’m sorry.”

  “How’s your eye?” She doesn’t miss a beat in responding.

  I breathe out a laugh and roll to my back again, touching the tender skin with my free hand.

  “Hurts like a motherfucker.” I laugh out.

  Quiet takes over again, and my smile falls back to the flat line that’s taking up permanent residence on my face.

  “I told Hayden it was just an innocent thing. I don’t think it had anything to do with you; I think he’s just having a hard time lately.” She’s giving my brother an excuse. One, my sweatshirt being at her house was not innocent. I was a breath away from kissing her that day. And two, she’s wrong about Hayden. His issues with me are deeply personal.

  “Right,” I say, letting it rest there. She doesn’t need my baggage. And when it comes to my brother, I’m going to be the bigger man for as long as I can. My anger will come out when it’s good and ready.

  “He’s taking me out tonight,” she says. My stomach rolls with a sick envy. I forgot that I told him to play her that song. I never got around to teaching him how.

  “Oh, that’s right. Happy birthday.” I feel like an asshole.

  “You told me last night,” she says right back.

  I did. I also told her she’s beautiful. No matter what she is to me, or to my brother, I don’t take that bit back. She deserved to hear it, and I had a right to tell her. Admiration is not a breach of loyalty. It is, however, a
poisoned knife that cuts deep into my chest. It hurts to admire her so much.

  “So, hey, how’s the script coming?” I put on my best light and happy voice.

  “It’s . . . coming,” she says, hesitantly. I was supposed to practice with her a lot more than I have. It’s my fault we haven’t.

  “I bet it’s better than you think. Why don’t you give me some lines,” I say.

  “What, like . . . now?” Her tone is so offended it makes me laugh.

  “No, like maybe later, after you film. Like an encore,” I joke.

  “Ha ha, Tory D’Angelo.”

  I catch myself grinning, a happiness taking over my body that I haven’t felt in eons. I like the way she says my name. She’s always done that when we spar. I think it’s her way of showing she’s my superior, yelling at me like a parent or teacher would.

  “How about we read a little now,” I suggest.

  “What, on the phone?”

  I pause with my mouth open, about to make another smart-ass remark, but I pivot.

  “Yeah, why not. Maybe shoot me a few pics of the scene and I’ll put you on speaker and we can read. I’ll even lock the door so nobody will hear how awful I am and how great you are.” I sit up, hopeful she’s game.

  “I don’t think I’m allowed to send pictures of it,” she hedges.

  “I’ll delete them as soon as we’re done. Cross my heart.” I wait while she mulls it over, and I can tell she wants to.

  “You trust me?” I add.

  Her pause is brief.

  “Yes,” she whispers.

  I feel that one small word in my chest, and I’m grinning. There’s something special about her trusting me, even about something like this. June was right to warn me—this is gonna hurt.

  “Okay, send it my way. I’m locking the door now.” I don’t pretend but actually do it, mostly because I don’t want my mom coming in unexpectedly just because she’s nosy.

  My phone dings with her delivery and I put her on speaker so I can open my images and expand enough to read.

  “Got it,” I say. “So, you want me to be Jordan Shotcraft?”

  “Tory . . . nobody can be Jordan Shotcraft except Jordan Shotcraft.” She has a point.

  “Okay, smartass. I mean, isn’t that his character, this Max guy?” I thumb through a few of the lines, getting the sense that most of the work will be on her. This should be easy.

  “Yeah, this is the one section I’m struggling with.” She sounds stressed. I’m glad she’s letting me help.

  “Okay, then. Let’s go. Ready?” I have the first line, but I don’t want to start reading until she’s ready for it.

  She draws in a sharp breath before whimpering a tentative, “Yes.”

  I sit on my bed with the phone cradled in my lap, my legs folded and my hands suddenly sweaty. I can’t imagine doing this in front of an audience. No wonder my acting career peaked with junior high and community theater.

  “Look . . . kid . . .” The script says pause for dramatic effect, so I am . . . I think. “I’m not really good at this father thing. I think you’d agree, so how about this. Give me a number.”

  “A number.” Abby bites out the line, a near growl to her words.

  “Yeah, you know . . . an amount. I’ll set you up with whatever you think you need. I can give you money. You’ll be good. You don’t need me—”

  “Money!” Her anger is thicker this time. “Ha! Yeah, sure, fine. Go ahead and cut me a check. Cut me out of your life. That’s how things work for Max Stewart. Buy your way out of responsibility.”

  “Christine, you know this is for the best.” I feel like such an amateur reading with her. I’m barely finished with a line when she begins hers. The conversation feels so real, so raw. It also feels vaguely personal.

  “Yeah.”

  There’s a long pause, and I wait through it. It’s meant to be there, but the longer it drags on, the more on edge I get. Something’s off.

  “Maybe it is. For the best, I mean,” she croaks. It’s not quite the line as written, but it’s close enough.

  “It is,” I hum.

  “And maybe, maybe you’ll regret it one day. Maybe I’ll be so famous that you’ll wish you took the job of dad when it was yours to have. But it won’t be there anymore. That job is closed, no more applications being accepted. Eliminated.”

  She’s definitely veering now.

  “Abby, do you want—”

  “And then you can swoop in and play hero just so you can get your foot in the door, earn off of your investment. Those are your words, not mine! Your fucking investment. That’s all I am to you!”

  I can hear the tears through her words, and I get why this section has been so hard for her to get through. I’ve read ahead, and while it’s nothing like the words she just spilled out from her soul, it does ring very familiar. This story has a happy ending, though. I know it does because I looked ahead when we read the first time. Abby’s relationship with her father, however, is just one big loop.

  “I’m on my way,” I say, not giving her a chance to tell me no.

  I grab my keys and wallet, and stuff my phone in my back pocket, jetting down the stairs, out the door and by my mom without a word. I fire up my shitty squad car and test out the engine, getting to Abby’s house in less than three minutes by blowing one stop sign and rolling through three others.

  At her curb, I slam the car in park and dash through the lawn and up her steps, pounding my fist on her front door. She opens it after only seconds, and I step inside and take her into my arms, and let her cry big, fat, ugly tears into my chest.

  “I know,” I say, running my hand over her head and through her hair, rocking her softly while we embrace in the doorway.

  “I can’t do this,” she fights. I assume she means the movie, and that’s just crazy talk. She’s too good to let this emotional hump stop her.

  “Yes, you can. Don’t give him that much power over you. Your choices, your decisions,” I say.

  She goes quiet, breathing hard, her mouth open on my cotton shirt. She’s making a wet circle in the middle of my chest with her spit and tears. In all my years of knowing Abby Cortez, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her truly cry.

  “Someone took nude pictures of me, and he paid them off. I owe him,” she says, her voice raw and embarrassed. She hides her face against me, turning inward even more. I’m glad because I’m sure the expression on my face is violent and frightening. I feel hot, and it’s a struggle for me to keep my touch so gentle while my muscles are flexing, ready to rip someone’s head off.

  “You don’t owe him jack shit, Abby. Taking care of you is his job.” I’m probably a little more forceful than she needs to hear in her fragile state of mind.

  “He’s moving here. To fucking Allensville. He’s moving his whole Miami life, his whole Miami girlfriend, to the town he called a shithole and pledged to never step foot in again.” She pushes off from my chest just enough so she can form fists with her hands and level them against my chest. I can take it. I hold her elbows while she beats against me, letting out her rage. “He’s coming here so he can get a better handle on my business. He thinks my mom doesn’t do enough. I should be earning more! He’s coming to milk me dry, not to be a dad!”

  I bend down enough to look her square in the eyes, my palms cradling her face. I swipe away the tears collecting on her cheeks and wait for her breathing to slow while she sniffles and focuses through her blurred vision. She nervously steps side-to-side in my hold.

  “Abby, listen to me. You . . . deserve better. You hear me?”

  She shakes her head. It’s going to take more to make her get it. I tighten my lips and shake my own head.

  “No, you need to listen, to hear! You are worth a thousand suns. Your dad screwed up, and not like a business man, but like a human. He screwed up the day he wrote you and your mom off, and he doesn’t get a second shot at that. He’s not the man for the job. Hell, you and your mom—you don’t need a man. L
ook at what you two strong women have done! You . . . you’re going to be in a fucking Jordan Shotcraft film! Like, in theaters, where I’ll have to buy some twenty-dollar ticket or some shit.”

  She laughs through lighter tears and sniffles.

  “That’s right. Smile, Abby Cortez. Let him try to steal your spotlight, take dollars out of your pocket. He’s just using you to fill his empty void. And he did it to himself. He gave up the chance to have a real heart, a real life, the day he took off for Miami. He can move here and fight you in court so he can get paid and it will never be enough because he won’t have you. Not having you . . . it is fucking torture, Abby Cortez.”

  Her eyes blink away tears and open on mine, and I swallow hard. That last part, that’s about me. There’s no way she doesn’t know it. She has to know.

  “Abby . . .”

  My attempt to get back on track is cut short when she steps up on her toes, clutching my now damp shirt in her hands, and presses her lips to mine. I’m frozen from the touch, my hands falling away from her face but never going far, hovering in shock somewhere around her shoulders until I regain control over them. I move them to her neck, burying them in her hair, my fingers curling at the sensation of her silky hair between them. I’ve dreamt this exact feeling.

  Her mouth is salty from tears and her lips are soft and quivering, but they don’t back down. I coax her head to the side to deepen our kiss, and our tongues connect when she opens to me. A sweet hum escapes her throat, and it makes my lungs crash in disbelief that this is happening. Her hands have moved up my body to my neck, gripping at my shoulders to lift herself higher, to bring us closer, and then without warning, she falls several steps away and covers her mouth with the back of her hand.

  Her chest is heaving with labored breaths. Mine is too. That kiss, it was forbidden. We crossed the line that took us from good people to the selfish kind. She was weak, and I took advantage. I should have told her no; I should have stopped her. But I wanted it, too. I wanted to kiss her even if that kiss was only about making her feel better right then, for a moment. I wanted to be her medicine, to be the thing that made her smile and made her believe she really is all of those things I said she was.