by McKinley May
Within a matter of seconds, I'm jumping out of the chair and whipping my backpack on, fury spreading like wildfire in my blood.
“You know what, Dani? I quit. Do what you want with the article, but I'm no longer a part of this organization.”
She gazes up, trying to keep a neutral expression, but I notice her nostrils flaring. She turns her laptop back around, clicking and typing ominously for half a minute. I don't know what she's doing and I don't care.
She finishes and shakes her head. “You're making a huge mistake. Throwing away an opportunity of a lifetime for a guy? I thought you were better than that, but I guess not.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and bite on the inside of my cheek until I taste blood. I refuse to grace that comment with a response.
Although protecting Vaughn's past is extremely important to me, this decision isn't just about him. It's about any athlete who wants to play their sport instead of getting their life analyzed and put on display against their will.
I hastily turn and walk towards the door when Dani calls out behind me. “You know this doesn't just affect you, Rayne. Some of us were also counting on this story for future opportunities.”
I let out a scoff. No wonder she was so obsessed with me getting this story. I should've known there was something in it for her.
“You're going to regret this,” she threatens as I let the door slam shut behind me. I charge through the abandoned halls and out into the dark night.
I'm running on autopilot and adrenaline when a cold gust of wind slaps me straight across the face, forcing me to face the gravity of what just occurred.
I quit the paper.
I tossed that internship out the window.
I'm second-guessing the career I've been planning since I was a little girl.
I come to an abrupt stop, panic heightening as each realization hits me one after another.
Oh my God.
What the hell am I supposed to do now?
37
“Cam, get the fuck outta here with that superstitious shit,” Weston calls out from where he's stretching his hamstrings on the living room floor Tuesday night after practice.
“Seriously, mate? You starting that already? Season's not even over yet,” Liam chimes in before taking a swig from his red Gatorade.
Cameron ignores them as he makes his way to the TV with a shiny DVD in his hand. “Our first playoff game is in twenty days, bro. I have twenty games to watch, so yeah, I'm starting now.”
“Dude, we just watched an hour and a half of film at practice. I'm still trying to soak all that in. The last thing I want to do is watch your stupid games.” Weston frowns as he reaches out to touch his toes.
“I called the big screen tonight, so if you're gonna be in here, you're gonna be watching this. Deal with it.” He gives us a too bad so sad shrug and turns on the TV.
I groan along with my roommates as he pops in the all-too-familiar disc he pulls out each year: every single game from his senior year of high school when his team won the Oklahoma state title.
He's thoroughly convinced watching these every post season helps our chances in the search for a National Title—a practice that most definitely falls into the superstitious category of sports rituals.
I personally think it's dumb as hell. Also doesn't help that his high school team was total shit, playing the version of soccer that's typical of six-year-olds: kick the ball as hard as you can and sprint after it in a foot race.
Yeah, it's more than a little painful to watch his crappy team. No way they would've been able to compete in this state.
Still, Weston, Liam, and a few of the other guys and I always end up watching majority of the games with him. Although he claims he doesn't care, I can tell he appreciates it when we join his dumbass watch party, so we do it for him.
Because you do nice shit for your friends whether you enjoy it or not.
“You guys gonna watch or what?” Cam asks.
Liam gives a lazy nod while Weston rolls his eyes. “I’m already fucking stretching here, so might as well.”
“Yeah, I'll watch,” I say as I reach into my sweatpants pockets, feeling around for my cell. I'm not sitting through this without some extra entertainment. When my keys are the only things I find, I turn towards the staircase. “Gimme a sec to grab my phone.”
I jog up the stairs and into my room. I spot my phone charging on my desk and reach over to unplug it. When I do, the screen lights up, a few texts from Rayne popping up on the display.
Rayne: Done with practice?
Rayne: Coming over to talk.
I type out a quick “see you soon” in response, slightly confused at the off-character vibe I'm getting from her messages. I mean, coming over to talk? And lacking one of her signature smiley faces? Doesn't exactly sound like a good thing.
She was stressing big time this weekend, so that may have something to do with it. If that's the case, I've got the perfect antidote to combat the issue: a massive gallon of mint chocolate chip ice cream and a bottle of cheap red wine. It's borderline impossible to be stressed after a hearty helping of both of those.
I try to remember if Weston has had one of his favorite hook-ups, Sticky Fingers, stay the night in a while. If so, I can kiss that bottle of Malbec goodbye. Alcohol always seems to go missing after she’s been over.
I’m leaving my bedroom when I notice an email notification on my screen. Usually I don't give a shit about emails. Hell, I've been guilty of deleting my entire inbox just to get that annoying ass notification number to fuck off, but the subject line of this one has me curious. I mean, The Soccer Situation?
I'll read pretty much anything that has to do with soccer.
I click on the notification. It's a couple of forwarded messages, but the first one looks way too long to delve into right now. I'm about to close my inbox when I spot my name in one of the paragraphs, my interest immediately piqued.
My eyes quickly skim over the text, and it takes less than a second to figure out what this is. I stop reading, irritation surging through me at the realization that it's yet another dumbass reporting scheme to get my “story”.
Jesus Christ. Aren't they over that by now?
And why the hell is someone sending me the damn plan?
I walk through the hall and scroll up, curious to see which sports network has the unfortunate task of trying to get me to spill. I come to an abrupt halt when I see the familiar email address the initial message was sent to. And then my stomach just fucking drops.
This isn't for some sleazy news station.
This is for Rayne's article.
What. The. Fuck?
I shake my head and try not to jump to conclusions. Yeah, I filled her in on everything that went down in high school and my shitty family situation, but she wasn't recording it or planning on using it or anything. No frickin' way she would've agreed to something like this.
That's not like her. Not like her at all.
For fuck's sake, she's made it abundantly clear that she's in this career for the sport and the athlete—not the other petty shit—multiple times.
But when I thumb the screen down to see her response, it's like I've just taken a soccer ball to the gut and a cleat straight to my damn heart. Because her answer is right there—one simple and definite sentence that's absolutely plain as day:
I'll do whatever it takes to get his story.
I run a hand anxiously through my hair, nausea swirling in my stomach. This can't be real. There's got to be some rational explanation: it's a prank, a mistake, an extremely ill-received joke. Yep, has to be one of those. Because I refuse to believe this entire thing I've had with Rayne has been a big fat lie.
But as I head down the stairs and re-read the emails—actually read them through as opposed to skimming—I’m having a difficult time seeing how I could interpret this any other way.
It’s not like I haven’t experienced something of this nature before. There’ve been more than a few
reporters who’ve attempted to sweet talk me into revealing things I don’t want to.
But this isn’t the same. Those were just random girls hand-selected by the networks to weasel their way to my past. This is Rayne—my girlfriend. I love her, and I know for a goddamn fact she loves me, so she wouldn’t have done this. Not after I told her how much I don't want this shit out there…there's just no fucking way.
I take a seat on one of our armchairs, unable to pull my eyes off the phone screen, my head spinning with thought. So much thought that I'm completely unaware of what's going on around me.
“What do you think, Blue?”
I snap my head up to the confused looks on my roommates' faces.
“What?” I ask, the voice coming from my mouth sounding nothing like my own.
Weston raises a concerned brow as he studies my face. “Dude, you look like you're gonna hurl.”
Liam squints in my direction. “You seriously do. What's up?”
Not wanting to get into it, I lift myself up and head towards the foyer, telling them I need some air.
“I’m starting the film, so puke and rally, bro. I know you don't wanna miss this!” Cameron calls out.
The front door slams behind me as I take the stairs down two at a time. It's cold as fuck, but I don't bother going back to get a jacket.
I'm so in my own head as I briskly walk through the yard I don't even realize Rayne's here until she's right under my nose.
“Hi,” she says with a weak smile.
Her eyes are bloodshot, cheeks pink and tearstained. If this was any other time I'd immediately ask her what's wrong, pull her into a hug and comfort her. A part of me aches to do just that, but a bigger part of me is fuming mad, so I keep my distance.
“Sorry to invite myself over with little warning, but I really need to talk to you.”
She steps to her left to go towards the house, but I move to the same side, blocking her path. She frowns up at me, puzzled.
“Does it have something to do with this?” I question bluntly, holding out my phone. I want to get straight to the point.
“What?” She squints as her eyes graze across the small screen.
All I want is for her to tell me this is a joke, or that someone Photoshopped this and she can't believe I would fall for that. Then we can laugh it off, go inside, and make fun of Cameron's shitty high school haircut as we sit through his games.
But when I see her face fall and recognition pass through her eyes, any shred of hope I had left disappears.
“I can't believe she sent you this,” she mumbles to herself.
I pull the phone back as she utters a defeated sigh.
“Look,” she says, guilty golden irises flicking up to meet mine. “I can explain. It's not what it looks like.”
“Really? 'Cause it seems pretty goddamn clear to me.”
“It's not. I promise,” she insists, a pleading inflection to her words.
“Did you send this email?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“And were you planning on using my past in the article?”
She emits a shaky breath and looks up at the dark sky. “Yes, but—”
My jaw clenches at her answer. “Then that's all there is to know. Is that what this was?” I question harshly, gesturing between the two of us. “Just a way for you to get ahead in your career?”
She flinches and steps back, obviously hurt by my accusation.
“Are you kidding me, Vaughn? You can't possibly think that.” Her eyes pool with tears and it freaking kills me to see, but I'm so goddamned confused and hurt I continue on.
“I don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to think, Rayne. I never thought you'd be conspiring behind my back to get your juicy gossip, but looks like I was wrong about that.”
She shakes her head and opens her mouth to speak, but I beat her to it.
“I can't trust you. And if I can't trust you, I can't be with you.” My voice sounds hoarse and weak—even cracking on that last word—and fuck if I'm not doing all I can to keep it together right now.
For a moment her eyes fire up, and I think she may fight me on this.
Instead, the fire slowly expires and she closes her eyes, tears spilling down her cheeks as she lets out a long exhale. “If that's what you really want.”
No, of course it's not what I fucking want, but I'm seething mad and need some time to process everything, so I respond with a sharp nod.
She gives me one last look, sadness and guilt etched across her gorgeous features. And when she turns around and opens the gate, I feel my heart split right down the fucking middle.
I don’t consider myself an overly emotional guy, but there are about a thousand different feelings exploding inside of me as I watch her leave—everything from anger and disappointment to despair and heartache. But the most potent of all—the absolute worst of them all—is betrayal.
It’s a feeling I’m familiar with, one I’ve dealt with an insurmountable number of times in my life. It’s one I don’t easily forget or forgive.
And I fucking hate that the one person I thought I could trust is making me feel this way.
I don't know how long I stand out there freezing my balls off—seems like freaking hours—but eventually I head back towards the house. I'm walking past the pool when Diego jogs out of the Greenhouse and calls out to me. I ignore him and keep moving, but he runs over to catch up.
“’Sup, man? Wasn't that Rayne out here talking with you? Where'd she go? She coming to suffer through Cam's movie marathon with us?”
“Nope,” I snap out, my back teeth grinding together.
Diego can be dense as fuck, so he keeps talking about God knows what while I follow him into the living room. He takes a seat, but I veer straight for the kitchen, mind set on one thing and one thing only.
I need a fucking drink.
38
“Watch it,” a bulky guy grunts over his shoulder at me. He looks annoyed, and understandably so considering I just smacked headfirst into his backpack as I exited my Calculus lecture hall.
“Sorry,” I mumble insincerely, but he's already pushed his way past the mobs of students walking to class, so my half-ass apology goes unheard.
This interaction has been on repeat this entire week; me bumping my way around campus, completely distracted and lost in thought, only aware of my surroundings when I'm running straight into them.
Although I've been in mopey-zombie mode for the past seven days, I've still managed to make it to all my classes and put on a convincing happy-face. But the moment those lecture-ending bells ring and I step out of the classrooms, I let my true feelings take over—the two moods so contrasting it's like I'm flipping an on/off switch.
I've been a pretty damn good actress this week, refusing to show weakness to my professors and peers, but I can feel that thin veneer fading fast.
Like yesterday when my sports media professor read one of my essays out loud and made a comment about how I'm going to make a fine journalist someday? Yeah, it took everything I had to keep that fake-ass smile on my face.
Thinking about my future sends a sick shock of confusion and anger spiraling through me. I still have no clue what I'm going to do, but the one thing I am certain of is that I refuse to jeopardize my morals like I almost did this semester.
I've spent every night since my confrontation with Dani researching sports news, this time with my eyes and ears wide open. Her comments have proven to be a sad reality, particularly when it comes to the reporting at StadiumScore. It's astonishing I didn't see nor care about it before. But now that I have, I no longer want anything to do with that world.
I haven't confided in anyone about my decision to pursue a different, currently unspecified career. I've been avoiding my phone and friends from the paper, not ready to explain everything when I don't have a set backup plan in place.
I've even been ignoring my family, which I never do. When my dad texted me a few days ago saying he couldn't wait to rea
d the article, I felt like I was gonna be sick. The only response I could muster up was a thumbs up emoji as I wondered how I was going to break the news to my family that Reporter Rayne is no longer.
I'm positive they'll be on board with whatever I decide to do, but I also know they'll be incredibly concerned at the sudden detour from my detailed future-plan, questioning what the heck happened and why I changed my mind.
And I'm not ready to have that conversation quite yet.
I come to the familiar intersection that divides campus from student housing. I spot the top of my red-bricked apartment peeking out two streets down, beckoning me home to partake in my new evening activity of choice: snuggling up under my puffy blue duvet with a king-sized bag of jelly beans, watching reruns of Friends and ignoring Lexie's texts to “get my ass out of my room” until my mouth is multicolored and my vision blurred from too much screen time.
But instead of waiting at the crosswalk with the dozen or so other students heading off campus, I surprise myself and take a sharp left towards the north end of Windhaven's property. I don't know where I'm headed, but I let my feet lead the way down the smooth sidewalk.
I guess wallowing in my bed will have to wait.
I make my way past the engineering and biology buildings and somehow get trapped in the middle of a fraternity pledge class heading to study hours. After I escape and spend a few more minutes wandering aimlessly, I'm ready to turn and head back when the sweet smell of coffee engulfs my senses, coaxing me towards the aroma.
Sleeping has been a tough task since last Tuesday, and I'm freaking desperate for some strong caffeine. Their triple-shot mocha latte kinda sounds like heaven in a cup right now.