Hate the Game

by Renshaw, Winter

  “Of course,” Talon says.

  As soon as my uncle leaves, I slide my arm into his and lead him down the hallway, to the main floor guest suite that was once my teenage bedroom. I walk ahead when we get closer, grabbing the door for him.

  It’s been almost four years since I set foot in here, but if I’m lucky, Liz has done a full remodel and the place will hardly be recognizable.

  But the second I flip the light switch, my hopes are dashed.

  The place is almost exactly the way I left it, right down to the track ribbons hanging on a robe hook on the back of the closet door and the bulletin board on the wall overflowing with photos of me partaking in all those extracurriculars Liz and Michael pushed on me to keep me busy and out of trouble.

  It almost worked.

  Until I met Trey McAvoy.

  Talon leaves the suitcases by the bed before making his way to the bulletin board, examining the pictures.

  “When were you going to tell me you were a cheerleader?” he asks.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I leave that out?” I ask, batting my lashes. “Silly me.”

  “Just seems odd given the fact that I play football.”

  “I don’t bring it up because it’s ancient history. It’s not a part of me anymore,” I say. “It was a thing I did for a few years when I was obsessed with fitting in, dying for people to like me. That girl,” I point to a picture of me in my cheerleading uniform, “cared more about what other people thought of her than what she thought of herself. She equated being used with being loved. That girl … that perky little cheerleader … no longer exists.”

  “There you are.” Aunt Liz clears her throat from the doorway behind us. “I was wondering where you two were hiding. Why don’t you come join us in the family room for mocktails and appetizers?”

  She toys with the gold cross pendant around her neck, her attentive gawk passing between us, lingering on me after a bit as if to say, “You know the rules.”

  And I do.

  I’m not allowed to be alone with “boys” in their home.

  I swear she looks at me and still sees that misguided teenager, the one who pushed her buttons because all she ever wanted was proof that she was loved.

  Turns out she never was. Not by them anyway.

  And looking back, it explains so much.

  Chapter 30

  Talon

  I take a drink from a mocktail-filled paper cup and peruse my surroundings. Irie’s aunt and uncle’s place is neat and tidy but also sparse and bland, night and day from the coastal-venetian-hybrid palace I grew up in. And so far the only evidence that Irie so much as lived here—other than the bulletin board in the guest room—is a single 5x8 framed photo on a coffee table. From the looks of it, it was taken at some gargantuan family reunion where they cram all seventy-six attendees into one shot. If she weren’t in the front row with the rest of the kids, I wouldn’t have noticed her.

  “You doing okay?” Irie asks, placing her hand softly on top of my thigh.

  “Of course.”

  She sips from her cup, watching everyone around us socialize. So far only a handful of people have acknowledged her. Either she’s the bona fide black sheep of the family or she’s related to nothing but assholes.

  “Irie, hi.” Her cousin, Lauren, the prissiest thing this side of the Mississippi, sidles up beside us, sweeping her hands beneath her skirt before she takes a seat. Clearing her throat, she crosses her legs at the ankle. “I just thought you should know that Trey McAvoy is going to be at the wedding so please … behave yourself. No drama.”

  Irie blinks once before turning still as a statue. “Why would you invite him?”

  Lauren sniffs. “He works with Jack. They’re good friends now. Geez, Irie, it’s not about you all the time.”

  With that, Lauren shuffles off and I turn to my girlfriend, who is almost white as a ghost. I don’t know who this fucking Trey McAvoy is, but obviously the mere mention of him is upsetting.

  “Hey.” I take her hand, giving it a squeeze. “What was that about?”

  She shakes her head, trying to snap out of it, and then she places her drink on a nearby coaster. Her hands rake up and down her thighs, nothing but nervous energy, and then she rises, pacing the small corner of the family room we occupy.

  “Irie.” I stand. Something’s wrong. “You want to get some air? Let’s go outside.”

  She’s barely paying attention to me, so I take her by the arm and lead her to the back door—only when we get there, I realize the patio is filled with guests.

  “Let’s go out front,” I say, taking her to the foyer.

  We step into our shoes and head out the door, and before I have a chance to say something she’s halfway across the front lawn, headed for the sidewalk, arms hugging her sides.

  “Irie, wait up.” I jog to catch up with her. “You going to talk to me or what? You’re kind of freaking me out here.”

  It’s starting to get dark now, nothing but street lights and a dusky blue sky illuminating our way.

  “Yeah, just … give me a second,” she finally speaks, her voice broken. After a block, I manage to get a better look at her and I realize she’s crying. Or she was. Her cheeks are damp and rosy, her eyes glassy.

  I think back to that day almost two months ago when I asked her who put that fucking wall around her heart.

  Pretty sure I have my answer.

  Up ahead, a massive brick building comes into focus, and a white sign out front says IRON CROSS HIGH SCHOOL. We keep striding along, Irie on a mission and me waiting with bated breath to find out what the hell this is all about, and within minutes we arrive outside an empty parking lot and the high school football stadium.

  Everything is dark and empty, unoccupied and ominous, and I’m completely caught off guard when Irie heads in that direction.

  Without saying a word or asking her why, I follow behind as she manages to find an unlocked portion of the fencing and then proceeds to make her way to the field. A moment later, she stops at the thirty-yard line and lowers herself to the ground.

  “You going to tell me what’s going on?” I ask, taking a seat beside her.

  She drags in a jagged breath, nodding. Her posture is small, like she’s pulling herself into some protective shell, so I take her by the arm and guide her into my lap so I can hold her.

  I want her to know she doesn’t have to protect herself when she’s around me.

  She doesn’t need to make herself small.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, wiping a small tear from the corner of her eye and half-laughing at herself. “I’m not normally this theatrical … about anything … it’s just … Lauren knew.” Her lower lip trembles. “She knew and she invited him anyway.”

  “Knew what?”

  “About Trey,” she says. Her pretty eyes squeeze tight for a second, and I brush a strand of hair from her forehead. “I’ve never talked about this with anyone before.”

  My heart stops in my chest, bracing itself to break with what she’s about to tell me.

  “Trey was my high school boyfriend,” she begins, eyes averted. “We were together pretty much all four years and obviously he was my first … everything.” She pauses. “We were your typical small-town cheerleader-quarterback high school sweethearts … until our senior year.” Irie presses her lips flat. “We were talking one night and he confessed to me that he thought it’d be hot if we had a four-way with him and two of his friends. And honestly, I was willing to try just about anything back then because it was all so new and exciting and there was that rush I got from sneaking around and doing things behind my aunt and uncle’s backs. You know … typical teenager stuff.” She rolls her eyes. “Anyway, I told him yes. I wanted to do the three-way. I thought it’d be hot and fun and something new to try. So a week later, he gets a hotel room. I tell my aunt and uncle I’m staying the night with a friend and we meet up with two of his friends from the team.”

  My stomach is leaden and my jaw clenches.


  I know where this is going.

  “One of them brought a bottle of vodka, the other brought a box of condoms …” her voice grows quieter. “And we had ourselves a time.”

  I study her face, all the conflicting micro-expressions flicking through her eyes and across her lips all at the same time.

  “For the record,” she says. “Everything was consensual and I had a great time. I’d never felt so … desired … before. And for a girl who’d never felt like anyone wanted her—it was kind of a big deal for me. Granted, I know now that I was being used, but at the time, it didn’t matter. They were all over me, like they couldn’t get enough, and I loved every minute of it.” Irie pulls in a long breath of chilly March air. “Everything was fine until the following Monday at school.”

  “What happened?”

  “I knew something was off when I showed up and someone had written SLUT across my locker in red lipstick,” she says, eyes rolling. “And then there were the whispers. The staring, the pointing. It wasn’t until lunchtime that someone finally pulled me aside and showed me the pictures that were circulating.”

  “My God.”

  “Apparently one of them had snapped a few extremely revealing photos of our night together.” She shakes her head. “I must have been too drunk to notice at the time.”

  “You can’t blame yourself for that.”

  “I confronted Trey about it as soon as I could,” I say. “I thought surely he’d be just as upset as me and I needed someone in my corner. He was the most popular guy in school and I knew he could call off the wolves … only instead of coming to my defense, he slut shamed me in front of everyone. He told me we were over, that I was dirty and I disgusted him.”

  My vision flashes red. “I’m going to kill him when I see him tomorrow. I’m going to fucking murder him.”

  She manages to snicker, like she thinks I’m kidding.

  I’m not.

  “Word got back to my aunt and uncle,” she says. “My aunt was our high school chorus teacher and my uncle was the vice principal of the junior high. They even saw some of the photos …”

  Irie buries her face in her hands.

  “It was public humiliation beyond anything you could ever imagine—and at home it was nonstop shaming,” she says. “They made me go to counseling with their pastor three nights a week and then they sent me to some church-sponsored reform camp for eight weeks. I almost didn’t graduate from high school because I’d fallen behind from being gone so long.”

  “Bastards.”

  “My uncle couldn’t look me in the eyes for months … my aunt played the victim card, taking it personally and obsessing over how it reflected on her. Lauren … Lauren relished every minute of it. She loved watching my fall from grace, loved watching me become the social outcast and taking my place in my group of friends.”

  “Sounds like a fucking nightmare. Do you even realize how strong you are for setting foot back here again?”

  “I’m only doing it for Aunt Bette.”

  “I know, but still.” I cup the side of her face, swiping away a half-dried tear with my thumb. “Your high school boyfriend can eat a bag of fucking dicks and your family are assholes … but you, Irie? You won.”

  She sniffs. “It’s not about winning …”

  “Oh, but it is. You got out of here. They kicked you and you got back up. You left this sad sack town behind, you moved forward with your life while they’re all still here swimming in the same disgusting waters, convincing themselves they’re better than everyone else because no one’s ever aired their dirty laundry.”

  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” she says. “I just … I had to vent for a second. Lauren had me all worked up …”

  “Of course,” I say, kissing her ice-cold lips. We lie back on the turf, and I pull her close against me, doing my best to keep her warm. I don’t want to make her go back there with all those self-serving bastards, not yet.

  Plus I love when it’s just us—no matter where we are.

  “Tell me something fucked up about your past,” she says, nuzzling against me. “Something you’ve never told anyone else before.”

  “Okay,” I say, clearing my throat. “My stepdad told me he’d divorce my mom if I didn’t play football.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yep.”

  “I don’t understand. What would you playing football have to do with his marriage?” she asks.

  “See, the thing about Mark is …” I smirk. “He’s a loser. He’s also a user. He met my mother when she was a widowed single mom sitting on a fat stack of cash from my father’s life insurance policy. He, too, was a single parent who had just lost his spouse. So he weaseled his way into her life by showing her how wonderful this new little family of theirs could be together and part of that was playing the role of super dad to me. My mom was beyond impressed by how attentive he was with me, and she loved the idea of being able to give me a father figure. But what started out as the two of us playing catch in the backyard a few nights a week morphed into flag football and local leagues and competitive leagues and by the time I got to junior high, he had me working with former NFL players, dropping thousands of dollars on coaches and clinics—anything he could do to push me to be the best … because that was his dream. He’d just accepted a full-ride to San Diego State playing football when he tore his ACL. Never made a full recovery. Lost his scholarship, lost his dream of a career playing pro football.”

  “So you were his surrogate.”

  “Exactly. And when I told him I was tired of the game, tired of eating, sleeping, and breathing football, he lost his fucking mind,” I say. “He knew how much I loved my mom and he knew I’d never do anything to hurt her. She was crazy about him. Still is. The man deserves an Oscar because he can play that husband-of-the-year role better than anyone. You know, once I walked in on him fucking his secretary in his office. Mom sent me to drop off some dinner since he claimed he was working late.”

  Irie pulls a breath between her teeth.

  “I never told her,” I say. “And I don’t know that I will. But only because it doesn’t take much to set her over the edge. She’s fragile like that. It’s why she’s always self-medicating.”

  “Has she always been like that?”

  “I don’t think so. From what I’ve been told, losing my dad was pretty traumatic for her.” I gaze up at the starry sky that blankets us. “She was never the same after she lost him. He was the love of her life.”

  Silence settles between us as we lose ourselves in our own thoughts for a while. The conversation tonight is heavy, but opening up to her floods me with a lightness I’ve never known before.

  “Did you mean it when you said you hated football?” she asks. “The other week … at your house …”

  “I don’t know. I used to love it. And a part of me still does. But when something is forced on you for years and years and you don’t have a say in the matter, sometimes that love turns into resentment.”

  “Don’t let him steal that from you,” she says, hoisting herself up on her elbow to look me in the eyes. “You’re insanely gifted. Don’t throw that away because of him. If you loved football once, you can love it again.”

  “Yeah, but it’s stolen everything from me,” I say, my mind going to the contract I still have yet to sign. “And now it’s going to steal you.”

  Irie buries her head against my shoulder. There isn’t anything she can say that hasn’t already been said, any thought she could share that hasn’t already passed through both of our minds.

  “Sometimes I wish I didn’t get that Richmond offer,” I confess. “I kept holding out and holding out last fall after the first several offers, thinking they’d eventually stop coming as the rosters filled. But then Richmond dropped this in my lap. Literally an offer too good to pass up. But all I can think about is how easy it would be to walk away.”

  “You can’t do that.”

  “Now you sound like
Mark …”

  “That’s not what I mean,” she says. “You’ve been giving this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, Talon. You have these gifts, these talents. Use them for good. The world is exceeding capacity on assholes and you have a chance to be one less asshole in the world. Imagine all the wonderful things you could do with that money, with your fame and your image. You could be someone’s hero. Lord knows the world doesn’t have enough of those. I mean … kids will be wearing your jersey, hanging posters of you on their walls and saying they want to be like you someday. And they should be. Because you’re so much more amazing than anyone realizes—and I’d hate to see the world miss out on that.”

  “You make it sound so nice,” I say. “But there’s still a missing piece to all of that.”

  “You don’t have to love football now. You can learn to love it again.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about, Irie,” I say. “You’re the missing piece in that beautiful picture you just painted.” I pull her over top of me, her long legs straddling my sides, and I sit up. “I want those things, Irie. I want to be that man. But I want you too.” She tries to respond, but I silence her with a kiss, my fingers slipping through her caramel strands. My cock throbs, straining against the inside of my jeans. I’ve never felt this close to anyone in my life and yet it’s not enough. I want more of her.

  Deeper, harder, more

  “I’m falling for you, Irie,” I whisper. “And I want you to know … I would never use you. I would never make you feel ashamed for enjoying something you have every right to enjoy …”

  She kisses me back, her body melting against mine.

  “I love you.” The words glide off my tongue, effortless and with an autonomy of their own, and nothing I’ve ever said has felt so right, but maybe that’s because they’ve been there all along, from the moment I laid eyes on her.

  I’ve never believed in love at first sight, soulmates, or any of that bullshit—but that was before Irie Davenport walked into my life.

  She pulls away, cupping my face in her gentle hands and depositing her wistful gaze on mine. “I … I love you too.”