It’s not until we finish a long, drunken dissection of the match, and argue about our game plan for next week, that I remember Lindsay’s message. The room spins when I stagger to my bag and rummage for my phone.
“Fuck,” I shout several minutes later, straightening from my crouch.
“What?” Eddie leans back in his seat, looking my way. His chair tips precariously, and when Carter reaches over and nudges the leg, he spills onto the floor with a shout. Everyone laughs, including me.
“I can’t find my phone,” I say to the room while Eddie picks himself up and flops on one of the twin beds. “I need to ring my girl.”
“Pussy-whipped after dating for two days,” Carter says with mock sadness.
“Fuck off, Carter,” I mumble.
“Yeah, Carter.” Eddie reaches over with a long gorilla arm and punches Carter in the bicep. “This is young love in its blossoming, fragile stages. You can’t mess with that.”
Carter rolls his eyes and one of the guys tosses an empty plastic coke bottle at Eddie’s head. It bounces off and skitters somewhere under the bed. When Eddie grabs for it, he comes back up with my phone. “Found it!”
He tosses it at me, going high and long. I leap up and catch it with an outstretched hand. A resounding cheer fills the room. “If only you managed that with Carter’s pass on the field tonight.”
I let the comment roll off my back and swipe the whiskey bottle off the table. I take it with me and sit on the edge of the bed. After dialing Jordan, I take a swig of whiskey and put the phone to my ear.
“Hello?”
Damn. Her voice. How could I have forgotten its allure? “You sound sooo good,” I slur. Tucking the phone between my chin and shoulder, I reach down and grab my dick in my pants.
“Fuck, dude.” Eddie shoves my shoulder because the bed I chose happens to be the one he’s splayed all over. “I’m all for phone sex, but you need to take that shit somewhere private.”
There is nowhere private. I stumble out onto the empty balcony, away from the guys. The breeze is warm and the city lights bright. They blur dizzily, and I steady myself against the railing as the sound of sheets rustling comes through the phone. I groan from the simple, torturous sound.
“Are you drunk?”
“Christ, Jordan,” I snap in reaction to her censure. “I fucking lost the game. Of course I’m drunk.”
Her voice softens. “And this is how you deal with losing?”
“Yes!” Frustration burns my eyes and chest, and the sound of my father’s voice reverberates in my head.
You think you can make it in football? Forget it. It’s not a career. It’s a barbaric sport that’s going to knock the last remaining brain cells from your head.
I hang my head, my chest tight from the effort of not screaming in rage. Not because of what he said, but the possibility he could be right. One loss can easily turn into two, and then three, and before you know it, you’re on a downhill slide to nowhere. Fear makes my hands shake, and I almost drop the whiskey bottle.
“It’s either drink or fuck someone. You’re supposed to be my girl, Jordan, but you’re not here for me to fuck, so getting drunk it is.”
“This pretend dating thing does not come with those kinds of benefits,” she hisses.
“Say it ain’t so, baby,” I slur before laughter erupts from inside me.
“You’re drunk, Brody, and not yourself. I’m hanging up now.”
“Wait! What did Lindsay say to you?”
There’s nothing but recriminating silence from Jordan’s end, which is followed by a heavy sigh. Intent on planting my ass on the seat behind me, I shift backwards and miss, landing on the ground with a hard thud. “Shit!” Laughter peals out of me in waves as the whiskey bottle rolls from my hand and onto the floor. “I fucking fell off my seat,” I gasp.
Jordan’s response is to hang up on me.
Huh. That’s something new.
I hold my phone up high from my prone position on the ground. “My girl just hung up on me!” I yell.
“Trouble in paradise already,” Carter yells back. “Better have another drink.”
“Roger that,” I reply, rolling to my side as I try to get my bearings. Only it’s too hard, so I lie there quietly and close my eyes, and I think about how nice it would be some days to just not wake up at all.
By Monday evening it’s clear Jordan’s avoiding me. I don’t see either her or Lindsay between classes, and my calls to Jordan are going straight to voicemail. It’s left me in a bad mood, mainly from the guilt sitting like bad Chinese food in my gut. My phone call to Jordan on Saturday night was a disgrace. I still plan on showing up to our arranged tutor session tonight after dinner with my parents. I’ll probably get the door slammed in my face, but I’m willing to risk it.
My feet drag as I walk up the path to my childhood home. It’s a grand house. All white. Impressive pillars. Lush lawns. In terms of competition, it outclasses every other house in the street—just how my father likes it.
My jaw locks tight as I jab the doorbell. I hate coming here. There’s only one person that makes it all worthwhile, and I wouldn’t give up seeing her for anything.
The faint peal echoes through the hallway. I don’t have a key. My father doesn’t like anyone walking in unannounced, not even his own son. I try not to let it bother me, but it does.
“Brody’s here!” my little sister shrieks and my heart lifts just that quickly. It follows the sound of feet stomping rapidly toward the front door. I wince, waiting for the reprimand. It doesn’t take long.
“Annabelle Madden show some decorum or you’ll be sent to your room.” A scuffling sound is heard from inside, and my father’s voice is now close to the front door. “Go sit down at the dinner table and wait like a lady.”
After a moment the door swings open, revealing my father. He’s still immaculate in the suit he’s no doubt worn all day. His brown hair has a slight curl like mine does, but it’s smoothed into submission.
I step inside the front entryway. Our family home is decorated in white and black. Checkered tiles gleam, furniture decorates strategically, and pretentious portraits adorn the walls—promoting the family values my father publicly advocates. It’s about as warm and inviting as a dip in the arctic with a pod of killer whales.
“For fuck’s sake, Dad,” I growl quietly as I brush passed him. “She’s eight years old. Let her be a kid.”
My sister is an unexpected addition to the family, her arrival messing with dad’s life plan the same way me having a learning disability did. Initially, I liked my sister because her presence shifted the negative attention off me, but it was when our dad reprimanded her for playing football with me in the yard and she flatly told him to “fuck off” that I came to adore her. I got a clip across the face for laughing so hard, but it was worth it just to see the look on his face.
“I don’t want to eat roast chicken,” comes her whine as I walk down the glossy flooring toward the dining room at the back of the house. “Have you seen chickens? They spend all day pecking at the ground and eating their own shit.”
“Annabelle! Enough!” my mother admonishes and my lips twitch. I press them together quickly.
Dinner is already laid out on the table when I appear, and my sister sits fidgeting at her place setting. Her blonde curls have loosened from the tight bun on top her of head, reminding me she went to ballet this afternoon.
“Hey, Moo Moo,” I coo, grinning at my sister as I take my seat.
“Enough with that infernal nickname,” my father mutters as he takes his seat at the head of the table.
“She likes it,” I retort. “Don’t you, Moo Moo?”
Annabelle purses her lips as if annoyed, but her eyes dance with delight. “I’m not a cow, Brody.”
I pretend to look puzzled. “But all cows are named Annabelle, and Mom said that when you came out you mooed just like a dairy cow that needed milking.”
Mom gives me a sharp look from across t
he table. It makes me wonder when I last saw a smile on her face. Not one of those fake ones for the media that doesn’t reach her eyes, but a real honest-to-god smile.
“I said no such thing. Now everyone eat before dinner gets cold.”
We begin filling our plates when Hattie walks into the dining room, a gravy boat in her hand. I give our housekeeper a wink. “Hey, Hattie. Thanks for dinner.”
Hattie’s lips twitch as she sets the gravy in the center of the table, but otherwise she doesn’t acknowledge me—not after seeing my father’s nostrils flare. She’s staff. I’m not supposed to thank her for something she gets paid to do.
“How was dance class?” I ask my sister as we eat.
Her bottom lip pokes out, and I know a complaint is imminent. Annabelle barely tolerates ballet. Our parents insist on it because they’re hoping it will instill some grace in her tiny, clumsy frame, but I suspect she’d rather take up weightlifting than endure another season of én pointe.
“It sucked. Emily Simpkins did a ballonné and kicked me right in the ass. I think I have a bruise.”
“So help me, Annabelle, if I hear another curse word pass your lips, you’ll be going straight to bed,” my father snaps, his face red.
The light in her eyes dims, and she hangs her head. My sister needs to stop cussing so much, but I know she does it for the attention. They don’t pay her any otherwise. It makes my chest ache because I know how she feels.
I kick Annabelle under the table and when she looks up I wink. She doesn’t giggle out loud, but I can see laughter in her eyes and that’s enough for me.
Our parents talk between themselves during dinner, at least until the inevitable question is sent my way. “How’s your school work going, Brody?”
My stomach drops instantly, and my knuckles whiten on the knife and fork in my hands. My mother’s query appears innocent, but the innuendo beneath her words is not. God. Can’t they just leave it alone? I know I’m a crushing disappointment. Do they really need me reminding them of it every time I come to dinner?
I glare at her. Don’t do it. Just let it go. Lie.
I draw in a deep breath and let it out. “Fine.”
Her brows rise and her expression is not only skeptical, it’s cold. “Fine?”
“Is that all we get from you, Brody?” My father joins in, and now I have the both of them double teaming me. Awesome. “We’re the ones sinking our hard-earned money into your education and all you can give us is fine?”
I might be attending CPU on a full sports scholarship but my father pays for the apartment, my car, and everything else. He wants to control what I drive, where I live, what I damn well wear, because the Maddens have a public image to maintain. God forbid I embarrass the family.
Annabelle sits quietly, not eating, her eyes focused on the table. My expression stony, I lift my chin, eyes shifting to my father. “What would you rather hear?”
“The truth,” he bites out.
“Come on, Dad, really?” I force a chuckle. “You’re a politician. You deal in lies, right? I’m just learning from the best.”
His face reddens. I’ve riled his temper and that’s never good. I should keep my mouth shut, but I can’t seem to help myself.
“You want to know how it’s going?” I put down my knife and fork with a clatter. What little I’ve eaten sits heavy in my gut. I won’t be eating anymore tonight. “Two weeks in and I’m already flunking out. I’m going to take a stab in the dark and guess you both had that figured out already.” With hardened eyes, I turn a glare on my father, unable to restrain the sarcasm from my voice. “But there are no expectations, right, Dad? So you could hardly be disappointed. On the plus side, Uncle Patrick arranged a tutor because he’s willing to acknowledge just how low the levels of my stupidity go, so at least he gives a shit.”
My gaze slides back to my mother. A glass of chilled white wine sits poised in her hand, and her jaw is tight. She doesn’t like the reminder of my failures, so why she asked the question in the first place is beyond me. Every time a teacher suggested outside assistance during my formative years, my father always vetoed the idea. Knowing her place, my mother agreed. I hate that she’s so weak. I hate that she doesn’t care. I swallow hard, not allowing the hot prick of tears to reach my eyes.
“So yeah, it’s going great, Mom.”
Before I can draw breath, my dad reaches across and cracks his open palm across my face. My jaw snaps sideways, and I blink back stars.
Annabelle cries out and I hear her cutlery fall to her plate.
I take a deep breath and fix steady eyes on my little sister. “Go upstairs, Moo Moo.”
Her bottom lip quivers. “Brody.”
“I’ll come see you again soon, okay? We can go out on the horses.”
She hesitates.
“Go!”
Annabelle shoves her chair back, putting her napkin on the top of her plate with shaky hands. She aims a glare at our parents before leaving the room. It’s not until I hear her footsteps reach the top of the stairs that I turned to face him.
“What the fuck, Dad!” My mom flinches as I rip the napkin from my lap and toss it on the table. “Don’t you ever do that in front of Annabelle!”
Mom’s brows draw together, her expression stern. “Brody—”
Dad cuts her off. “Your mother asked you a simple question. Don’t treat her with such disrespect again.”
“I’m sorry,” I say with quiet sincerity. I didn’t mean to lose my shit in front of my sister. “I guess I just got sick of all the crap.”
“You little sonofabitch!” Dad shoots to his feet, his chair tipping and skidding back on the timber floor with a crack. He fists my shirt in his hand and hauls me to my feet. I stumble and my elbow bangs on the table, sending my plate crashing to the floor.
“You want to go at it?” he growls. My body tenses. It’s taking all my restraint to keep from shoving him out of my face. “Is that what you want? For me to smack some manners into your sorry ass? We’ve given you everything. Everything!” he roars in my face. “And you throw it back in our face by flunking out? And don’t think I didn’t hear about your loss to UCLA over the weekend. Everyone made sure I heard about it. It just proves you won’t get anywhere if you don’t try hard enough. You’re an embarrassment, Son, not to mention a sore loser. Be a man and handle it rather than taking it out on your family.” Dad heaves air into his lungs, his eyes wild. “Fucking useless,” he snarls when I remain silent.
He shoves me away—hard. My head smacks into the wall. I suck in a breath, feeling my brow split on impact. When I touch a hand to it, it comes away covered with blood. Dizzy, I lurch backwards, planting a shaky palm on the wall. It smears blood in a long, messy arc.
“Hattie!” my dad yells as I blink blood from my eye. “Come in here and clean up this goddamn mess.”
“Fuck you!” I slur, lightheaded and sick from the white-hot pain. Straightening my shoulders, I turn and draw back a fist, slamming it in my father’s jaw. Mom screams when the impact sends him sailing into the dining table. Dishes crash to the floor and food stains his suit.
I laugh. My knuckles are throbbing and my face aches, but I don’t care. All I can do is laugh, but it’s not remotely funny because it feels like I’m losing it.
“Get out!” my mother shrieks at me. Her face is pinched and her side sweep of blonde hair has loosened to fall on her forehead. “Get out of our house!”
Jordan
Two days prior…
Fielding messages from Brody, and the subsequent riot of butterflies every time his name pops up on my phone, I cut my Saturday morning run short. I don’t want to like Brody messaging me; in fact, I don’t want to like Brody at all—but I do.
After a long hot shower, Leah suggests going out for a late breakfast. I know a short stack of gingerbread pancakes will go a long way toward making everything better so I agree. But it’s not until we’re at a table, eating, that I realize Leah’s purpose for this little bre
akfast outing: pumping me for any and all information Brody Madden related.
It’s only the day after the party, but I’m beginning to notice that people somehow know my name. They pass by our table, saying hello. I’m not a social butterfly. I’m the reluctant caterpillar in the corner. It’s awkward.
One girl with a group of friends actually snaps a photo of me with her phone. She’s blatant about it too. Not seeming to care that I see her do it or that I have my mouth stretched around a forkful of pancakes. Usually they taste like little round slivers of doughy heaven. This morning they sit like rocks in my stomach.
“So spill it, Elliott. Leave no stone unturned. I want to know everything.”
Of course she does. Leah’s dark brown eyes are round and eager as she eyeballs me expectantly. The only reason she didn’t get anything out of me this morning was because Leah is as dedicated to her training as I am. Or usually am, if I don’t factor this morning’s pathetic effort into the equation.
I swallow my mouthful quickly, mindful that people are watching me eat. “I bumped into him on campus.”
Leah’s eyebrows shoot skyward. “Like, literally?”
Oh God, the lies. I grimace because it’s already making me sweat. The gig will be up the moment Leah sees me leaking like a giant deceitful water fountain. Will she notice if I furtively slide a couple of napkins under my armpits? “Yes,” I answer firmly. “I wasn’t looking where I was going.”
She’ll believe that little white lie. My lack of direction and my inability to read maps is now a running joke in our circle.
“And then what?” she prompts, rolling her eyes. “Come on, Jordan. This is like pulling teeth.”
I put down my knife and fork to reach for my mug of tea. “And the rest is history,” I blithely reply and take a sip. It’s scalding hot and burns my tongue. In fact it burns all the way down. Karma is busy taking care of business this morning.
Leah’s eyes narrow. Perhaps I overdid the blithe. “Why did you never tell me?”
The End Game Page 11