over failure
Rise
beneath defeat
And I will
fly
I watch her silently. Jordan lifts her arm and my lungs constrict when her fingers touch my bare skin. Her fingers trail across the swirl of black letters as she reads them. Her simple touch is intimate. Reverent. It sends goose bumps skittering across my chest. Her pretty blue eyes lift to meet mine and a wordless understanding passes between us. “You fly too?”
I nod, struggling to ignore the heavy pounding of my heart. “Out there on the field, the game is everything. It builds you up, breaks you down, and it bleeds you dry. But I love it. It’s the only place I’m free.”
Jordan’s eyes drop again to the tattoo. She covers it with the flat of her palm as though absorbing the words into her very skin.
“Who wrote it?”
She’s the first person to ever ask the question. “I did.”
“It’s beautiful.”
You’re beautiful.
I shift closer. I feel like I’m falling. The weightless sensation is all her. Jordan is all I can see. My hands take hold of her hips, fingers tightening as I fight the feeling. I take a deep breath and count to ten. It doesn’t work. When I try again I reach fifteen before giving up. It’s not working because I don’t want it to. I don’t want to stop the way she makes me feel.
“You believe in God?” she asks me.
“Of course.” I lean in, breathing softly against Jordan’s lips, and nudge her nose with mine. Her body trembles, revealing her nerves. “I need to believe in something.”
Her fingertips touch the soft curls of my hair before sliding around the nape of my neck, firm and warm. She holds my eyes and I can’t look away. “Then believe in yourself.”
“You can’t say shit like that.” Her bottom lip is lush and full. I nip it sharply with my teeth, relishing her sharp intake of breath.
“Brody.” She pulls back, her rejection coming through louder than a boom of thunder. It makes me want to pitch a tantrum like a kid who’s just been told Christmas is cancelled. “Why can’t I say stuff like that?”
I meet her eyes, staring into an ocean of blue. “Because I’ll only let myself down.”
Needing a minute, I push up off my knees and walk to the desk pressed up against the window. The blind is open but my eyes are drawn to the pile of books sitting neatly in the middle. On the top rests a copy of The Cat in the Hat by Dr. Seuss. I pick it up and flick through the pages, letting it distract me.
“Bed time reading?” I glance over my shoulder at Jordan, waving the book.
Her expression becomes stern as if she just put on her tutor hat. In fact, I know she has when she follows it up with, “That’s your first lesson plan.”
“What?” My brows shoot skyward. I drop the book like a hot potato and turn around.
“You heard me.”
“I’m not sure I did. Is this some kind of joke?” I fold my arms, tension pinching my expression. “Give the dumbo a kid’s book and have a laugh while he stumbles over the easy words?”
Jordan’s brows form a thundercloud on her forehead. “That’s not it at all,” she snaps. “Easy and similar sounding words are often the hardest to read. It’s a book that will give me an understanding of where you stand with your reading levels.”
“So you can judge my levels of stupidity, you mean?”
“Brody!”
I draw in a breath, letting it out in a sharp huff through my nostrils. Jordan’s eyes are steady and resolute. She’s not backing down on this. Best just to get the next excruciating hour over with and leave, tail tucked firmly between my legs.
“Fine.” I pick up the damn book. “Let’s do this.”
With the book in hand, I move over to the bed. Jordan’s reclined against a couple of pillows but shifts sideways, freeing up space. I know she expects me to simply take a seat beside her. I don’t. If I have to read Dr. Seuss, I’m going to do my best to enjoy it. Before she can blink I’m stretched out beside her. It’s a risk. Jordan no doubt has a kick on her that could send me flying clear across the room. But she’s also injured, so I’m taking advantage.
Turning my head, I offer a grin.
“Comfy?” she asks, sarcasm loaded in her tone.
My boxer briefs are getting tighter by the second so that’s a no. Her vanilla scent surrounds me, and I press my nose into her neck and breath deep. Giggles erupt from deep in her chest and she pushes me away.
“Ah ha! She’s ticklish.”
The book is forgotten in an instant. Grabbing a fistful of hair, I yank it out of the way and lick her neck in one long stroke. Instead of a laugh, her eyes flutter closed and I get a deep, husky moan. For a moment I’m stuck, riveted in the sound. I’m not falling for Jordan. I’m plummeting hard and fast, and the feeling is indescribable.
“Brody.” My name is a rasp on her lips, and I rock my hips against her side, instinctively seeking relief. She tilts her head, giving my mouth access to the long line of her throat. “The book.”
“Fuck the book,” I say on a groan and take her earlobe between my teeth, nibbling as my hips rock harder. The book drops carelessly to the floor, and I cup her jaw, holding her to me so I can taste her skin.
“Stop,” she gasps.
I freeze, biting back a groan of frustration. Drawing away reluctantly, my hand slides from Jordan’s face. She turns her head on the pillow, her cheeks flushed.
“I’m your tutor. I have a responsibility to help you, not make out with you.”
Begging is a first for me, but today I’ve discovered I’m all for it. “You can do both.”
“Come on out, kids!” Leah’s holler echoes through the closed bedroom door. My head drops to Jordan’s shoulder and I’m ready to cry. “Dinner’s ready and it ain’t gonna eat itself.”
“Be there in a minute!” Jordan shouts before looking back at me. “I’m not going to be one in a long line of your girls, Brody. I’ll help you with your grades, but you can find some other girl to suck your dick.”
Her words are a slap in the face. Is that all she thinks I care about?
“I’m sorry,” Jordan says instantly. “I didn’t mean that. I just … I can’t do this.”
She’s out the door before I can reply. I follow her out, my stomach in knots as we sit down to dinner.
“What’s wrong?” Leah asks. I look up from my dinner plate. Leah sits opposite me at the tiny table, brows high. I’ve been pushing food around, tuning out their chatter. “You got a beef with the beef?”
“No, it’s great,” I lie. It tastes like week old sweat socks, or would if I’d ever chewed on a pair, but it’s no worse then anything Jaxon or Damien would ever cook so I’m not complaining.
Leah’s expression is doubtful. “You think so?”
Jordan snorts. “If Brody likes the taste of leather.”
Leah juts her chin out and jabs her fork at Jordan before turning it on me. “I was out here slaving over a hot stove while you two got your freak on behind closed doors. I hope y’all choke on it.”
Jordan and I share a quick glance while Leah stabs at her beef, shoving it in her mouth and chewing furiously. After a long moment and an audible swallow, she stands and grabs at our plates. “Who wants pizza?”
With dinner settling in my stomach, I’m reading through the Dr. Seuss classic at Jordan’s desk. My pace is painfully slow and the book is tricky. I grit my teeth every time I stumble, which is often. It has a snowball effect, leaving me tripping over every sentence.
Midway through I slam it closed and spin around in the chair. Jordan’s reclined on the bed with her ankle elevated on a pillow, clueless to all the dirty thoughts that hit me just from staring at her.
“Break time?” she asks.
“You think?” I roll shoulders damp with sweat. I was already agitated. Now I’ve had enough. I’m so done. I toss the book on the desk and turn back to Jordan. “What’s the verdict?”
She untucks her hands from behi
nd her head and pushes up on her elbows, her eyes narrowing. “The verdict is that you’re lazy.”
I huff at her bluntness. “Don’t hold back or anything.”
“Sensitivity isn’t going to help you right now. Reading for most people is like riding a bike. It’s a skill they never lose. But for dyslexics, it’s something you have to work on every single day. You should know that.”
“I do know that. But who has the time to stretch out in bed each night with a copy of War and Peace?”
Jordan shakes her head. I’m not just irritating her with my bitching, I’m irritating myself. “It doesn’t have to be a classic. You can read the back of the cereal box for all I care. Just read. That’s your task. I want you to read for a half hour every day. I want you to highlight all the words you have issues with and I want you to write a small paragraph summarizing what you read so I can look over it.”
“What?”
“You told me you struggle with the words sinking in. Learning to summarize what you read will help you with that.”
Read the back of a cereal box for all she cares? I hide a smirk. If that’s what she wants, I’m going to find the most downright raunchy erotic story I can find.
Let’s see you look over that.
Jordan edges gingerly off the bed. Her expression is less pained, but I half stand from my seat, ready to help. “What do you need?”
“The bathroom,” she pants, rising to her feet and putting all the pressure on her right foot.
“Do you need help?”
“Do I … No!” She waves me away, limping steadily out the bedroom door. She’s only gone a minute when the laptop on her desk begins dinging relentlessly. Is it some kind of alarm? I swivel around and lift the lid. When it opens, the screen lights up and a guys face appears on Skype. Shit. I press a couple of buttons, not knowing how I’ve managed to answer a call just by opening her laptop.
“Hello?”
The voice is Australian, deep, and suspicious, and lines of irritation decorate his forehead. Jordan said she wasn’t dating anybody, but I never considered the idea of her having a guy back home waiting for her return. I’m considering it right now and it’s not sitting well with me.
“Who are you?” he demands to know, his tone rude and growly.
I reach up and tilt the screen. All the better for him to see my glare. “I’m the guy Jordan’s dating. Who the hell are you?”
He rears back like I just punched him clean in the face. It’s semi-satisfying in a virtual kind of way. “You’re what?”
His eyes shift to somewhere over my right shoulder, and I feel Jordan at my back. “Jordan who the hell is this guy?”
“Nicky?”
There’s a lot of love and happiness in that single word. It sets me on edge.
“Were you limping just then?” he asks, his brows drawn with concern.
“Just a little,” Jordan replies, leaning over my shoulder to speak with him. “I rolled my ankle. Not bad or anything,” she adds hastily when he opens his mouth. “I’ll be fine to play tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow night?” I swivel sideways in my chair, an oh hell no expression on my face. “Baby, are you crazy?”
Jordan’s eyes go wide at the endearment. I admit it slipped out unintentionally but I can’t deny its brilliant timing.
“Baby?” comes the echoing growl from the computer.
My grin is slow and lazy. Jordan’s gaze drops to my mouth, those wide eyes now narrowing to slits.
“Jordan?” We both turn back to the computer. Frosty blue eyes glare back at us from the bright screen. “You let this asshole near you?” Nicky’s voice gets louder as he directs it on me. “You touch my little sister and I will reach right through this motherfucking computer and punch your goddamn dick off!”
Little sister?
I scratch uncomfortably at the back of my neck. This has now officially moved into awkward territory. I really should feel a situation out before I charge right into it like an ignorant asshole.
“Nicky!” Jordan snaps. Her face looks hotter than the sun. If I touched her cheek right now I’m sure it would scorch the skin clean off my fingers. “Brody, this is my twin brother, Nicolas Elliott. Nicky, this is Brody Madden. He’s a senior here at CPU. And we’re not dating,” she adds. “I’m his …” Jordan breaks off, right before she can spit the word tutor out. She fixes me a look of hard-eyed frustration.
“You’re his what?” Nicky prompts.
I clear my throat and face the screen. “We’re working on an assignment together.”
“And you need to do that in Jordan’s room?”
Who does he think he is? Her father? I lean back in my seat, arms folded and casualness oozing from every pore. “That’s right.”
“Oh good lord,” Jordan mutters from beside me. Putting both hands on the back of my chair, she rolls me to the side and out of view of the webcam.
“Hey!” My arms unfold, flailing as I careen across the floor. I set my feet down and halt the momentum.
Jordan doesn’t even spare me a glance. “Nicky is everything okay?”
“I don’t know. Is it?”
She lays her palms flat on the desk, the move taking the weight off her injured ankle. “Why are you being such an ass?”
“Because I don’t like you having strange guys in your room. You need to focus on school and soccer. Not Texan dickheads who go to college just so they can make notches on their bedposts.”
I’m already rolling my way back toward the desk when he lays out his insult. Grabbing the laptop, I turn it in my direction. Nicky’s face comes into view. “Texan dickhead?” I growl.
Jordan grabs it back, turning this ridiculous conversation into a laptop tug-of-war. “I’m working my ass off here on my grades and soccer.” She bites off each word, her temper straining on a very short leash. “You need to trust that I’m doing the right thing.”
“I’m sorry you think I don’t trust you, sweetheart.” His fingers trail down the screen as though he’s tracing the contours of her face. That one gesture reveals the enormous depth of love he has with his sister. For a moment I envy it. My time with Annabelle is rare and limited, and I wish it were more. “It’s everyone else I don’t trust.”
He says the words to Jordan, but he’s looking at me when he says them.
“I have to go, Nicky. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
“Jordan—”
She shuts the lid of the laptop, cutting off the call. The room is silent while she hovers over the desk like she’s taking a minute to regroup. When she’s gone through whatever’s in her head, she lifts it and looks at me.
“You know this whole dating farce is ridiculous.”
I shrug. “You’re right. It is.”
She blinks. I’ve thrown her with my agreement.
“People won’t care that you’re being tutored.”
“I care.” I fold my arms, my jaw set. “My life isn’t fodder for everyone to speculate on.”
“But dating me is?”
“Not if it’s real.”
“Brody—”
“You took a huge risk travelling halfway around the world for something you believe in. You won’t take a risk on me?”
Indecision fills Jordan’s expression and she sinks to the bed behind her. She chews on her bottom lip. “It’s not a good idea.”
My lips curve slowly. “Some of the best ideas never are.”
Jordan
Brody: Tell me ur not playing.
I read the text message, my stomach in flutters just from seeing his name pop up on the screen of my phone. Arriving in Texas, I had a plan that didn’t include sexy, haunted football players. I’m strong and determined. Ambitious. With Brody I’m weak and that burns me. I tried aloofness and cool detachment, but it was a last ditch effort, like scooping water out of a sinking ship with my bare hands. It was when I read the words inked so beautifully onto his skin that the water closed over my head. My ship was sunk.
&
nbsp; Now we’re officially going on a date. When or where, I don’t yet know. But it’s happening. The thought makes my pulse pound anew and my head throb with foreboding. No good can come of this.
Jordan: I’m not playing.
Shoving the phone back in my bag, I take a seat at the bench in the locker room and begin the process of strapping my ankle for tonight’s game. I wind the sports tape thick and tight, doing it fast in case anyone starts asking questions. Grabbing my socks, I slide the left sock on first, pulling it up to my knee. I jam my shin guard inside, resting it firm and snug beneath the tight-fitting sock. Then I repeat the process on my right leg. After sliding on my cleats and tying the laces, I stand, stomping hard on each boot to get my feet comfortable and check the solidity of my ankle tape.
My phone beeps again.
Brody: Why don’t I believe u?
Jordan: You don’t? I’m so hurt.
Gathering my tape, hoodie, and headphones, I shove them in my bag along with my phone and tuck it away in my locker.
Rolling my shoulders, I draw air deep in my lungs and jog out onto the field. The sky is clear, the horizon a deep orange as dusk strikes. The lights of the stadium are bright, illuminating the grass in a brilliant, rich green. Pre-game anticipation is thick in the air, stirring the nerves in my blood.
I’m the last one out. The team stands in a huddle by the goal posts waiting for instruction. I pick up my pace. We have just under an hour before kick off to warm up, run drills, and give pep talks.
Leah’s eyes follow my arrival, narrowing in a glare that spells trouble. When I reach her side, her voice is an angry hiss. “I can’t believe you.”
“That seems to be going around a bit at the moment. What can I say?” I shrug and grin, but it’s more like a baring of teeth. “I’m pretty unbelievable.”
“It’s not funny, Jordan. You should be benched.”
“Can you say that a little louder?” I ask as I begin stretching out my left calf muscle.
“You should be—”
I cut off her shout. “I wasn’t being literal.”
“No, you were being a dick.”
Leah gives me her back, dismissing me. There’s nothing I can say. I won’t be benched. After ten minutes of stretching, my eyes scan the bleachers and slowly widen. Half the seats in our modest stadium are taken, the rest filling rapidly. Loud, thumping music plays, rousing the existing crowd.
The End Game Page 15