The End Game

by Kate McCarthy

  This time when he turns and walks away, I let him go.

  “Well, Nate, I don’t know what’s going on with Madden out there on the field, but he’s off tonight. The one thing about this well-rounded receiver is that he always plays with his heart. I’m just not seeing that magic tonight.”

  “True, John. This is a well-loved player who goes out and gives one hundred and ten percent every single game. He’s consistent, he’s strategic, but he’s also the heart and soul of the team. There is no doubt this kid is headed for the NFL. He’s the kind of player that every team needs. He’s passionate about the game, and tough, and the players really respond to that, but his lack of fire tonight is sending discouragement through the entire team. Let’s hope he can dig deep for the next half hour.”

  I curse.

  Snatching up the remote, I switch off ESPN and toss the remote on the coffee table. The back casing flies off when it skitters across and smashes to the floor. Its two little batteries pop out and roll underneath the small entertainment unit.

  Hayden glares balefully from the opposite end of the sofa. I throw my hands up. “I can hear you thinking it so just bloody well say it.”

  The words break free like a dam bursting. “What did you do to him?”

  “I didn’t do anything!”

  “Maybe that’s the problem,” he mutters under his breath.

  I push up off the sofa and head for the kitchen. Comfort food is the only answer. Stretching high, I open the cupboard above the fridge. I feel around for my stash of Cadbury Caramello: a family block of chocolate filled with sticky, oozing caramel. It’s the last one from a food care pack that Nicky sent me, and I’ve been saving it for a special occasion. Apparently it doesn’t get any more special than this.

  My hand encounters empty shelf. It’s not there. My anger rises like a lit match on kindling.

  “Leah!” I screech. She’s in the shower, hot steam misting out from beneath the closed door. “Where the freaking hell is my chocolate?”

  The door flies open and she pokes her head out. Her hair is wrapped up in a towel, turban-style. She peels it away from one ear. “What?”

  “My chocolate.” I fold my arms, ready to rip the whole thing from her head if I find out she’s eaten it. “Where is it?”

  Her eyes cut to Hayden. His widen and he shakes his head. “Hayden ate it.”

  “I did not!” He points his finger at Leah and looks at me. “It was all her.”

  My phone rings, saving them both. “This is not over.” With that ominous warning, Leah locks herself in her bedroom, and Hayden gets down on the floor by the television, digging for the runaway batteries from the remote.

  Rummaging through my bag, I find my phone and check the display. Jaxon. Frowning, I hit the answer key and put it to my ear. “Hello?”

  “Jordan.” His voice is loud. With the noise of music, tinkling glassware, and laughter in the background, I figure he’s at a bar somewhere. “Did you see the game?”

  I grit my teeth. “I saw enough.”

  “Enough to know what’s going on with Brody?”

  “You too?”

  “Me too?” he echoes.

  “You think the way he played tonight is my fault too?”

  “Well … partly, yes.”

  I turn and lean against the counter, my fingers tight on the phone. “That’s so unfair!”

  “So Brody failed his midterm and then you both don’t speak to each other for three whole days. It doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.”

  “You know he failed? And figure out what? Stop speaking in riddles.”

  “Of course I know he failed,” he says impatiently. “Brody clearly has issues. And when something upsets him, he just pushes everyone away. He can do that with me because I’m family. I’m not really going anywhere, you know? You’re good for him, Jordan. Don’t let him do that to you, okay?”

  “I tried, okay? It just pushed him further away. I’m not sure I can help him.”

  “You tried once. If that’s your definition of trying, then it’s pathetic.”

  “Nice,” I bite out.

  “Please, Jordan?” The background noise softens, and I know he’s stepped outside. “Brody doesn’t listen to me. I’m a straight-A student. He thinks I won’t understand.”

  “Understand what?” I ask, cautious.

  “Understand what it’s like being dyslexic,” he says.

  I sag back against the kitchen cupboard behind me. “You know that too?”

  “Of course I fucking know that too. He just doesn’t know I know. Maybe he thinks I’ll think less of him for it, which is dumb.”

  “Don’t—”

  “I know, I know. Don’t say dumb.” More silence. “Come by tonight. After the game.”

  I give in and agree to stop by. Eleven p.m. finds me at Brody’s door in a pretty white dress belted at the waist, the thin straps making me shiver. What am I thinking? That I’ll sway him with a bit of skin? I’m a fool. This proves it, but it’s too late to run back and put on the hoodie and gym shorts I feel so much more comfortable in.

  Taking a deep breath, I rap sharply on the front door.

  No answer. Again.

  Dammit.

  Pulling out my phone, I stab at the keys, typing a new message to Jaxon. The amount of time I’ve given up to help Brody when I should be focused on my own future scares me. Has it all been for nothing?

  Jordan: Where are you?

  BigBananaBoy: On our way now.

  I shake my head at the name Leah used to add Jaxon as a contact. I never got around to changing it.

  Clattering feet and drunken male laughter echo up the stairwell, setting my nerves on edge. Being out so late and alone is probably not smart.

  Jordan: I might just go.

  BigBananaBoy: No! Don’t leave. Be there in ten. Promise.

  The noise level rises, the stairwell ejecting a boozed-up pile of guys into the hallway. I press my back against the door behind me and fold my arms, doing my best to appear unobtrusive.

  A soft, taunting laugh sweeps over me as they stagger their way along the wide corridor. My eyes flick to the group without turning my head. Prickles of apprehension rise on my skin when I see Kyle amongst them.

  “If it isn’t Brody’s little soccer star,” he slurs, his alcohol-glazed eyes roaming over me. “And don’t you look super sweet tonight.”

  He steps up in front of me, bathing me in beer fumes. I keep my head up, my gaze straight ahead while his drunken friends continue their merry way down the hall.

  “What’s the matter, darlin’?” He brushes the backs of his fingers across my cheek.

  “Don’t touch me.” I jerk my head away, leaving his hand suspended in the air for a moment before it drops by his side.

  “Did that dumb asshole lock you out?”

  Anger churns my stomach, making my hands shake. I curl them until the nails bite into my palms. “Call him dumb one more time.” I lift my chin, meeting his gaze with hard eyes. “I dare you.”

  Kyle laughs. “You’re feistier than I thought.” He presses his forearm against the door above me, bringing him closer. “But you shouldn’t care so much. Brody isn’t the nice guy you seem to think he is.”

  “Why do you even care?” Wedging my arms between us, I shove him away.

  He staggers, pressing a hand to the wall behind him to right himself. “I don’t.” His lips press to a thin line, his irritation spilling over. “I’m just tired of that self-righteous prick getting everything he ever wanted.”

  “Because he got everything you ever wanted you mean?”

  “Yes,” Kyle hisses. Lurching back toward me, he jabs a finger in my breastbone hard enough to bruise. “Someone needs to take him down a peg or two.”

  “And what?” I snap. “You decided you were the man for the job?”

  “See? I knew you were a smart girl,” Kyle croons and cups my right cheek in his palm. “I like smart girls.”

  “Yeah?”
I yank his hand away. My legs are weak and shaky beneath me, my show of bravado beginning to fade fast. “Because for someone who’s supposedly intelligent enough to be Professor Draper’s TA, you’re a bloody idiot.”

  “An idiot?” Kyle cocks his head, and for the first time he looks unsteady, like something inside his head is out of balance. A tendril of real fear snakes up my spine. When another set of echoing voices reach us from the stairway, he takes a wobbly step backwards. Relief sweeps over me.

  “I’ll be seeing you in class,” he says, and my eyes follow his retreating back down the corridor. He disappears inside the same apartment as his friends, and I gasp my next breath, hunching over because I can’t suck it in.

  I can’t do this.

  I can’t be the strength Brody needs. I barely have enough for myself.

  I start for home, my head down as I rummage for my phone. I don’t get far. Jaxon emerges. Brody and Damien spill out of the stairwell behind him, drunk and singing about swinging from a chandelier. It should be funny, but all it does is break my heart. Brody is slowly ripping apart at the seams, and all I can do is run away.

  Brody’s song cuts off when he smacks into me. He startles for a moment, color draining from his face when he sees me. Then his eyes devour me, unable to get enough. I want to do the same. It’s been three days since he walked off the field, yet it feels like a lifetime ago.

  “Brody.”

  My voice is low, but he jerks like the sound is a slap to the face. “What do you want?”

  My eyes flick to Jaxon, who gives me an encouraging thumb’s-up. I shake my head and turn back to Brody, in no way encouraged. “I want to talk.”

  “No,” he says, his tone rough and sharp. He cocks his head. “But we can fuck if you want.”

  Damien chokes on a laugh. I have to bite the insides of my cheeks to force back the tears. The man in front of me feels like a stranger. I want to shake him and find the real Brody inside. “Please. Don’t. This isn’t you.”

  “Christ, Jordan. You’re starting to sound like a broken record.” Brody rolls his beautiful eyes theatrically. “And you’re wrong. It is me.” He smiles sardonically, slapping Damien on the back when he edges his way around us. “Right, Damien?”

  “Don’t include me in your domestic, dude.” Damien holds up his hands, walking backwards toward their apartment door. Jangling a set of keys in his hand, he points them at Brody. “This is why you don’t do a chick more than once.”

  Jaxon takes a step in my direction and mouths, I’m sorry.

  I shake my head. There’s nothing I can do. Not when he’s like this. Belligerent, drunk, uncaring.

  When I brush past Brody to leave, his fingers snake around my bicep, a steel handcuff that locks me in place. He brings his face to mine, so close his eyes are all I see. They’re dark and unwavering, and so cold I ache from it.

  “Let it go,” he whispers harshly. His eyes drop to my lips for a split second before returning to mine. “You tried, but I’m letting you off the hook. I’m not your problem anymore, Jordan. Go find someone else worth saving.”

  Brody

  I rap on the door of my family home with shoulders hunched and eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses. Of course when I downed half a bottle of Jack last night I hadn’t been thinking about the horse ride I promised Annabelle today. My mind had been stuck on my confrontation with Jordan last night. Her disappointment was so thick I could taste it.

  Jordan’s expectations had been too high. It only made the fail that much more spectacular, not to mention humiliating. And like the dick that I am, I handled it with all the finesse of a ball fumble at the Super Bowl.

  Jamming hands in the pocket of my jeans, I turn and blindly face the street. Mr. Lewis is trimming the edges of his lawn like he does every Sunday. The old dude is a neat freak—never a leaf out of place or a blade of grass straying from formation. I have him pegged as retired military, but it’s unconfirmed. He’s never given me the time of day, not in the fifteen years since he and his wife moved to the neighborhood. Maybe it’s because my father’s a politician, or maybe he sees me as your stereotypical self-entitled jock. Either way, I don’t blame him. I’d keep clear of our family too if I had the choice.

  Yet I don’t see old man Lewis move slowly down the drive, weed whacker steady in his hands. I see honey hair and rich golden skin, blue eyes fierce and infused with emotion. I see an angel sweet enough to tempt the devil from the dark side. And now she’s gone, I remind myself, my mind going to our argument from last night.

  “I’m not trying to save you,” she told me.

  My callous reply echoed down the hall for everyone to hear. Only it was just us. Jaxon and Damien disappeared inside the apartment, leaving Jordan and me to fight it out. “Then you should have no trouble leaving, should you?”

  Her spine snapped straight, her strength bottomless. I had no idea where she dug it from. It made me want to shake her. Lose control, Jordan. Shove me. Curse. Shriek and call me names. Make it easier for me to push you away.

  Jordan jerked her arm free of my hold. She didn’t come at me. Of course she didn’t. Her integrity was stellar. It only lowered me further.

  “Goodbye, Brody,” she forced out through gritted teeth.

  Turning, she walked away, her long-legged frame striding toward the stairwell and out of my life. This was what I wanted. But it wasn’t. “Wait!”

  Jordan halted and looked at me. Her eyes were overcast, their light hidden behind a thick cover of cloud. Behind her the hallway was dark and empty, the lighting for shit. I knew the parking lot was no better. I walked toward her. “You came here alone?”

  “Yes, I came here alone.”

  My jaw tightened. “Don’t ever do that again.”

  Brushing past her, I moved inside the stairwell. Jordan clattered on the steps behind me so I knew she was following. “Contrary to what you might think,” she said to my back, her disdain abundantly clear, “you don’t actually have the right to tell me what to do.”

  I snapped like a rubber band. With an abrupt turn, I halted on the step, my fingers curled on the handrail because fuck it; I’d had too much to drink and I’d probably tip over. Jordan faltered, stopping before she smacked into me. With me one stair below, it brought us to eye level. “You came here uninvited, alone, late at night, in the damn dark! What were you thinking? Oh, wait,” I bit out and she backed up a little, “you weren’t!”

  I was riled but I didn’t want an argument, so I gave her my back and kept moving, my pace down the stairs a clipped jog.

  “What was I thinking?” she hissed, her indignation rising as she jogged after me. “That you were handling this like a bloody man-child! Is pushing everyone away and getting drunk the only way you can cope with disappointment? Was failing that exam really the end of the world?”

  “Yes!” I shouted. We emerged into the cool night, and I spun around. We glowered at each other for a bitter, heated moment. “My world! My football career. I’ve barely kept my head above water through college,” I continued to yell. “Three long, hard years of my GPA sitting on a knife’s edge. If I fail, my eligibility to play is gone.”

  Jordan took a step toward me. “So get an academic waiver! Meet with the university president. Speak to Professor Draper and retake the goddamn test.” She jabbed me in the chest, hard and forceful. “You have options, and instead of using them, you blow a game and drown your damn sorrows with beer kegs like it’s all too hard.”

  “It is too hard!” I shouted. “I did everything you asked of me, and I still failed, so what’s the point of retaking the test? This isn’t some feel-good movie where I graduate because you tutored me for a few months. In real life the guy doesn’t get the girl and the team doesn’t win the championship. Real life is ugly and raw, and it fucking sucks.”

  “So you’re just going to give up?”

  “Goddammit, Jordan!” Frustration blackened the edges of my vision. “I’m not giving up. I’m trying to accept my limi
ts!”

  Fed up, I snatched the keys that hung slack in her fingertips and started for her car. My legs moved sluggishly. Admitting defeat hadn’t made me lighter. It was a cement brick around my neck, weighing me down.

  “I’m sorry!” Jordan’s voice cracked. If I was wondering how far I could push until she broke, this was it. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  I stopped in the middle of the parking lot. My head tipped back and my eyes closed. All my anger fell away, disappearing into an abyss. Resignation rose in its place.

  When I turned, Jordan was frozen to the pavement. Shadows cast half her face in darkness, but pale lamplight exposed the glimmer of tears. One spilled over. Bile climbed my throat as I watched it trail down her cheek. I swallowed the bitter taste and forced myself to speak.

  “You believed in me. You made me believe in myself. Damn you for that.”

  Old man Lewis breaks me from last night’s memory by revving his weed whacker. My eyes follow his progress. He reaches the end of the drive, his edges now in impeccable formation. After cutting the motor, he glances over. For a fleeting moment he stares, brows drawn as if I’ve presented him with a puzzle.

  Surprised, I lift a hand in casual salute. He doesn’t acknowledge me. Striding back toward his open garage, he hangs his weed whacker up on special built-in rungs and takes down his leaf blower.

  Hearing the door open, I turn back. Hattie greets me with a smile, bright yellow dish gloves covering her hands.

  “Hey, Hattie.”

  She steps off to the side, letting me through. “Mr. Brody.”

  “Just Brody,” I instruct her like I always do.

  Hattie nods her usual agreement, but she never cedes. “They’re at a charity luncheon today,” she informs me, anticipating my question.

  My next breath is a little calmer when I step inside the sterile foyer.

  “Is that Brody?” Annabelle shrieks from upstairs.

  My heart lifts. “Yeah it’s me,” I call back. “You ready to go?”

  My sister’s room is the only space in the house that doesn’t feel cold and empty. The walls are baby pink. Lacy frills cover her bed, hand-painted fairies trim the walls, and a chandelier dripping in pink crystals hangs from the ceiling. When it comes to Annabelle, it’s not about spoiling her every whim, it’s about promoting all things ‘pretty.’ With the redecoration complete, she messaged me a photo. It looks like Tinkerbell threw up in my room. I hate it.