The End Game

by Kate McCarthy

  Reaching behind, he tugs a folded piece of paper from his back pocket. “I got my results on the finals back.” Unfolding it, he shoves it at me.

  “You …” I pause, my eyes catching the grade on his printout. I look up from the fluttering page, meeting his eyes. “This is what you had to do first?”

  A happy smile curves his lips. “Yes.”

  I feel myself responding. It’s impossible not to. “You passed.”

  His grin widens. “I did.”

  Elation bubbles up inside me. I want to grab Brody in a tight hug and laugh and dance up and down. Instead I take a step back, tucking my hands inside the back pockets of my denim shorts to stop myself reaching for him. He doesn’t need me anymore. “I’m so happy for you, Brody.”

  His expression falls and his tone takes a bitter edge. “That’s it? You’re happy for me?”

  I shake my head. “I am. Wow. You got a B plus. That’s …” So much higher then an F. Almost unbelievable even. In fact, the huge difference between the two grades hardly makes sense at all. I shrug it off, focusing on Brody’s expectant expression. “… incredible. You’re incredible.”

  “No I’m not. You are. This is all you, Jordan. I couldn’t have done this without you.” Brody steps forward, bridging the gap. His voice lowers to a soft plea. “I can’t do this without you.”

  “You can.” A sob threatens to break free of my chest. “You just proved it.”

  His eyes widen, panic filling them. “No, Jordan—”

  “Here’s your sandwich,” Leah growls and slaps it against my chest. Her timing is impeccable. I grab the plastic wrapped bundle before it drops to the ground. “Now let’s go.”

  My hand is snatched and Leah’s pulling me away. My legs feel like lead as she steers me back down the path. A quick glance over my shoulder shows Brody standing there, staring after me. His arms hang slack by his sides, the page still fisted in his hand.

  Cracks form in my heart. “I’ll see you, Brody.”

  Later that night I’m lying in bed with a textbook, pretending to myself that I can study with eyes red and swollen from a crying jag. A half-empty tub of caramel chunk ice cream rests on my bedside table. It’s my favorite flavor and never fails to fix any problem, yet tonight it leaves my stomach churning. Screw you, Ben and Jerry’s. You had one job to do.

  With an aggravated sigh, my eyes shift from my book to the page resting on the bed next to me. It’s the failed exam Brody tossed away on the field all those weeks ago. The paper is a little battered but appears harmless nonetheless. The trouble is that it’s not. I’ve been harboring suspicion over Brody’s midterm all afternoon. Going from a failed grade to a B+ is a quantum leap. As I stare at it, my suspicion only deepens.

  Was Brody’s grade sabotaged?

  It’s the question of the hour, and one I’ve been pondering since I got home and dug the midterm out from beneath a pile of books. Seventy percent of the test is multiple choice. If Kyle fudged his answers, I have no way of knowing, but I can’t let this go. Brody deserves vindication. But pointing an accusing finger isn’t going to do any good. Neither is telling Brody. He will hunt Kyle down and pummel that snide toolbag into the ground. As much as I want to see that happen, the last thing Brody needs right now is negative media attention and suspension from the team. This is a matter that needs kid gloves. It also needs proof before I start throwing accusations about Kyle to Professor Draper.

  Half an hour later my eyes are pinned on the ceiling as an idea takes root. It’s not one that sits well with me. In fact the very thought is going down worse than the Ben and Jerry’s did, but I can’t see any other option.

  My phone vibrates with a text, the angry little sound making me jump. The brightly lit screen highlights Brody’s name. A shuddery sigh escapes my lips.

  I lie there for a minute, pretending I’m not thinking about what’s in the message. Another minute later and I know it’s ridiculous. I won’t sleep if I don’t read it. It will niggle at me like a festering sore.

  Brody: Knock, knock.

  My brow furrows. What the hell does that mean? Is Brody at the door? It’s been two minutes since the message alert. With a pounding heart, I scramble from my bed and leave my room.

  “Shit,” I mutter. Racing back, I grab the test paper and shove it underneath my mattress. I head back out, grabbing my cotton robe as I go. The living area is dark. Leah’s gone to bed, thank god. While I appreciate her mama bear protectiveness, it needs to loosen a notch before she strangles me with it.

  Shrugging on the robe over my plain white tank top and panties, I tie the belt and pad over to the apartment door. Undoing the locks, I open it a fraction and peer out into the brightly lit hall. Emptiness greets me. There’s no one there. Disappointment slugs me in the gut. God. This is crazy.

  Once back in bed, I settle the sheets around me with forced calm and pick up my phone.

  Jordan: What are you doing?

  Brody is waiting for my reply because his answer is instant, complete with his usual errors.

  Brody: Ur supposed to answer with whose there.

  A joke? I’m getting a random joke? There’s no fighting the smile that tugs at the corners of my lips. I know I shouldn’t reply but it’s easier said than done.

  Jordan: Who’s there?

  Brody: Beets!

  Jordan: Beets who?

  Brody: Beets me!

  A chuckle escapes me.

  Brody: Knock, knock.

  Jordan: Who’s there?

  Brody: Yah.

  Jordan: Yah who?

  Brody: I didn’t no u were a cowboy!

  I barely have time to shake my head at that before the next one hits.

  Brody: Knock, knock.

  I glance at my textbook and sigh deeply. Whatever game Brody’s playing, I don’t have time for it.

  Jordan: Brody, I can’t keep doing this all night …

  Putting down the phone, I pick up my book and flick to my page as another alert comes through.

  Brody: Last one, I promise.

  I give in because I’m a total fool.

  Jordan: Who’s there?

  Instead of a text reply, Brody rings me instead. I waver a very short time before hitting answer.

  “Fuck it, Jordan,” he’s saying before I get out a simple greeting. Leaning forward, I grab for the blanket at the end of my bed. Lifting it up and over myself, I burrow down against the storm his voice sets off inside me. “I don’t care about jokes. I care about—” He breaks off, creating a charged silence. I sit and wait, breathing heavy under the heat of the blanket. “Pizza.”

  “You care about pizza?”

  He clears his throat. “I do.”

  “That’s good, Brody. We all have to care about something.”

  His chuckle comes through the phone. “Christ, I have mad skills with a football, but when it comes to you I have no idea what I’m doing.”

  His vulnerability tugs at my heart. It makes me protective. It makes me want to rip Kyle Davis’s intestines out through his throat and strangle him with them for all the torment he’s caused Brody. Soon, I promise myself. “Maybe you could start by telling me what you’re trying to do.”

  “I’m trying to ask you to come out for pizza with me after your soccer game on Wednesday.”

  “Brody—”

  “Don’t answer yet,” he says quickly. “I have a bedtime story I want to tell you first.”

  “A bedtime story?” I echo faintly.

  “Yes. A bedtime story.”

  “Well, okay then.”

  “Once a upon a time, there was a little boy called Brody.” Delight curls my lips. Bedtime stories bring out my inner child, and Brody can be a bit of a closed book. The opportunity to hear snippets from his youth is one I’m not turning down. “Before he ever picked up a football he knew he loved the game, but he wasn’t ever allowed to watch it.

  “One day when he was six, they were driving past the local high school and a game was on. He
rolled down his window and fell in love. The atmosphere was intense, the crowd, the chants, the fun. He could smell popcorn and hotdogs, and fresh cut grass. But most of all he could see the home team. They were worshipped like gods and treated each other as family. Brothers. They belonged to each other and to the game.

  “The little boy craned his neck as they went by, sucking all that in so he could play it back later in his head. He snuck in to watch their next game, and the next, and the next, until he knew without a doubt that football was going to be the best thing that ever happened to him. But no matter how much he begged, or how many bargains he tried making, his parents wouldn’t let him play. The little boy was destined for a more conservative future in politics.

  “But the older that little boy got, the more they realized he wasn’t going to be anything more than an embarrassment so they gave in.”

  Understanding hits like a lightning strike. Brody hides his dyslexia because it’s an embarrassment to his parents. Something to be ashamed of. And that shame is so deeply ingrained inside him he can’t let it go. My eyes burn. “I hope that little boy grew up to realize his parents were wrong.”

  Brody replies and his voice is stilted and thick, as if the words are hard to get out. “He didn’t. The problem is that these two people are the ones he’s been trying to please all his life. He knows he never will, not as long as he plays football, but maybe one day he’ll be great, and what they think won’t matter so much anymore.”

  My lips tremble and I press them together.

  “But then something amazing happened.”

  “What?” I ask, needing to hear something good.

  “Not what, but who. What this little boy didn’t realize, was that it wasn’t just football that was going to be the best thing that ever happened to him.”

  My breath catches. “Brody.”

  “This little boy grew up and he met a girl. She was the first person to see all of who he was, and still believe in him, even when he didn’t believe in himself. She was smart, and pretty, and god, so wholesome he wanted to defile her with wicked words and hot sex. But this girl was far too serious, so he made her laugh and taught her that it’s okay to sometimes let go.” Brody takes a deep breath and lets it out. “This girl was utterly perfect, and he was so scared of disappointing her like he did his parents, that he fucked up by pushing her away before it happened.”

  Silent tears fall down my cheeks. One after the other they drip from my face and plop onto the sheets below me. I sit up in my bed, wiping them away with my palm. I realize this isn’t a game Brody’s playing, yet he’s won regardless. He’s under my skin—a part of me now—whether I want him or not. And I want him.

  “You know what I think?”

  “What?” he asks.

  I affect a casual tone, but inside my heart is racing. “I think that if the boy told this story to the girl, that she would get it, and that if he still wants to take her out for pizza, she’d tell him her soccer game starts at three o’clock so don’t be late.”

  I can hear the grin in his voice when he says, “Yes, ma’am.”

  A teasing smile forms on my lips. “And if he still wants to defile her, well … he should know that turnabout is fair play.”

  A pained groan comes through the phone. He releases a harsh breath. “It was the knock-knock jokes that did it, wasn’t it?” I laugh and he groans a second a time. “God, Jordan, I love that sound.”

  I suck in a breath. I don’t want to wait. I want Brody now.

  “Hell,” I hear him mumble softly.

  “Brody?”

  “It’s late. I’ve kept you up. Goodnight, Jordan,” he says and then I get dial tone. Just like that he’s gone, but as I set my phone on the bedside table, the smile on my face is still there.

  Brody

  “Why the hell are we still doing this?” Damien grumbles. “Jordan already agreed to go out with you tonight. We don’t need plan B anymore.”

  Eddie shoots him a glare. Being the size of a mountain, his intimidation factor is usually off the charts. This afternoon it does nothing because Eddie, like the rest of us, is dressed in a cheerleading outfit. It comes complete with a skirt and the pompoms we lifted from the squad room. “Shut up, assface. Brody’s trying to be supportive of his girl.”

  Damien snorts. “Just turning up to watch Jordan play should be enough.”

  A growl emanates from Eddie’s chest. Plan B was his idea, generated from the locker room after training when we were high on endorphins. Now he believes after the entire hour we put in to practice our routine, we need to see it through. “Love is all about grand gestures. You wouldn’t understand.”

  “You’re a hopeless romantic, Eddie, but we love you anyway.” Carter grins and slaps Eddie on the back as he steps up to the side of the field. He has two miniscule pigtails of hair tied up in ribbons, the only one willing to take it that far. It was hard enough finding a supersized skirt in our college colors that would fit Eddie.

  With the game starting in fifteen minutes, we’re up soon. As the eight of us—including Jax and three other guys from the team—group by the sidelines, we start garnering attention. Necks strain in our direction and cameras start clicking. My Texas Bulls cap sits on my head, hiding my face. I set it backwards and turn, giving those closest a wink and a wave. Delighted laughter rings out at my gesture.

  When the two soccer teams emerge from the locker rooms, the announcer comes on with perfect timing. His voice booms around the stadium gleefully. “We have something very special for your pre-game entertainment this afternoon, folks. Everyone please welcome to the field, The Colton Bullettes!”

  “We’re up,” Eddie informs us and gives Damien a shove in the back. He stumbles on to the field.

  We jog out behind him to the symphony of catcalls, unrestrained laughter, and suggestive hollers. I raise one pompom-ed arm up high and shake it, playing it up for the crowd. A breeze ripples down low across the field, fluttering my skirt. My motherfucking skirt. Damien’s right. Of all the dumb things I’ve done, this is up there.

  We get in position by forming a line, legs shoulder-width apart, and hands on our hips. “Shake It Off,” by Taylor Swift blares out from the stadium speakers, filling the huge space with loud base and a girly pop sound. Cameras flash and I cringe. It’s not going to be pretty. There is no doubt this will cause a social media firestorm.

  Our routine begins and already Carter bounces the wrong way. Eddie slaps him on the ass and he turns quickly. Our hips are grinding and pompoms waving when I risk searching out Jordan. Her team is lined up on the sidelines. Most are dying of hysterical laughter. She has a hand covering her eyes as if she can’t bear watching, but her fingers are spread as she peeks through them, her gaze fixed on my every move. When she sees me looking, the smile that breaks across her face is brighter then sunshine. I wink playfully and grin. She laughs hard and shakes her head, her face bright red.

  We finish up our routine with the big finale, which is four of the guys crouching down, and the other four leaping over the top. It’s basic leapfrog and as a wide receiver, it should be a skill I can handle in my sleep. Hell, even a five-year-old could ace the move, but I’m too busy watching Jordan. My aim is off when I leap over Eddie’s mountainous crouched form. I end up with my legs half wrapped around the back of his neck and we both go down.

  Eddie squeals like a girl. “Get your motherfucking balls off my neck, you sick bastard!”

  He rears up and I overturn and hit dirt. “Oww, dipshit!”

  When I get to my feet, I brush the grass from my face and bow to the spectators. Jax saunters over, gasping with laughter. He slings an arm over my shoulder as we walk off to thunderous applause.

  “Dude,” he says when he catches his breath. “I nailed it. You, not so much.”

  I look across at Jordan. She’s jogging into position on the field, her expression serious. Their team is down to the wire. Winning this game will take them to the semifinals of the NCAA National Cha
mpionships. A quick glance in my direction shows laughter in her eyes and color blooming on her cheeks. “I got out of it what I came to do.”

  “You have it bad, cousin.” Jax pulls me into a chokehold. “Just remember it was me she wanted first.”

  His obnoxious comments usually roll off my back, but this one sets my teeth on edge. I shove him off, my voice hard. “Fuck off, Jax.”

  The unexpected anger throws me off balance, but Jax only laughs, unfazed. “But it’s you she loves for some weird, unfathomable reason.”

  The very idea sets my heart thumping at a furious pace. I rub a hand across my chest, trying to soothe the frantic beat. “Maybe.”

  We reach the edge of the field and Carter holds up a hand, giving me a high five. “Dude, what’s with your eyes?”

  I shrug. “Nothing, why?”

  Jax turns for a look, his expression morphing to a puzzled frown. “They’re red. And your pupils are huge. You feeling okay?”

  Shit. I’ve been lethargic all week. Not the kind of tired that’s fixed with a nap, but an exhaustion set deep in my bones. The bottle of Adderall was still in my drawer. I’ve taken the pills on and off over the past month, and taking a few more earlier today didn’t feel like such a big deal. I wanted tonight with Jordan to be perfect. And doctors prescribe these pills, so how dangerous can they be? “I’m just tired.”

  The lie makes me uneasy. Damien and I share a mutual glance. He reaches over and slaps my back. “Dude. You’re good, right?”

  “Hell yeah.” I grin but it’s more a baring of teeth because I hear his underlying question. Damien gave me that full bottle with no intention of asking for it back. It makes me wonder how many he has, and where he got them from. It’s something I ought to question, but there’s too much on my plate right now. Besides, Damien and I have known each other since high school. He’s not a damn drug dealer. “Everything’s coming up daisies.”