The End Game

by Kate McCarthy

  With a huff, I throw my gym bag on the floor and head for the kitchen. I come back with a lemon-lime Gatorade because it’s all my body can handle right now. Flopping on the recliner, I lift the bottle to my lips and suck half of it down in one hit.

  “Well?” Jaxon prompts.

  My gaze shifts from the television to the sofa. Both sets of eyes are still watching me. Eddie’s are wary, no doubt waiting for my Fourth of July explosion.

  “Well fucking what?” I snap, cringing inside because every word out of mouth lately is a curse. I’m sick of hearing myself.

  Eddie huffs and goes back to watching the movie. He’s sick of hearing me too.

  “How was it?” Jaxon asks.

  My eyes hit the ceiling. “How the fuck do you think it was? I had the time of my life,” I bitch. “Dirty Dancing has nothing on me.”

  Eddie’s gaze is still on the TV but his lips twitch.

  “What?”

  “Dirty Dancing,” he replies. “Best. Movie. Ever.”

  Getting to my feet, I grab my bag, muttering, “Wankers,” as I head for the laundry, using the curse word Jordan sometimes mumbles when people annoy the absolute living crap out of her.

  “What’s a wanker?” I hear Jaxon ask Eddie.

  “I don’t know. Google it.”

  Jordan

  It’s night, and late, and I’m the only one left standing after training. The white floodlights are still on, illuminating the empty field. After running drills, I’m kicking the ball against the brick wall of the training sheds.

  “Jungle” by X Ambassadors blasts through my headphones as I punt the ball back and forth, my breath coming hard and sweat dripping down my face. I’m in the zone, that precious headspace where you feel like you could keep going forever. So I push harder. Another half hour and my legs are screaming for a break. I’m running my body ragged to stop myself from worrying about Brody. It’s the only way I can find sleep at night.

  Did he go to his counseling session? Is he training? Is he still taking drugs? My chest aches, bringing back the painful emptiness that kicking the ball had managed to deflect.

  I rip the headphones from my ears, leaving them to rest around my neck as I bend down and swipe the soccer ball from the ground. Nearing the locker room, my phone dings from the pocket of my soccer shorts. I tuck the ball under my left arm and pull it out. The message is from Brody. It’s just gone midnight, which means it’s two a.m. back in Houston.

  Brody: U know I luv u rite? More than anything.

  A sob wrenches from my chest. Just like that. One simple message and I’m an emotional basket case. I heave my soccer ball at the wall of the sheds with a low growl. “Damn you!” It smacks against the bricks and the sound echoes through the still night.

  I begin stabbing at letters on my screen, typing an angry response. Then I delete it and shove my phone back in my pocket. Our ups and downs are too frequent. Is it really worth the fight anymore?

  Picking the ball back up from the ground, I stalk inside the locker room. My phone dings again as I’m pulling out my gym bag.

  Brody: I luv u like a squirrel luvs his nuts.

  A wheeze escapes me, the sound caught somewhere between a sob and a laugh. I ignore the message. I’m not doing this again. Deciding to shower back at the apartment, I grab all my things and leave.

  There’s nothing more from Brody through the next day, but later that night another message comes through.

  Brody: I luv u like a hobbit luvs second breakfast.

  My lips pinch together. I don’t know if I’m angry or trying to fight the silly grin. Not doing this again, I remind myself. Another one comes through the next night.

  Brody: I luv u like Kanye luvs Kanye.

  That one draws a giggle, but I still don’t reply.

  Brody: I’ll keep going til u talk 2 me.

  He carries through with his threat, his next message coming early in the afternoon. We’re in the middle of dissecting plays for the upcoming game with the Boston Breakers. Foreheads are drawn in concentration as we stare at the whiteboard, following the strategy our coach is busy outlining. Soon the board is a mess of arrows and squiggles, becoming almost impossible to decipher. My phone dings. All eyes turn to me in collective irritation for breaking their focus. Mumbling an apology, I retrieve my phone from its hiding place beneath my folder and swipe the screen with a furtive gesture.

  Brody: I luv u like a condom luvs lube.

  My shout of laughter draws the wrath of my coach. “Elliott!” he barks. “Turn that phone off or I’m flushing it down the toilet.”

  There’s no question he means what he says. I’ve heard rumors he’s done it before. Fumbling in my haste, I quickly switch it off while he glares, watching me.

  It’s not until I return to the apartment later that night that I remember to switch my phone back on. There are two messages from Leah, one from Nicky, and one from my agent, marked urgent. I ignore them all in favor of the newest message sitting in bold from Brody.

  Brody: I luv u like a couch potato luvs his remote.

  How many of these does he have? My phone dings again as I’m mid-giggle. I open his next one.

  Brody: I luv u like the sun luvs the day.

  That one makes me sigh, and before I can stop myself my fingers are on the keys typing a response.

  Jordan: You got me in trouble.

  Brody: She speaks!

  Jordan: Coach threatened to flush my phone down the toilet.

  Walking to my bedroom, I shut the door behind me. Climbing on the bed, I shove pillows behind my back and curl my legs up close.

  Brody: Nooo! Tell him if he breaks ur ph I’ll break his face.

  Jordan: Sure. Because violence is always the answer.

  Brody: It is when someone comes between me getting to talk to u.

  Jordan: That’s the problem though, right? You never really TALK to me.

  After leaving the ball in his court, I wait for ten minutes, using the time to scroll through Facebook, liking and commenting on various pictures. But Brody doesn’t respond. Bitter disappointment fills my mouth. I slap my phone down on the bedside table. He always does this. Draws me back in, but only so far before he slams that invisible wall down so hard my teeth clack together.

  Grabbing a clean towel, I shove my bedroom door open and head for the bathroom. Dani’s occupying the full length of the sofa, caught in the throes of a Nice Girls marathon. Ha! Maybe if she pays attention it might give her some pointers.

  “There’s no hot water,” she calls out, her lips stretched in a smile of mock sympathy.

  “I don’t care,” I retort, even though I do. I’m not so tough that cold showers don’t make me squeal like a kid, but maybe the cold water will cool my temper.

  It doesn’t. I stomp back to my room, and after snapping a brush through my hair, I stomp to the kitchen. Taking my caramel chunk ice cream carton from the freezer, I rip off the lid, grab a spoon, and head back to my sanctuary.

  “You’ll get fat,” Dani warns as I move through the living room.

  I stop dead and stare. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Nope,” she replies, taking me literally. “Have you read how many calories are in that carton?”

  After careful consideration, I decide against emptying said calories on her head. My ice cream is too precious. Pinching my lips, I keep moving. When I reach my room she calls out, “What did he do now?”

  With an irritated growl, I shut the door behind me. Setting the carton on my bedside table, I see a message from Brody waiting on the screen of my phone. I snatch it up.

  Brody: So lets talk.

  Dropping to the edge of my bed, I’m tapping out a reply when he sends another.

  Brody: Skype?

  I set my phone down and grab my laptop off my desk, bringing it to bed with me. Resting it on my thighs, I open the lid and sign in.

  Jordan: Good to go.

  Moments later the call comes in. I hit answer and wait for the vi
deo to kick in. When Brody comes on screen, I stare for a moment. He’s wearing his ball cap backwards and stubble lines his cheeks. His face is tanned, so I know he’s spending all his time outside training. Despite the rough edges, he looks fit and healthy, not at all like someone addicted to drugs. Aren’t they supposed to be pale and thin? Unable to function? If the pills hadn’t come to light, would I have ever known?

  Brody grins when I appear, his eyes crinkling in the corners. “Babe,” is all he says. Then the background behind him starts shifting. He has the laptop and he’s walking with it. “Sorry. My laptop was in the living room.” The image bounces as he jogs up the stairs and walks into his room. After setting the laptop on the bed, he flops down in front of it.

  “You look so good,” I say, trying to hide my surprise.

  “And you look so damn edible.” Brody’s eyes roam over me, darkening. He runs his tongue along his bottom lip. “I like that shirt you’re wearing,” he adds. I glance down. It’s an old shirt, worn for maximum comfort. “But it would look better on the floor.”

  Brody

  The sound of her laughter floods my body with warmth. “Jordan, I—”

  She leans forward expectantly and my words break off. Lifting my cap, I toss it away, scrunching fingers through my hair. I promised Jordan I’d talk and now I don’t know what to say.

  She speaks for me. “I miss you.” My heart gives a sharp pang. Her mouth tilts at the corners as she adds, “I miss you like a squirrel misses his nuts.”

  My laugh feels bittersweet. “You liked those?”

  Jordan holds up her thumb and forefinger to the screen until they’re an inch apart. “Just a little bit.”

  I smile faintly. It wavers and silence falls. Not an awkward one, but one where the cold reality of what I’ve done sits between us. I know it will only get worse until I give Jordan the explanation she deserves.

  I draw a deep breath in and let it out slowly. “You know I told you I’d do whatever it takes to be the best. Well …” I press my lips together.

  Jordan draws her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around them. I know the gesture. She’s subconsciously protecting herself, expecting what I say to hurt.

  “They made me better.”

  “The drugs?”

  I nod my head in answer. “They did for me what I couldn’t do myself.”

  “Brody—”

  I cut her off. “Don’t.” Pity or meaningless platitudes is the last thing I need to hear right now. “It’s the truth. When I was seven years old, my father said to me ‘you’re too damn stupid to do anything else so you better make football count,’ and I believed him.” An intense burning pain spreads through my chest—strong enough to take my breath away. “Only I couldn’t even do that.”

  Jordan shakes her head vigorously. “You can. You never believed in yourself, Brody.” Her lips press in a thin line. “It all started with that bloody midterm. If Kyle hadn’t messed with your paper, you would have passed, and none of this would have ever happened!”

  “It would have,” I admit both to her and to myself. “You’re right, Jordan. I never believed in myself. If I did I would have questioned my grade. I’d have never taken the Adderall. And maybe I wouldn’t have hidden my dyslexia like a shameful secret. Instead, I put myself in a position where I couldn’t find a way out,” I say quietly. “I pushed, and pushed, and I took drugs, but it got me where I needed to be. Is this what it takes to make football count?” I stare down at my hands, absentmindedly rubbing the callouses on my left palm. “Because it fucking sucks.” My eyes lift and deep cracks form in my heart, making me crave the euphoric numbness that Percocet always gives me. “I’m losing you, and—

  Jordan cuts me off. “You’re not losing me, Brody.”

  “Are you sure about that? I’ve already lost my little sister. I can’t lose you too.”

  She sucks in a sharp breath. “Annabelle?”

  A scowl forms on my face. “Dad won’t let me see her.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since I gave Kyle Davis what he had coming.” My jaw tightens and my tone turns bitter. “I’m a bad influence. They don’t want me anywhere near Annabelle.”

  Jordan’s voice trembles with hurt. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because I don’t want you exposed to them!” I sit up on the bed, swiping a hand down my face. “I’ve tried so hard to keep you separate from my family. You don’t want anything to do with them, Jordan. Trust me. My parents aren’t warm like you are. There’s no love. Or joy. It was like growing up inside a cold, barren wasteland. When they look at me, they don’t see me. They see disappointment.” My lips press together. I focus my eyes on the wall above the screen of the laptop. “And I keep pushing you away because …” My words die off, my body growing tense as I force myself to look at her. “I don’t want you to see me the same way.”

  Her next words are a knife to the chest.

  “I am disappointed, Brody, but there’s a difference.” She keeps talking but I don’t want to hear it. “I’m not disappointed in you, or who you are, only in what you did.”

  If she says I’m better than this, I’m going to lose my shit. Only she doesn’t. What she says next hurts more than I thought possible.

  “If you couldn’t get drafted into the big leagues without drugs, then maybe it’s not where you’re supposed to be.”

  Brody

  “You good to go?” Eddie calls out.

  Sliding the zipper closed on my sports bag, I call back, “Be right there!”

  Loud thumps tell me he’s jogging down the stairs. When the sound of the fridge being raided reaches my ears, I quickly slide open the bottom drawer of my bedside table and reach for the little bottle. Unscrewing the lid, I palm a handful of Adderall and tip my head back, tossing them down my throat.

  The fridge door slams shut as I’m swallowing them dry. “Hurry up, Madden!”

  “Yeah, yeah!” I call back, my heart pounding hard in my chest.

  Taking the pills—especially still under stage one of the substance abuse program—is a risk the size of Mount Everest. But with a home game in just a few hours, followed with a bye and four days in Seattle with Jordan for her finals, it’s a risk I’m willing to take—more so than ever in the wake of her words from last week. Maybe it’s not where you’re supposed to be.

  Jordan couldn’t be more wrong. Everything I’ve been through to get to this point would all be for nothing otherwise.

  Grabbing my bag, I sling it over my shoulder and jog down the stairs.

  “Yo!” Eddie appears in the living room and fastballs me the car keys.

  Stretching up, I catch them and my ribs give a twinge. The entire length of my torso is black and blue from training this week. It’s par for the course, but when I walk in shirtless to my trainer’s office an hour later and tell him I need something for the game, I’m jabbed with a shot of Toradol—a non-steroidal anti-inflammatory. When injected, it becomes an amped up painkiller, used to reduce pain sensitivity and leave you playing like a fearless machine.

  Numbness floods my body, and I walk back to my locker with the knowledge I’m doing what I have to do. As a pro player, the hits come harder and the injuries more frequent. You need to have an edge, take risks, and show you can play with pain, otherwise they’ll replace you with somebody who can.

  Eddie’s grin is wide when I return to my locker.

  My brows rise in question as I shove my shorts down and off, tossing them in the direction of the open shelf. “What?” I ask, yanking my football pants out.

  His grin widens further, bright enough to take out an eye. Standing, he pulls his football jersey down over his head. Tugging it in place, he says, “You got a surprise visitor.”

  “Yeah?” Stepping into my pants, I tug them up my legs. “Who?”

  He jerks his head toward the door of the locker room. My head turns but no one’s there.

  Hawk, our starting quarterback, strides past. “Yo, Ma
dden.” He gives me a playful shove and keeps moving. Turning, he walks backwards and winks. “Your girl looks hot to see you. Better go put that fire out.”

  “Dammit, Hawk!” Eddie bellows. The big, romantic lump scrunches his hands into fists, his expression wounded. “You ruined the surprise!”

  Hawk spins on his heel, laughing loud and hard before disappearing inside the office of our head coach.

  My heart leaps at least a mile in the air. I look at Eddie. “Jordan’s here?”

  Not waiting for an answer, I start jogging toward the outer room.

  “Five minutes, Madden!” Joe Pettone, our wide receivers coach, yells out behind me.

  Waving him off, I reach the outer room and stop dead when I see Jordan’s solitary figure, her hands clutching a large handbag slung over her shoulder. She’s wearing my football jersey, tight dark jeans, and a hesitant smile.

  A rush of love hits me harder than a linebacker tackle, stealing my breath. Jordan’s here to watch my game, and I’m fucking thrilled. “You’re here.”

  Her smile falters slightly. “Is that okay? I wasn’t sure if— Oomph!”

  Jordan’s words are cut short when my body slams in to hers. Before she can topple backwards, I’m picking her up. Her long legs wrap around my waist and her arms grab my shoulders. Holding her thighs, I spin us both around.

  Coming to a stop, I bury my head in her neck and breathe deep. “You’re really here.”

  My teeth find skin and nip gently, following a path up toward her ear. She giggles, drawing back a little. “That tickles.”

  “Too bad.” I do it again, my tongue snaking out to suck her lobe into my mouth. Jordan jerks back, still laughing. “Kiss me.”

  She does. Her lips find mine, and her laughter turns to a low moan. Only when I’m dizzy from lack of air do I pull back—but not far. I rest my forehead against hers, our mouths less than an inch apart.

  “I’m sorry,” she says.

  My brows knit. “For what?”

  “For what I said. Of course you’re supposed to be here. Football is in your blood. Anyone can see that. I’m just scared.” Jordan’s eyes fill and she turns her head, blinking. “What it takes to play at this level…” her gaze returns to mine “…it’s overwhelming and intense, and so fucking hard.”