“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 the 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.