His voice is a steely reprimand. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

But getting away before the game proved impossible. With current team injuries, my team would be left without a striker if I didn’t play.

Heading from the field with another solid win under our belt, I shower quickly. Pulling on a pair of Seattle Reign sweats, I tug a brush through my wet hair, arrange a taxi, and head straight for the airport.

I send Jax a message before boarding to let him know I’m on my way. Brody doesn’t know I’m coming. I’ve been trying to call him ever since I heard from Jaxon, but he’s not answering his phone. With no one telling me anything, my anxiety levels are through the roof by the time my plane touches down in Houston.

The taxi drops me in front of Brody’s house later that night. It’s gated for privacy, but beyond the imposing barrier lies a welcoming house with a wide timber porch and lush, expansive gardens. There’s a pool out the back and enough yard space to kick a ball around. The outdoor seating area boasts a weatherproof sectional, an outdoor kitchen, and a mounted flat screen television so all sports coverage won’t be missed if Brody’s either cooking on the grill, or swimming in the pool. It’s idyllic and geared toward outdoor living, with French doors along the back of the house, always kept open to meld the indoor with the out.

The house is a home. My home, and not because I helped him furnish it, but because Brody lives there.

Using my key, I step inside, walking through the dark-timber floored entryway down to the back living area. I drop my overnight bag on the sofa and look around. Thanks to a regular cleaner the house is spotless, but it’s quiet.

“Hello?”

Jaxon steps through the laundry door which sits off the side of the kitchen. His hair is mussed. Not the messy, sexy kind that takes him hours to achieve, but dirty and lank. He glares at me through exhausted eyes, looking nothing like the flirty, carefree guy I met in college.

“You’re here,” he says.

“I’m here.”

“Two days was the best you could do.”

Jaxon’s anger is gone, replaced with flat disappointment which somehow feels worse. “Yes. It was. I told you they’d be short a striker and—”

He cuts me off. “And nothing. Clearly you have your priorities, and Brody isn’t one of them.”

My jaw ticks. “Are you finished? Because I’d like to know what the hell is going on. Where’s Brody?”

Jaxon stalks to the kitchen counter. “You want to know what’s going on?” Bending low, he opens a bottom cupboard. Straightening, he sets a white, opaque pill bottle on the bench top with a loud clack.

My blood chills to ice as I stare at it. Oh no. Please. My eyes hold Jaxon’s for a long moment, willing it not to be true, but all I see is resignation in his expression. Reaching across the counter from the opposite side, I take hold of the bottle and read the label, mouthing it silently. Ambien. Sleeping pills prescribed by the team doctor.

But Jaxon isn’t finished. He sets another bottle on the counter. I put the Ambien down and pick the next one up. Percocet. Another medically prescribed drug. Before I can blink, Brody’s cousin sets another bottle down. Adderall. Then he tosses two separate plastic packets next to the growing hoard. They both hold more pills. Unlabeled ones. I close my eyes, devastation rocking me down to my very toes. Jaxon is quiet. When I open them I pick the sleeve of pills up, flipping it over in a shaky hand.

“What are these?” I croak.

Jax shrugs but his eyes are red and he’s battling the urge to cry. “Who the fuck knows? Uppers, downers, all kinds of fucked-up shit.”

Deep, jagged cracks form in my heart. It hurts. It fucking hurts knowing he put all these deadly chemicals inside his beautiful, strong body—tainting it. That he would do this to himself. My eyes fill and a fat tear spills over, splattering to the counter below. My gaze falls on the Adderall. I pick it up. It doesn’t rattle, indicating the little plastic bottle is empty. I meet Jaxon’s brown eyes. “He was taking these in college.”

“I know. For study, right?”

“But he stopped,” I whisper, putting the bottle back down as a sob builds inside my chest.

Jaxon shakes his head.

“He promised me!” I cry out, my stomach rolling with pain. I point at the Adderall and shout, “He promised me it was a one off. I believed him!”

Did you believe him, Jordan, really? Or did you just want to?

Oh god.

“Brody lied to you. He lied to all of us.”

The sob escapes. I sweep out an arm, scattering everything on the counter to the floor. “Why? Why would he do this?”

But I know.

He’s never deemed himself good enough. Not his entire life. Adderall was the temporary fix, giving him a reprieve from the struggle—only it escalated into this … this goddamn drug-infested nightmare. Why didn’t I see? Why didn’t I let myself see?

My stomach cramps with regret.

I was too busy worrying about myself and my own future. Jaxon is right. Brody needed me, and I wasn’t there for him. I was never fucking there for him.

Jaxon reaches for me and I push him away. Wiping tears with a shaky hand, I croak, “Where is he?”

His gaze moves toward the stairs. “In his room, sleeping.”

I spin hurriedly, starting for the master suite. I need to see him. I need to see he’s okay.

“Jordan, wait!” Jaxon calls after me. “There’s more.” I keep walking up the stairs, not sure I can handle more. “He failed his last drug test.”

I pause on the middle step and turn, sucking in a breath.

Oh no.

Brody.

“What are they going to do?”

Jaxon runs fingers through his filthy hair and pulls them away with a grimace. “They’ve put him in an intervention program.”

“And what’s that?”

“It means he has to see the Medical Director to determine whether he needs treatment or not. If not, then he’s subject to regular testing for ninety days.”

“That’s it?”

He gives a single nod. “That’s it. Oh, and the media doesn’t know, thank fuck. If this got out, his dad would rain holy hell down on his head like you would not believe.”

I’ve never met Brody’s father, but I know Jax is right. The last thing Brody needs is this getting splashed all over the papers.

Making my way up the stairs toward the bedroom, I push open the door. It’s dark in the room, but I hear the rustle of sheets and see a body turn in the bed. “Jordan?”

My name is hoarse on Brody’s lips. Making my way across the thick carpet, I reach for the bedside lamp and flick it on. Warm light floods the room. I turn to face Brody in the bed. His cheeks are flushed, his usually intense eyes dull and unfocused. “What are you …” Brody trails off when his gaze meets mine.

He knows then that I know. I see the burst of anger and the bitter twist in his lips. Brody turns his head, nostrils flaring and body rigid. He’s bracing. Waiting for the same reaction he got when I first discovered Adderall in his gym bag.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I take his hand. The muscles along his forearm pull tight, bunching with tension, as I drag it toward me. I turn it over and rest it on my thigh, exposing his calloused palm. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to fix what’s so clearly broken inside of him.

I begin to trace the lines on his hand. It relaxes in my grip, and that’s when I feel the slight tremor beneath his skin. I open my mouth and speak, forcing out calm words instead of the hysteria I’m feeling. “They say your entire life is mapped out on the palm of your hand.” My finger trails along his heart line—the line at top, directly below his fingers. “I had mine read at the markets once.”

A moment of silence follows. Then Brody turns his head, looking from his palm to my face. I don’t know if the disbelief in his raised brows is from me talking about mumbo jumbo fortune telling, or the fact that I’m not yelling at him. “You believe in that shit?”