“I’m not really sure. At the time it was a bit of fun. Who would you marry? How many kids? That’s what my friends wanted to know. All I wanted to know was if I’d succeed in soccer. She said my success was tied deeply to my line of destiny.”

My eyes follow Brody’s own line. It runs deep from his head and his heart line. “Your line is the same as mine,” I tell him, tracing it slowly with the pad of my index finger.

“What does it mean?”

I give him the answer she gave me. “It means success will be achieved at the end of your life.”

“That’s good, right?”

I pause the trace, recalling her exact words. It depends on the definition of success, child. The word can mean many things, not necessarily what it means to you, and its meaning can change multiple times during your life.

At the time, I brushed her cryptic words off. It couldn’t mean anything else but soccer. I never longed for success in anything else, and I never would, I was sure of it.

“It’s good,” I confirm.

The best way to answer your question is to look at why you want to succeed, she told me at the end of the reading. To be the best of course, was my flippant reply. I love the game. It’s where I want to be, and it’s natural to want to succeed in your chosen career.

But maybe it’s not everything.

Why do I want to succeed?

Nicky’s face floods my mind. For my brother. To prove his sacrifice for me was worth it. That I’m worth it. But at what cost? My own happiness?

My soccer career is right where I want it to be, slotting in neatly with my very own definition of success, but I have nothing else. I don’t have my friends and family by my side; I’m unable to set down roots in a strange city; and the man I love is slowly, but surely, falling apart.

I’m not happy, I’m heartbroken.

“What?” he asks, breaking me from my introspection.

Taking a deep breath, I keep going, following along the lines of his hand. “Your heart line touches your life line.”

I read up a little on palmistry after my reading. Enough to know it indicates a heart too easily broken. And the curved indention is fragmented, representing deep emotional trauma. Oh Brody.

“And it means what?” He huffs a bitter laugh. “Let me guess. That I’m weak and mediocre. Unable to succeed at anything without the addition of chemicals.”

“Of course not. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s palm reading.” I twist my torso so I’m facing him directly, and I take his hand in both of mine. It’s cold and dry. I begin to rub, trying to warm the chilled skin. “Brody—”

“Don’t placate me, Jordan.” His voice is sharp, and he tugs his hand free of my grasp. “On the surface, we both appear the same. But we’re not. We’re opposites, you and I. I’m weak. But you…” he shakes his head “…your strength is like the sun, Jordan. It feeds me. And if you don’t let me go, I’ll just use it all up until you have nothing left.”

“Brody.” Seizing his chin, I drag his face until he’s looking at me. “I’m not letting you go. It’s you and me, and we’ll be strong together, okay?”

Doubt and bitterness shadow his eyes. “How can we? You’re there and I’m here. There is no together.”

Dropping my arm, I sit back and lift my chin. “I’m quitting Seattle.”

“Don’t be stupid, Jordan,” he spits with anger. I flinch from his word choice. Knowing it’s a word he hates makes the use of it that much worse. “Seattle is your dream. And not only that, you have a contract.”

“Contracts are made to be broken.”

“And how do you think that makes me feel?” Brody shouts and jerks up in bed, pushing away from me. “That you quit your dream because I got busted for drugs? Fucking pathetic, that’s how! Poor Brody takes a few pills and his girl has to drop everything to come running to his side and take care of him.”

My own anger riles in response. “I’m not quitting my dream! I want to be with you. And I can still play soccer. Houston Dash will take me, I know it. I can move here and—”

“Bullshit!” he roars. Brody scrambles from the bed, naked, and wrenches open a dresser drawer. Seizing a pair of boxer-briefs, he turns, jerking them on as he speaks. “The fact that you said move here rather than move home just proves it!”

“This is home!” I shout. Standing from the bed I jab a finger hard into his chest, right where his heart thumps visibly underneath. “Here. You.” My arms fly out in a sweeping gesture. “Not this bloody house. Not Texas. Not Australia. You!”

Brody glares for a long, hard moment, his chest rising and falling erratically. Slowly, his dark brown eyes lose their hard edge. “Finish your contract, Jordan. No team will want you if you break it. When you’re done, we’ll talk then.”

What he says makes sense, but I don’t want to finish it. I bloody well don’t want to. Instead, I want to drag him to Australia, away from all this. We can live by the beach, pretending it’s just the two of us without any cares, or obligations, or any need to prove our right to exist. But it’s not that easy. Life is not that easy.

I take a step toward him. “On one condition. No, two,” I correct. “Two conditions.”

Brody exhales heavily. His hands reach up and rest on my hips, tugging me closer. “What?”

“A holiday. When the season ends, we spend four weeks in Australia, away from everything. Friends, family, social media. No phones. No television. No football. Just you and me.”

“I can do that.” He nods jerkily and begins to shiver, goose bumps breaking out across his bared chest. They overtake his whole body. Only it’s not cold. The air circulating through the open window is almost too warm.

“What’s the other condition?” he asks, appearing oblivious to the way his body betrays him with its need for drugs. Does he even realize he’s shaking as if he were standing naked in the Arctic?

“You have to stop.” My eyes burn, filling rapidly as I watch him break apart before me. “All these chemicals you’re putting inside your body scares me. It scares me so much. Please,” I beg, my voice cracking as I swallow an emotional lump the size of a boulder in my throat. “Don’t do this to yourself. Promise me you’ll stop.”

Brody’s jaw trembles and when he blinks, a solitary tear falls, tracking slowly down his cheek. “I’ll stop,” he whispers hoarsely. “I’ll do the drug counseling session. And I still get to play. I’ll work hard,” he vows. “I promise. I’m not addicted, Jordan. I’m just…” Brody presses his lips together, looking over my shoulder as if the words he seeks are written on the wall behind me “…I’m just trying too hard.”

Another tear falls. Reaching up, I wipe it away.

He stares down at me, trembling violently. “I promise I’ll stop.”

But the words he speaks are just that. Words. They’re meaningless without actions to back them up.

Brody

I wake in a scorching sweat, my stomach churning like I’m sailing through raging seas. Jordan’s lying across my chest, blistering my skin with her body heat. Bile rises quickly. I swallow, but there’s no stopping it. Gagging, I shove Jordan off and stumble for the bathroom. Dropping to my knees, I grab the toilet bowl with shaky hands and heave. Last night’s dinner comes charging out like a bull at a gate.

“Ugh.” I spit in the bowl, hocking out the bitter taste from my mouth.

My stomach contracts again, pushing out every last bit of food until nothing is left. Breathing heavy, I sit back on my heels and groan.

A cool, wet towel brushes the back of my neck. It’s a little sliver of heaven in this hellish morning. I turn my head and look at Jordan. Even feeling half dead, she stirs my blood. She’s wearing plain white panties and a loose, hot pink tee shirt that hangs off a beautifully toned shoulder. Jordan’s perfect, and I’m a fucking disgrace. I hate her seeing me this way.