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“I see.”

It’s the first ‘therapist’ sounding statement to pass his lips and my nostrils flare. “What do you see, Doug?”

“I see that you’re here because you have to be, not because you want to be. I see that football is important to you, Brody. More so than yourself.” He cocks a brow. “How the hell is that going to work out for you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, you care more for football then you care for yourself. How are you going to get better if getting better is not your highest priority?”

I shake my head. “I’m not sick.”

“Okay.” Walking to the far end of the counter, Doug picks up a piece of paper from a crowded pile of books and folders. He hands it to me. I grab it before it flutters to the ground, looking at the page. It’s a bill for his electric.

My brows rise when he takes a step away, shifting back to his leaning stance against the counter behind him. “And I’m holding your bill because?”

Doug’s shoulders lift in a casual shrug. “I just wanted to see how deep your tremors were.” And he’s right. The paper is shuddering in my hand like an earthquake just hit. He cocks his head, ignoring my curse as I slap the bill down on the counter. “And when I asked if you liked chili, your face took on the color of my lawn. Combined with the circles beneath your eyes and the epic lines of irritation on your face, I’m going to go ahead and call bullshit. You’re sick, Brody, but not the kind you can easily see because the sickness is in your head and your heart. Your body is simply the one paying the price.”

“Call it whatever the hell you like. All I did was take a few damn pills.” My chin lifts. “I don’t need to be here.”

Doug picks up his spoon again and turns to stir the chili, giving me his back. “So leave,” he says simply.

Tugging my car keys from my pocket, I crunch them in my fist so hard it hurts. When I start down the hallway, he doesn’t stop me. But before I reach the front door, he calls out, “Can I say one thing before you go, Brody?”

Turning, I see Doug standing at the kitchen entrance, lips pressed together and disappointment in his eyes.

“Sure.” My arms sweep out expansively like I’m doing him a huge favor. “Why not.”

“Prove yourself wrong.”

I shake my head. “That’s it?”

“Yep. That’s it.”

Grabbing the handle, I wrench open the screen door and step out. Dusk has fallen, streaking deep pinks and orange across the sky. It’s vivid beyond belief, but I don’t notice the beauty as I head toward my car, the screen slapping shut behind me. Cool air has hit the sweat dotting my forehead and my shivers are almost unbearable.

“I’m sure I’ll see you again soon!” Doug yells after me.

Sure. Soon. Good joke, Big Mac.

I fume the entire drive home. When I walk through the door connecting the garage to the living area, I find both Eddie and Jaxon sprawled on the sofa, Pitch Perfect their movie of choice. Both sets of eyes hit mine expectantly.

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.”

The End Game _41.jpg

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.