Текст книги "The End Game"

Автор книги: Kate McCarthy

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 28 страниц)

Brody

Gym shoes squeak, and the sound of boxing gloves connecting with flesh echo through the large space. Loud grunts and laughter compete with thumping heavy metal music and the thick stench of sweat in the air.

Coach believes in keeping our workouts well rounded. The weekly sparring is brutal and this morning’s session couldn’t have come at a better time. My life is a cluster fuck. I’m hopeful a few sharp jabs will knock some sense in my head.

“What’s the matter, pretty boy?” Carter punches his boxing gloves together and comes at me, no hesitation. “Scared?”

I take a deep breath and slam the bars shut on my emotion. We’re both stripped down to gym shorts and headgear, our bodies a sweat-slicked mess. The prominent quarterback boxes balls-to-the-wall, but he hasn’t brought me down yet.

Carter swings a right hook, his big weighty bicep coming at me so fast it’s a blur. I twist out of reach and his fist connects with air.

I give him a mocking grin, displaying my bright blue mouth guard. Carter and I are of similar build, our strength a comparable match, but where he’s quicker, I have more patience. The best way for him to lose his cool is for me to throw out a few taunts.

“This isn’t shadow boxing, dude. You hit like a girl.”

“Yeah?” He taps my cheek with his glove, the move designed to irritate. It does. I jerk my head out of reach. “Well, you look tired, princess. And you hit like a jellyfish.”

My bright red boxing glove connects with his ribs. He grunts, his abs tightening to lessen the impact. “Jellyfish that, asshole.”

Wedging gloved fists between our chests, he shoves me away. I brace and he stumbles backwards. Using the time to recover, I wipe perspiration off my brow with my forearm.

When Carter reaches the border of the mat, I put my head down and charge, tackling my teammate until I drive him right off the edge.

“Brody!”

I turn my head at the shout. Bam! Carter’s fist is a sledgehammer. My vision dims and pain ricochets around my head like a ping pong ball. Before I can blink, my body hits the mat and Carter’s laugh comes from somewhere very far away.

“Goddammit,” I slur, shaking my head to clear my vision. It lights upon gleaming black dress shoes first. My eyes follow them up, past the highbrow suit, to my uncle. His nostrils are flared and disappointment oozes from his every pore.

My pride smarts as I get to my feet. It’s not easy, but he doesn’t help me for which I’m grateful. Standing, I hold up a palm to Carter to take five. He shrugs and walks off the mat, swiping his water bottle off the floor.

Pulling a hand free from my boxing glove, I drag off my headgear and take out my mouth guard, giving my uncle a hard stare. “What do you want?”

He gets straight to the point. “I want to talk about your grade.”

My eyes do a quick sweep of the training facility. No one’s paying us any attention. “I’m in the middle of a boxing session. Now’s not the best time.”

“When is a good time?” he snaps. “Because I’ve given you plenty of it to come see me and you’ve pulled a disappearing act. What’s going on, Brody?”

I note the impatient glance he gives his watch. “Nothing’s going on,” I retort, which is the absolute truth. “So don’t let me waste what little time you have spare.”

“Your sarcasm is duly noted and unnecessary. I’m trying to help you here.”

Dumping my gear, I lean over and collect my towel and water bottle off the floor. “Hmmm … And last time you tried that it worked out so well.”

Patrick steps away from the mat as I move off it, slinging the towel around my shoulders and using the end to wipe my face. “You know when you act like this you remind me of your father.”

I shrug, pretending the barb hasn’t hit its intended mark. Tipping my water bottle back, the cool liquid washes away the heat of his insult. I swipe the back of my hand over my mouth. “Like father, like son, huh?”

“You have no idea,” he bites out.

His tone is bitter and grief darkens his eyes for a single moment. Something niggles at me, a murky whisper. It’s gone before I can make sense of it, but whatever it is lodges a sick feeling in my gut. “Am I missing something?” My uncle doesn’t meet my eyes. “Something about my father?”

“Your father …” Patrick begins and presses his lips together.

“My father …”

“Your father doesn’t deserve you,” he says, finally looking at me. “And I think he’s an absolute fool.”

I stare at my uncle for a long, hard moment, shock rooting me to the floor. His unexpected compassion is like water in the desert. My eyes prickle with heat. I take a deep breath and blink because boys don’t fucking cry.

“So what if he is?” My voice is thick and scratchy. “It doesn’t change anything.”

“Exactly. He’ll always be there telling you how you don’t measure up. He expects you to fail. He wants it just for the fact it will prove him right. So what are you going to do, give up and let him win?”

I lift my chin. “I’ll do whatever it takes to prove him wrong.”

“So work harder on the final, Brody.”

Frustration has my teeth grinding together. “How can I possibly work harder? I’ve never studied so much in my damn life. I had that midterm in the bag. I knew the damn answers and I still failed.”

“What happened with Jordan and your tutoring?”

A lump fills my throat. The ache of missing her is sharp. The way she smells of warm vanilla. The smile reserved just for me that lights her eyes. The furrow she gets between her brows when she loses patience with me. I swallow a mouthful of water and toss the bottle on a nearby chair. “It didn’t work out.”

Patrick exhales forcefully, his aggravation coming through loud and clear. I hate this—being the errant child he has no clue what to do with. I want to lash out and tell him I can handle it myself but clearly I can’t.

“You’ve barely given it a chance. You can’t expect miracles overnight, Brody.” He reaches inside his jacket pocket and hands over a blank white card. “Here.”

I take it, brows drawing as I flip it over. One word is neatly printed on the back. Dyslexie. Shaking my head, I look at my uncle. His expression displays the same slick confidence as my father, only his comes with conviction rather than the cool superiority I can’t stand—like he actually believes in me.

“It’s a font. Look it up.”

My brows rise in silent question.

“Normal font is designed to be aesthetically pleasing, but this one not so much. It’s slanted to dissimilate letters and words.”

“Dissimilate?”

“Make similar looking letters and words different. It’s supposed to be easier to read. Studies show that eighty-four percent of dyslexic readers can read text faster than standard font with fewer mistakes.” He shrugs as he says it, like it’s not a big deal when it possibly could be. “I’m using it to write your finals paper, so I suggest you start using it too.”

Another glance at his watch. “I have to get going.” Patrick picks his briefcase up off the floor and gives me a hard stare. “You can do this, Brody. Keep up the tutoring and use the damn font. If you don’t, I’m speaking to your coach and you’re off the team.”

“Thanks,” I mutter, my voice bitter with sarcasm.

“Don’t thank me.” His shoulders lift in a shrug as he turns to leave, over his shoulder saying, “Thank Jordan.”

“Wait.” My eyes follow his retreat for a single moment. “What?”

“The font was her idea,” he calls back, not pausing as he strides from the room.

Of course this has Jordan written all over it. Defeat is not in her nature. She might now cross the road if she sees me walking down the street, but this proves she hasn’t given up on me yet. Maybe the only way to fix us is to show her I haven’t given up on me either.

I flick the card with my thumb and forefinger and grin, feeling lighter already.

Just you wait, Jordan. I’m coming for you.

Weeks later I’m at my study desk in my room, cramming hard. I check the time on my phone. My stomach sinks. Five minutes to midnight. I have two finals to sit for tomorrow, one of them for my uncle’s class.

My eyes are gritty, my body tired and battered from training, and nothing short of a miracle will help me pull this off. Two back-to-back away games, endless drills, and late nights watching plays has taken all my time, leaving none to look over the new material. We have one more game before the playoffs. My focus is on the National Championships and on my team, who are depending on Carter and me to carry them to the top. Hell, so is half of Texas. And here I am stuck in my room, forcing myself to study for an ethics test that has the power to wreck everything.

I throw my pen down. The new font has made a huge difference in typing study notes but what I’m reading comes from the textbook, which is no help. My shoulders and chest are tight with frustration. I rub at the ache, trying to ease it somehow. All the lightness from two weeks ago is gone. I’ve never felt lower than I do right now. The pressure is crushing.

My throat feels thick and my eyes burn. I can’t do it.

I look to my phone, my heart an aching lump in my chest. Notifications are piling up on the screen. None are from Jordan. Her silence has never been more deafening then it is right now. I haven’t opened Facebook in days. Social media is low on my radar. The speculation on Jordan’s and my relationship has become public fodder. For a brief time we were the new golden couple, now we’re strangers, causing the scrutiny to intensify.

A sharp knock on the door jerks me from my spiral. I swivel in my chair, annoyed at the disruption.

Damien’s propping up the doorframe, body swaying and eyes bleary. After a night of drinking he’s in a complete stupor.

“Dude,” he slurs and blinks excessively at the books spread over my desk. “Studying? Come have a drink with us.”

Male and female voices drift from the living room, loud and rowdy. Damien has brought his party home with him. Not long ago I would’ve joined in, but their laughter projects down the hall like fingernails on a blackboard. I grit my teeth. “I can’t. I have to get this done.”

He blinks again as if seeing two of me. “Well hurry up, then.”

I shake my head. The thought of being surrounded by a group of drunk and carefree people turns my stomach. “I’m pulling an all-nighter on this.”

Damien shrugs and disappears. I go back to my books but my eyelids are weighted down with bricks, so heavy I can’t fight against it. Before I know it, my forehead hits the desk and I’m out instantly.

A hand shaking my shoulder wakes me. Disoriented, I lift my head as Damien dumps something on my desk in front of me. He gives my back a slap and disappears again. Taking a deep breath, I swipe both hands down my face before I reach for my phone. Four a.m. stares back at me like death knell. I’ve been out for over four hours.

“Fuck,” I snarl, glaring at the books spread over my desk. God, just once I wanted to get this right, but it feels hopeless. I’ve started my whole life off on the back foot and haven’t managed to catch up since.

Furious with myself, I sweep out an arm, shoving everything off my desk. Books fall in a thumping heap on the floor. It’s not enough to soothe the raging beast. I grab one at random and start ripping at pages. My chest heaves as the paper shreds into ribbon beneath my fingers. I scrunch them and reach for more, growling with frustration. “Fuuuuck!”

Picking up another book, I throw it at the wall. It dents the plaster before dropping to the carpet, right next to the little white bottle Damien delivered. I scoop it off the floor. The contents rattle against the opaque plastic as I bring it close and read the label.

Adderall, I mouth silently.

Clearly I’ve read it wrong. I blink and process the words a second time. It still says Adderall. Unscrewing the lid, I peer inside. It’s full. A full bottle of pills. What the fuck, Damien?

I bellow his name.

Sinking to the bed behind me, I stare at the bottle, unable to release the tight grip my hand has on it. I know what it is and what it does. As professional athletes we’re always lectured on the use of banned substances. Adderall is a form of amphetamine and forbidden, yet the drug is popular on campus because it gives you the same euphoric high that intense exercise does. It helps you focus and concentrate. It improves performance on the field. It does everything I need it to do.

Let me help you, the bottle whispers in a dark, seductive voice. An ugly desperation fills me. Like black, smoky tendrils, it coils its way up my spine and over me, imprisoning me in its inky darkness. I can’t succumb to it. Damn Damien for putting this temptation in my path. My hands shake as I find strength to screw the lid back on.

Damien pokes his head in my door. “What’s up?”

“What’s up?” I growl, holding up the bottle. “You’re giving me drugs, bonehead, and you ask me what’s up?”

His voice lowers. “It’s just Adderall. Everyone takes it.”

“I’m not everyone.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. Frustration has my head pounding so hard I fear an aneurysm. My life is balanced on a knife’s edge right now and my friend is offering me amphetamines? Not only that, the deep murky recesses of my mind are totally on board with the plan. What the fuck is wrong with me? “I’m a goddamn football player. I can’t take that shit.”

Damien moves further into my room, shutting the door behind him. “When was your last piss test?”

I fall back on my bed and throw an arm across my eyes. Maybe if I can’t see the bottle in my hand I’ll forget it’s there. “Why does that even matter?”

“It doesn’t. You hardly ever get tested anyway, right? No one’s gonna know if you take a couple of pills to help you out. You’ve been biting our heads off for two weeks. You need these. You’re tired and stressed and playoffs are just around the corner. Keep going like this and something’s gonna give. Just take a couple.” Damien shrugs like it’s no big deal. “What’s it gonna hurt?”

Drawing my arm from my eyes, I look from Damien back to the pills still clutched tight in my fist. I desperately want to believe what he says—that I need these. What other choice do I have? “How long do they stay in your body for?”

He shrugs again. “I don’t know. A couple of days maybe? Just drink a load of water and take a handful of aspirin to clear it out.”

Someone in the living room calls Damien’s name in a long, drunken slur. He leaves and I go back to staring at the bottle with tired, gritty eyes. Is it worth the risk? I know the drug policy back to front. A first positive test means mandatory drug evaluation and counseling, but it doesn’t mean getting kicked off the team.

Before I can second guess myself, I unscrew the lid and shake two pills into my palm. They’re tiny and don’t seem enough. I shake out a couple more. Picking up the lukewarm Gatorade on my bedside table, I swallow them down. Recapping the lid, I shove the evidence in my top draw. My actions have my heart pounding like I’ve just played the game of my life.

Resting my forearms on my knees, I hang my head low and take deep breaths as a sense of wrongness fills me. I shake it off and get to my feet. It’s too late for regret. The amphetamines are slowly dissolving and entering my bloodstream. There’s no going back now.

Jordan

Heading for the dining hall, I pick up my pace. Leah’s walking with me, filling me in on the movie she saw with Hayden last night. I don’t hear a word she says. I’m not sure I even recall the title. I’m too agitated and hungry. I’ve forgotten to bring lunch. Again. I can’t afford to keep buying it, but if I don’t eat this minute I’m going to start chewing the pages of my textbook.

This forgetfulness isn’t me. Neither is the lack of focus. Yesterday I forgot my lucky cleats for practice, and this morning I blanked out in class. It’s Brody. I just can’t stop thinking about him. He’s always there. Even in sleep. I wake in the mornings feeling alone, my skin feverish and my body aching.

“Goddamn flu,” I grouch and sniff, checking for a stuffed nose.

Leah’s prattle halts mid-sentence, her expression skeptical. “The flu? Since when? You never get sick.”

“I am now,” I snap.

“Flu my ass.” Her eyes narrow on my face. She’s taking in my dark circles and wan expression like a crime scene investigator. “You’ve got Madden fever.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” I quicken my pace, trying to outrun her imminent lecture. Everything was fairy dust and rainbows when Brody and I were dating. Now Leah mentally castrates him every time they cross paths. I was sparing on the details of our separation, but Leah’s blame is placed solely in Brody’s corner, which is where it should be. The jerk.

As if hearing my insult, Brody calls out my name from somewhere behind me. My heart leaps instantly, its beat evolving from fast to erratic. Students walking in front of me turn at the sound. The entire campus knows his voice. Hearing it speak my name is no doubt too good to ignore. Are they hoping for a spectacle? I don’t turn around. I have no intention of giving them one.

I keep moving swiftly along the path, my eyes fixed on the dining hall looming ahead like it’s the Holy Grail.

“Jordan! Wait up.”

His voice is light as if he’s happy to see me. It’s hard to believe. The last time we spoke he pretty much told me to get lost. The humiliation still smarts my skin like sunburn.

“Please!” Brody calls in a near shout, drawing even more attention.

My pace quickens further. I’m almost at the dining hall entrance when my arm is grabbed in a big, roughened palm. I’m spun around and slam into a wide, solid chest.

“Oomph!”

I’m given mere seconds to take Brody in before he grasps my face in his hands and crashes his lips down on mine. Shock stiffens me for a moment before my body takes the wheel and returns his kiss, reacting to him the way it’s never done for anyone else. It only makes me angrier.

“Stop,” I gasp, ripping my mouth away. “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he replies. Licking his lips, he stares down at me like I belong to him, which I don’t. Before I can shove him away, he’s kissing me again, his arms sliding around and locking me in place with iron strength.

His hot tongue rubs with mine, and I damn near combust. God he feels good. I missed this connection—this sense of belonging that snaps into place, like where I am is right where I’m meant to be. My arms wind around his neck of their own accord. He groans at the submission, a deep sound of lust and satisfaction that turns my bones to water.

What the hell am I doing?

“Stop!” I jerk backwards, struggling from his embrace.

Brody’s arms slide from my back to my hips but he holds tight. I pause my efforts and glare, my face burning with indignation. His hair is a tousled mess, his cheeks tinged pink, and dark pupils dilated. He looks wild and beautiful, like electricity is wired in his veins.

“Let me go, Brody.” A lump forms in my throat. I don’t want him to let go. “You can’t do this.”

“Do what?” He grins irresistibly. “Kiss you? Because I already did.”

His widespread fingers dig in deliciously and tug me closer, pressing a growing erection into my lower belly. My body throbs in response, a sweet ache building swiftly between my thighs.

“And I’m going to do it again.” He smacks his lips playfully against mine. “And again.” Another loud kiss lands on my mouth. “And again.” Brody’s lips come down for more. His carefree mood is infectious, making my outrage hard to hold onto.

“Stop,” I hiss before I lose it altogether.

“You heard her,” Leah interrupts from somewhere on my left. Brody’s head snaps in her direction. “Jordan’s not some toy you can just pick up and put down at will, Madden.”

His voice sobers, annoyance creasing his brow. “Give us a minute, would you, Leah?”

Leah is far from done. “No.”

Brody huffs, nostrils flaring. “Goddammit, Leah. Can you just—”

Her chin juts out. “No.”

I’m thankful for her strength right now. It bolsters my own. “Leah’s right, Brody.” His attention snaps back to me, tension gathering in his frame. “You can’t keep doing this. I’ve worked my whole life for the opportunity to be here, and it needs to be my priority. My life and career is all mapped out.” I breathe in Brody’s familiar scent, his body warm and protective. I want to bury my face in his neck and inhale deeply, letting the comfort of it settle in my bones. He’s right. This is what home feels like … but I have to let it go. “And you’re not part of it.”

His intake of breath is sharp, piercing my ears. “You don’t mean that.”

“Of course she does.”

“Leah.” My voice shakes. I stare down at my feet, blinking rapidly. “Can you go get me a sandwich before they’re all gone?”

My appetite has disappeared, but Brody and I need a moment alone.

Her voice takes on a warning tone. “Elliott.”

I force a reassuring smile that doesn’t fool anyone, least of all me. “Grain bread if they have it,” I add.

Leah shakes her head but walks off. When she disappears I look back to Brody, finishing what I need to say. “I can’t keep up with you, Brody. One minute your high and the next low. All I ever did was help you, and you threw it back in my face.” It hurts to keep talking, and I have to force myself. “I can’t do it anymore. I need to be selfish now and focus on myself. Please understand that and just let me be.”

“I can’t do that. I know I fucked up.” Brody shakes his head, the pink tinge on his cheeks now ashen. “Jordan.” My name is a rasp on his lips. “I’m sorry. I just needed time before I came to see you. There was something I had to do first.”

Reaching behind, he tugs a folded piece of paper from his back pocket. “I got my results on the finals back.” Unfolding it, he shoves it at me.

“You …” I pause, my eyes catching the grade on his printout. I look up from the fluttering page, meeting his eyes. “This is what you had to do first?”

A happy smile curves his lips. “Yes.”

I feel myself responding. It’s impossible not to. “You passed.”

His grin widens. “I did.”

Elation bubbles up inside me. I want to grab Brody in a tight hug and laugh and dance up and down. Instead I take a step back, tucking my hands inside the back pockets of my denim shorts to stop myself reaching for him. He doesn’t need me anymore. “I’m so happy for you, Brody.”

His expression falls and his tone takes a bitter edge. “That’s it? You’re happy for me?”

I shake my head. “I am. Wow. You got a B plus. That’s …” So much higher then an F. Almost unbelievable even. In fact, the huge difference between the two grades hardly makes sense at all. I shrug it off, focusing on Brody’s expectant expression. “… incredible. You’re incredible.”

“No I’m not. You are. This is all you, Jordan. I couldn’t have done this without you.” Brody steps forward, bridging the gap. His voice lowers to a soft plea. “I can’t do this without you.”

“You can.” A sob threatens to break free of my chest. “You just proved it.”

His eyes widen, panic filling them. “No, Jordan—”

“Here’s your sandwich,” Leah growls and slaps it against my chest. Her timing is impeccable. I grab the plastic wrapped bundle before it drops to the ground. “Now let’s go.”

My hand is snatched and Leah’s pulling me away. My legs feel like lead as she steers me back down the path. A quick glance over my shoulder shows Brody standing there, staring after me. His arms hang slack by his sides, the page still fisted in his hand.

Cracks form in my heart. “I’ll see you, Brody.”

Later that night I’m lying in bed with a textbook, pretending to myself that I can study with eyes red and swollen from a crying jag. A half-empty tub of caramel chunk ice cream rests on my bedside table. It’s my favorite flavor and never fails to fix any problem, yet tonight it leaves my stomach churning. Screw you, Ben and Jerry’s. You had one job to do.

With an aggravated sigh, my eyes shift from my book to the page resting on the bed next to me. It’s the failed exam Brody tossed away on the field all those weeks ago. The paper is a little battered but appears harmless nonetheless. The trouble is that it’s not. I’ve been harboring suspicion over Brody’s midterm all afternoon. Going from a failed grade to a B+ is a quantum leap. As I stare at it, my suspicion only deepens.

Was Brody’s grade sabotaged?

It’s the question of the hour, and one I’ve been pondering since I got home and dug the midterm out from beneath a pile of books. Seventy percent of the test is multiple choice. If Kyle fudged his answers, I have no way of knowing, but I can’t let this go. Brody deserves vindication. But pointing an accusing finger isn’t going to do any good. Neither is telling Brody. He will hunt Kyle down and pummel that snide toolbag into the ground. As much as I want to see that happen, the last thing Brody needs right now is negative media attention and suspension from the team. This is a matter that needs kid gloves. It also needs proof before I start throwing accusations about Kyle to Professor Draper.

Half an hour later my eyes are pinned on the ceiling as an idea takes root. It’s not one that sits well with me. In fact the very thought is going down worse than the Ben and Jerry’s did, but I can’t see any other option.

My phone vibrates with a text, the angry little sound making me jump. The brightly lit screen highlights Brody’s name. A shuddery sigh escapes my lips.

I lie there for a minute, pretending I’m not thinking about what’s in the message. Another minute later and I know it’s ridiculous. I won’t sleep if I don’t read it. It will niggle at me like a festering sore.

Brody: Knock, knock.

My brow furrows. What the hell does that mean? Is Brody at the door? It’s been two minutes since the message alert. With a pounding heart, I scramble from my bed and leave my room.

“Shit,” I mutter. Racing back, I grab the test paper and shove it underneath my mattress. I head back out, grabbing my cotton robe as I go. The living area is dark. Leah’s gone to bed, thank god. While I appreciate her mama bear protectiveness, it needs to loosen a notch before she strangles me with it.

Shrugging on the robe over my plain white tank top and panties, I tie the belt and pad over to the apartment door. Undoing the locks, I open it a fraction and peer out into the brightly lit hall. Emptiness greets me. There’s no one there. Disappointment slugs me in the gut. God. This is crazy.

Once back in bed, I settle the sheets around me with forced calm and pick up my phone.

Jordan: What are you doing?

Brody is waiting for my reply because his answer is instant, complete with his usual errors.

Brody: Ur supposed to answer with whose there.

A joke? I’m getting a random joke? There’s no fighting the smile that tugs at the corners of my lips. I know I shouldn’t reply but it’s easier said than done.

Jordan: Who’s there?

Brody: Beets!

Jordan: Beets who?

Brody: Beets me!

A chuckle escapes me.

Brody: Knock, knock.

Jordan: Who’s there?

Brody: Yah.

Jordan: Yah who?

Brody: I didn’t no u were a cowboy!

I barely have time to shake my head at that before the next one hits.

Brody: Knock, knock.

I glance at my textbook and sigh deeply. Whatever game Brody’s playing, I don’t have time for it.

Jordan: Brody, I can’t keep doing this all night …

Putting down the phone, I pick up my book and flick to my page as another alert comes through.

Brody: Last one, I promise.

I give in because I’m a total fool.

Jordan: Who’s there?

Instead of a text reply, Brody rings me instead. I waver a very short time before hitting answer.

“Fuck it, Jordan,” he’s saying before I get out a simple greeting. Leaning forward, I grab for the blanket at the end of my bed. Lifting it up and over myself, I burrow down against the storm his voice sets off inside me. “I don’t care about jokes. I care about—” He breaks off, creating a charged silence. I sit and wait, breathing heavy under the heat of the blanket. “Pizza.”

“You care about pizza?”

He clears his throat. “I do.”

“That’s good, Brody. We all have to care about something.”

His chuckle comes through the phone. “Christ, I have mad skills with a football, but when it comes to you I have no idea what I’m doing.”

His vulnerability tugs at my heart. It makes me protective. It makes me want to rip Kyle Davis’s intestines out through his throat and strangle him with them for all the torment he’s caused Brody. Soon, I promise myself. “Maybe you could start by telling me what you’re trying to do.”

“I’m trying to ask you to come out for pizza with me after your soccer game on Wednesday.”

“Brody—”

“Don’t answer yet,” he says quickly. “I have a bedtime story I want to tell you first.”

“A bedtime story?” I echo faintly.

“Yes. A bedtime story.”

“Well, okay then.”

“Once a upon a time, there was a little boy called Brody.” Delight curls my lips. Bedtime stories bring out my inner child, and Brody can be a bit of a closed book. The opportunity to hear snippets from his youth is one I’m not turning down. “Before he ever picked up a football he knew he loved the game, but he wasn’t ever allowed to watch it.

“One day when he was six, they were driving past the local high school and a game was on. He rolled down his window and fell in love. The atmosphere was intense, the crowd, the chants, the fun. He could smell popcorn and hotdogs, and fresh cut grass. But most of all he could see the home team. They were worshipped like gods and treated each other as family. Brothers. They belonged to each other and to the game.

“The little boy craned his neck as they went by, sucking all that in so he could play it back later in his head. He snuck in to watch their next game, and the next, and the next, until he knew without a doubt that football was going to be the best thing that ever happened to him. But no matter how much he begged, or how many bargains he tried making, his parents wouldn’t let him play. The little boy was destined for a more conservative future in politics.

“But the older that little boy got, the more they realized he wasn’t going to be anything more than an embarrassment so they gave in.”

Understanding hits like a lightning strike. Brody hides his dyslexia because it’s an embarrassment to his parents. Something to be ashamed of. And that shame is so deeply ingrained inside him he can’t let it go. My eyes burn. “I hope that little boy grew up to realize his parents were wrong.”