Total pages in book: 136
Estimated words: 131821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 131821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 659(@200wpm)___ 527(@250wpm)___ 439(@300wpm)
It’s like an omen, the emptiness around me, a glimpse into the future I’m headed toward.
One without the girl.
Without the boy.
Without the game.
Who knows if I’ll even finish college at this rate? Nobody gets to keep a sports scholarship if they’re booted from the team for bad grades.
Closing my eyes, I replay my last game, tracking my movements as if watching from outside my body, picking apart my every step until I’m fully immersed in the game, every other part of me fading to the background.
It works.
It works until I get to the third quarter, and the ball is snapped, but instead of a rough brown leather pressing into my palm, it’s a fuzzy little football with red ink penned into the side.
My lips twitch. My little man loves that damn ball.
My eyes flick open, and I sigh.
What the fuck am I going to do?
The harsh bang on my window has me jolting, my glare swinging to the side. It’s black out, so I blink a few times, and then his face presses closer, a hard glare etched across his face.
“Fuck,” I mumble, turning on my Tahoe and unlocking the door, fighting against the throbbing of my every muscle. It feels like woodpeckers pecking at my damn temples, and I groan.
“You dumb son of a bitch,” Brady starts in the second he throws the door open, locking himself inside with a purposeful slam and sending those woodpeckers into a frenzy.
Alcohol, a long-ass drive, and a three-hour run do not fucking mix.
I drop my head back against the headrest, gripping the wheel for something to focus on, and a jolt of pain slices down my arm. I jerk, fighting back the nausea and blinking through the haze that slips over my vision.
My eyes snap to my throwing hand, and my pulse hammers harder. “Fuck.”
“Yeah, oh fuck, you fuckwad.” Brady glares. “The hell was that last night?”
“Nothing.” My lips press into a firm line, and I turn away, reaching for a bottle of water, my eyes falling to the tiny bottle of orange pills I found beside my bed before I took off this morning, the sight sending pain of a different kind through my chest.
I know it was Payton who left them for me.
Sighing, I face Brady, but I can’t make myself ask.
He scowls but swipes it away a moment later. He always has been the most perceptive of the three of us. “She’s the one who realized you were gone first.”
A flicker of something sparks in my chest, and I face him better.
“She thought Little D would help cheer you up, took him in there the minute he woke, but…”
That spark is snuffed, and acid is poured down my throat, eating away at my insides.
She brought him to me?
She fucking came to me, with him, and I wasn’t there.
I slam my fist down on the steering wheel, and a scream leaves me. “Fuck!” I yank my hand to my chest, my eyes flying wide.
“Goddamn, Mason! What the fuck!” Brady slides over, gripping my wrist and pulling it closer. His eyes widen, moving from me to my hand as he shakes his head. His jaw clenches, and he squeezes his eyes closed. “Get out,” he snaps.
I don’t argue. I get out, swapping spots with him, and notice Chase is here too, his truck parked beside mine.
I can’t quite see inside it, but when he flashes his lights, I nod, and he’s pulling out before Brady takes the driver seat, getting us onto the road.
“Chase didn’t want to stay behind?” I grumble.
“Don’t ask stupid questions,” Brady snaps. “You know we came the minute we realized you’d left early.”
Brady doesn’t head to our side of campus, instead leading to a drugstore. Neither of us speaks on the short drive, and even after he kills the engine, the silence stretches, though it’s him who breaks it first.
“Look, man.” He faces me, reaching over to clasp a hand on my shoulder. “You’re my brother, all right, and I don’t know what’s going on with you and Payton, so let me start by saying I love her little ass as much as I love you. But, Mase.” He shakes his head. “This is your fucking time. The last ten years, this is what you were working toward, a starting position at a D1 school. Your face on top of the stats pile. Your file on the desk of every head coach in the NFL. You’re right there, man. Two more years at Avix, and you’ll be on your way to the draft. You’re literally on the path you’ve always dreamed of, about to get everything you want.”
My frown deepens more and more by the second, and I look to my hand. The swelling in my knuckles seems to be worse than it was earlier, but it’s not broken.