Dirty Curve

“Guess your brother is smarter than you are.”

“Not so easily manipulated is more like it.”

“Don’t blame your shitty decisions on me,” he snaps back. “We both know you repeatedly make them. I agreed to pay for your classes when you lost your scholarship after you got pregnant. Don’t fuck that up by fucking my star player!”

My organs shrivel inside me, and I look away. “I hate you.”

“Look ... sweetheart, I don’t want to do this right now, just tell me if he’s in there.”

I bite into my cheek. “I haven’t seen him, not since I ‘made it simple.’”

He cocks his head, and I’m sure he’s going to call me a liar, but he doesn’t. The opposite, in fact.

The man nods. “I guess that makes sense.”

A frown creeps over me, and I want to ask him what he means, but I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of having the upper hand yet again.

Turns out I don’t have to because he always has it.

His understanding expression quickly morphs into one of constraint. “He slept through a game, missed two practices and four days’ worth of classes.”

Oh my god.

“They worked on research papers in history, and now he’s a draft behind. His final’s due by Wednesday.”

A sharp pain zings down my spine.

And there it is, the reason for his constraint, for his sharing this information with me.

I shake my head.

He nods his.

“No.”

“Meyer, yes.”

“There’s no way.”

“You will fix it.”

“No.”

“I didn’t give you an option.”

“I can’t.”

“I said fix it!” he screams.

I jump and his hands come up as he takes a calming breath.

“I’m ...” He blows a harsh breath out his nose to calm himself. “I’m sorry, but Meyer, you will do this.”

“I won’t. I can’t be near him.”

He opens his mouth, but promptly clamps it shut as he narrows his eyes on me. “You fell for the kid ... like actually fell for him, as if it could ever happen for you two.”

My jaw clenches, but I say nothing, and he laughs, but it’s mocking.

He lifts his hat, then slowly puts it back on. “You’ll work with him the next two days. Do that, and I’ll transfer you back into your old department. Don’t do it and he fails, loses eligibility—”

“And you lose your championship.”

His eyes narrow. “Yeah, you’re right, but think of the boy, huh? Since you’ve been loose with your morals, yet again, put yourself in his shoes. You have the chance to help him, and it’ll be on your conscience if you don’t.”

Tears form in my eyes without permission. “This will do more harm than good, you have to know that. It might help you through this final stretch, but what happens to him after that?”

“That will be his problem.”

“He trusts you.”

“And he lost that when he let a girl get in the way of his game.”

“Some people are human on the inside, not machines.”

“Some people are stupid.” He walks backward. “I’ll tell him where to be and when.”

“What if he doesn’t show?”

His feet halt where he stands, his tone one of resentment. “We both know he will.”

I look away and then he’s gone.

And because I seem to be drawn to pain, I go inside, open my computer, and go straight to the university newspaper page.

My heart drops as I read over the articles from the last week, every one of them blasting Tobias and documenting his ‘downward spiral’ as they’re calling it.

There are shots of him fighting on the field, walking into the bar, and even one of him passed out on the courtyard picnic table.

My chest grows tight, it’s as if a sheath of anguish is suffocating me from the inside out.

I did this.

I stole his happy and if I don’t do what’s being asked of me, I’ll be responsible for stealing his future. He has no idea the man he admires is a malicious asshole who’ll destroy him if he’s wronged. Nothing is more important to Tobias than this next step, then accomplishing the goal he set out to make, to achieve what so many have sworn he couldn’t.

Tobias is made up of dirt and sweat, of the game, and without it, he’ll be lost.

It’s his life, his future.

I can’t let it slip away.

I have to help him, no matter how much it breaks me in return.

q

My stomach is in my throat, my heart is at my feet, and my mind is as muddled as ever.

I knew, just as the man who sent him knew, that he would show up today.

It’s a sick kind of torture, but a necessary one.

I’ve had my laptop open and notes out on the picnic table for the last ten minutes. I’ve tried to speak, to engage in work-related conversation, but Tobias has yet to say a word.

He hasn’t opened his bag.

In fact, I’m not even sure he brought his bag.

The man has yet to move.