The Game That Breaks Us (Us 3)

I grab up all of the magazines showing Grace and me in the bar and throw them on the conveyer belt with my snacks and water. I came to the store to stock up on healthy things to eat and then ended up having this stupid magazine shoved in my face. It’s been a week since that night, and I hadn’t even given it any thought that a photo of us might end up in some gossip magazine. After all, we were there with two other people. But the photo, obviously taken on some punk asses phone, has Elle and Ryland cropped out. It’s zoomed in on Grace and me, and I’m leaning close to her just as she is to me. Her hair hides most of her face, but the angle from which the photo is taken makes it look like we’re kissing. There’s another photo too, smaller than the first that shows our faces clearly.

The headline reads: Is Bennett back to his old antics?

I grab one of the magazines off the conveyer belt and flip through until I find the article. More photos line the pages—this time, ones taken over the last few years in various bars and nightclubs, most of them showing me with a different woman.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I yell in the middle on the grocery store and slam the magazine in front of the checker so he can ring it up. I know I look like a psycho, but I’m beyond pissed that Grace of all people has been dragged into this mess. I know enough about her to know that she’s a good girl. The kind of girl you wouldn’t think twice about bringing home to your parents. And now the media has portrayed her as just another notch on my bedpost. It’s not okay with me.

The checker reluctantly gives me my total—I think he’s terrified of me after the performance I’ve put on—and I slide my card through the slot. My receipt prints, and I snatch it out his hands, shoving it into one of the plastic bags. I grab all my stuff and haul ass out of there to my car. I’m tempted to go back and buy every single one of those blasphemous magazines that are bound to line the other checkouts. But I know that’s only the tip of the iceberg. There are hundreds of thousands of those out in the world, all across the United States, and I can’t hunt down each and every one.

I might be crazy, but I’m not mad—there’s a difference, trust me.

I throw the groceries in my car and head back to campus, driving at speeds I shouldn’t. I’m so fucking mad, and I need to do something to release the tension.

I shouldn’t let this get to me. After all, it’s commonplace, the media spinning the truth, but the fact of the matter is, they’re usually right when it comes to me. This time they’re not and Grace has gotten dragged into this clusterfuck.

My phone rings and I curse. I press a button on my steering wheel, answering the call. “Hello?”

“What the fuck is this, Bennett?” Bernard yells over the phone. “I thought we talked about this? You need to clean up your image and all you’re doing is throwing it down the fucking t

oilet. How the fuck do you expect me to help you if you can’t even help yourself?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Dammit, Bernie, it’s different this time. We were at a bar with two other people. I didn’t even kiss her. Give me a break.”

“It sure as hell looks like you kissed her in this photo!” I hear something slam, and my gut says he’s thrown the magazine at the wall. “Luckily, these photos aren’t as incriminating as some of your others, but I’m done, Bennett. Clean up this mess, I’m not doing it this time. You’re not worth the headache.”

I wince. That was harsh. “I’ll fix this,” I say. “I have a plan.”

“Sure you do,” he says sarcastically, and the phone clicks off a second later.

I sigh and mutter to myself, “What the fuck am I going to do?”

Think, Bennett, think.

“Dammit,” I curse when my purse falls from my hands in my haste to grab my phone. I hadn’t been going to answer the call, but after someone’s third repeated attempt to reach me, I feared something bad happened.

I drop to the ground and pick up my bag and the lip gloss, pens, and other various items that had spilled out, shoving them back inside.

Breathless, I pick up the phone, seeing that it says DAD, and just before it stops ringing, I answer. “Hello? Dad? Is something wrong?”

“Yeah, yeah, something is wrong.” He sounds pissed and anyone that knows my dad knows he doesn’t get mad often. He’s the most carefree person on the planet. Protective, yes, but never angry.

“Is it Mom? Lincoln?” I worry, taking a seat on one of the benches dotting the picturesque campus.

“No, no,” he stutters, “this has to do with you.”

“With me?” I squeak. “What could I have possibly done?” My tone of voice grows slightly defensive.

“I’m standing in line to checkout at Wal-Mart and I look over, and what do you know, there’s my daughter on the cover of a magazine kissing some guy. I thought I was paying for you to go to college, not to do this,” he hisses.

“What are you talking about?” My brows furrow in confusion. “Dad, I’m sorry, but I think you’re mistaken.”

“I’m not mistaken,” he throws the word back. “It’s obviously you with some Bennett guy.”

“Bennett?” I question. “I know him but I certainly haven’t kissed him.” Not that I haven’t thought about it or anything.

“Some hockey player prick,” he rants. “Do you know what hockey players do, Grace? Huh, do you? They shove their stick in every puck they can find.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose, fighting the urge to laugh—if I laugh, it’ll only make matters worse for me.