The Playbook

“Try me, Jake,” he growls, once again slamming his hands down on his desk. “If the other guys can do it, I don’t see why you can’t.”

I stand up and square up to him; this asshole needs to be brought down a peg or two.

“Nice chat, Coach. We should do it again soon.” I wink at him and stroll out of the office.

“Jake, don’t push me,” he calls after me. “Drink before Saturday’s game and I’ll bench you.”

I bite my tongue, knowing anything else I say will only be digging the hole deeper.

My head continues to pound as I head back towards the changing rooms. The flashes from the cameras on the other side of the car park catch my eye and I sigh. I can’t get away from any of this shit.

I grab my bags and text Erin, asking her to pick me up outside the gas station, then I grab my bag and walk to the opposite end of the field. Jumping the fence, I trek through two rear yards until I reach the main street behind the club.

I toss my bag on the ground and sit on it while I wait for my sister. I’ll get my car later, but right now all I can think about is painkillers and sleep. If I’d gone to my car, I would’ve ended up trashing another camera or running over one of the rats operating them. Neither would be a good option for my reputation right now. Or my career.

A little white pulsar swerves up onto the gutter, narrowly missing me. I walk over and yank the door open, glaring at my sister as she chuckles.

“Jesus, Erin. How have you not killed anyone in this thing?” I slam the door and buckle my belt. She laughs as she takes off down the street.

“Like you can talk. You should be thanking me for coming to pick you up, not bashing my driving skills.” She shoots me a sideways glance. “Anyway, blame my driving teacher.”

“Hey,” I retort. “I took you out every night out of the goodness of my own heart to make sure you got your hours.”

“No, you took me out because Mum paid you to,” she corrects. “So, what’s up this time?”

“Nothing,” I mutter, scowling at the change of subject. “The usual. Can we not talk about me for a while? What’s up with you? How’s work?” I ask.

Her face brightens. “Good actually. I think I’m being considered for a promotion already. I’m not supposed to know, but I overheard my boss talking about it.”

“That’s great news,” I say, genuinely happy for her. If anyone deserves to be rewarded for her effort, it’s Erin. Sometimes it’s easy to forget that she’s still only eighteen. “Hey, let’s go out and grab some lunch or something. Like old times,” I suggest.

Erin grins at me and nods. “That’d be great.”

It used to be a regular thing, catching up over lunch and a few drinks to chat about what was going on in our lives. But then life got in the way and our catch ups took a back seat. I kind of miss knowing what’s going on with her. And with Mum too. I’ve been so focused on fucking up my own damn life that I’ve forgotten to check in with the people I love. God, listen to me, getting all sentimental. Too much alcohol always brings out the pussy in me.

It’s late afternoon when I finally get home. I down some water and painkillers, turn my phone off—which hasn’t stopped ringing since I left the club—and dive into bed, falling asleep before my head even hits the pillow.

It's after midnight when I wake up and I'm feeling better until I see my phone. Over twenty missed calls from Serj and a dozen more texts. I make myself a sandwich—partly trying to stall dealing with him—and then call him back.

“About bloody time, you dipshit! Where the hell have you been?” he shouts down the phone.

“I felt sick, so I came home.” There was no point telling him I was utterly useless after doing God knows what all night. No doubt he knows about my run-in with the coach.

“Cut the crap, Jake. You think I don't talk to Karl? I'm your agent;, it's my job to keep track of you and if you go AWOL they are gonna call me, so where the hell did you go?”

“Look, back the fuck off, Serj,” I growl. “I felt sick so I went home.”

“How?” he barks. “Your fucking car is still there.”

“My sister came and got me,” I retort.

“Because you were too hungover to drive yourself?”

“No, I—”

“JAKE,” he barks, his voice so loud that I jump. “I know you were hung-over. Don't fucking lie to me,” he hisses, clearly agitated. I seem to be having that effect on a lot of people lately. “You’re in every fucking magazine doing shots off some chick’s body.”

“Serj—” I pause. I am? How do I have no recollection of that? I almost feel ripped off that I don’t remember. I make a mental note to hit google image search later. “Fine, I had a few drinks, but I was not hung-over. I’m sorry, okay? I was worked up last night and couldn't sleep, so thought a cheeky drink would help; is that such a crime?”