Fake It 'Til You Break It

The lights are all off, but the door is open, so I go right in, taking a few minutes to set up the sound system. Right when I get it ready to hit play, a voice catches me from behind, and I jump.

The janitor stands there with a frown. “Ms. Davenport?”

I smile meekly. “Sorry, Jan. I was hoping to get in some extra work, if that’s okay?”

She nods, lifting a shoulder as she glances around. “Well, I haven’t hit this room yet, and I’ve got at least fifteen more to go, so I don’t see why not. Just be sure to leave it how you found it?”

“Thanks.” I smile, turning back to the stereo when she walks away.

I kick my shoes off, toss my sweater beside them and press play.

I face the mirror, wait for the base to hit, and then I let go.I drop my shoulder, running right through the defender who comes in for the tackle.

Too high, asshole, gotta go for the legs.

The safety dropped back, so it’s only him and I left, or so I thought.

I’m blindsided by some prick who slipped passed his block and I slam to the turf with a groan.

I jump up, leaving the ball where I landed and push off the guy who attempts to pat me on the back.

That’s when I notice the flag that was thrown, and we’re hit with a penalty.

Thirty-yard carry, fucking busted.

I jog to the huddle and spit out my mouthpiece. “What the hell happened?”

“Personal foul.” Trent turns to Thompson. “I don’t give a shit about your beef with that guy out there, let it go. You just cost us Nic’s yards, and another fucking fifteen.” His glare quickly flies to me. “You, chill the fuck out, too. Don’t go gettin’ another fuckin’ flag.”

“Fuck you, roll out.”

He scowls but calls off the next play and we’re back in formation.

I’m wide open, but Trent throws the ball to Alex.

The bitch catches it, taking it down to the twenty-yard line.

He jumps up, knocking shoulders with Thompson, smirking as he passes by me.

His eyes cut to the stands on his way back, and fuck if mine don’t do the same.

Carley sits there, and as if she knows I’m looking at her, she lifts her hand.

Still no Demi.

But as my eyes move down the bleachers, they freeze.

My dad sits there, clapping his fucking hands, while simultaneously shaking his head.

“Nic!”

My head snaps forward and I hustle back to the huddle.

Everyone breaks, but I stick back when Trent does.

“What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

“You’ve got a big fuckin’ mouth, that’s what,” I spit and he glares. “Give me the ball.”

“No,” he snaps. “Line up.”

“Trent—”

“You’re hot headed, clearly pissed about something.” The coach shouts for us to hurry up in the background. “I’m not risking a fucking pick because you wanna showboat.”

“My dad’s here.”

Trent’s eyes cut to mine and he curses.

“Get to the fucking ball and stop being a prick,” he growls, and we rush into position before a delay of game is called.

I go out for the pass, jumping up and over the safety who hung deep.

I catch the ball, my feet touching the ground right before I’m tackled, but the pass was successful and that’s a touchdown for the Spartans.

And because there’s something twisted about me I can’t control, I look at the poor excuse of a man in the bleachers, telling myself all I want to do is prove him wrong in life while refusing to believe any part of me still wishes to please him.

My frustration is only fueled more by my dad’s lack of response, even though it was fully expected.

He sits there in his slacks and button-down, arms folded over his chest.

Piece of shit.

“What’s the matter, Nico? Daddy not impressed?” Alex taunts.

I lose it.

I shove the punk, yanking his helmet off in the process before the ref blows his whistle in warning.

Before I can be ejected and risk having to sit out the next two games, Coach pulls me, sending me straight to the fucking locker room.

Once inside, I slam my helmet against the wall several times before dropping to the bench. I run my hands over my face, then fall back and close my eyes.

Fuck. This. Day.

I tug my shit off, not bothering to shower before putting my gym clothes on.

I try Demi for the millionth fuckin’ time and when she doesn’t answer, I toss my phone across the room.

Where the fuck is she? She agreed to be with me and being at my games comes along with that.

This is bullshit.

With a deep breath, I move for the door, picking up my phone along the way, and glare at the shattered screen.

The last thing I want to do is go home to a dark house, and everyone I hang with is still on the fucking field, so I head for the rooftop. Straight to the fucking edge.