Taking a deep breath, I stare at my phone’s screen, contemplating giving Fable a call. But I can’t do it. I’m scared to hear her voice. Hear the accusations, the questions. She’s got plenty to say, I’m sure. She always does.
Instead, I text her. Two simple words I should probably send to Chelsea as well, but I’m not ready for that confrontation yet.
I’m sorry.
One step at a time. Fake it till you make it. I can do this. Approaching Fable is the first step. Figuring out what I’m going to do with Mom is the second step.
Begging Chelsea’s forgiveness will be the third and final step. The scariest step of all.
“You dressed?” Wade asks as he barges into my room.
“Would it matter if I was, considering you just busted right in?” I stand and shove my phone into the front pocket of my jeans, pretending it’s no big deal that I haven’t heard back from Fable after my text. She’s usually so quick, texting me back as fast as I answer her.
My phone is silent. Mocking me. Making me feel like a failure.
“Come on.” Wade flicks his head toward the front of the house. “Your guest is waiting.”
I follow Wade out into the living room, nerves gnawing at my gut, making me almost nauseous. I haven’t eaten much this last week either, so that could contribute to the queasy feeling I’m having.
The nausea hits me tenfold when I see who’s sitting on my couch.
“Coach.” I stop when he stands, big and wide and intimidating as hell. He played football all his life, had gone to the pros only to have to bow out due to an injury two months into his first season. So he turned to coaching and is one of the best coaches in the state, if not the entire country.
Everyone has mad respect for Coach Halsey. And I’ve shit all over it practically the entire season.
“Son.” He nods, his mouth grim. “You’ve missed practice.”
I stand up straighter as I watch Wade wander off into the kitchen. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Got any excuses you want me to hear?”
“No, sir.” I shake my head. Coach hates excuses. He thinks they’re nothing but a bunch of bullshit and lies.
“Good.” He approaches me, stopping just in front of me so he can poke the center of my chest with his index finger. “This is your last chance. You screw around again, miss one practice, screw up your classes, whatever, I’m dropping you for the rest of the season.”
Swallowing hard, I meet his gaze, grimacing against the pain in my chest when he pokes me there again. “I understand.”
“For whatever reason, that brother-in-law of yours thinks you have a lot of potential. I was just on the phone with him last week. Right before you ditched us.”
“You were?” I rub my chest, surprised that Drew would bother to call him.
“I was. He thinks you could go pro. I agree with him. But if you’re going to blow it every time you get your panties in a twist or your heart broken, you’re never going to make it.”
Coach Halsey is right. He gives me another ten minutes of the same speech and I take it, bowing my head, saying “yes sir” and “no sir” in all the right places. Until finally he claps me on the shoulder, tells me to show up tomorrow afternoon for practice or else, and then leaves my house as if he’d never been there in the first place.
I am a lucky bastard, that he’s giving me another chance. I don’t deserve it.
“Did that work?”
I turn to find Wade studying me, his expression completely neutral. Right about now, Wade would make a most excellent poker player. “If you mean did Coach set my head on straight, then yeah. I think so.”
“You’d better do more than just think so. One more screw-up and you’re gone. Don’t f**k up.”
“I won’t,” I promise, but I know that’s going to be near impossible. I f**k up all the time. Even Wade said so.
“Stop faking it and actually make it for once,” Wade continues, his gaze level with mine. “I think you can do it if you just let yourself. You’re stronger than you think, dude.”
I wish I believed in myself as much as Wade does.
CHAPTER 20
Owen
“You shouldn’t do it.”
I glance up to find Wade studying me, his jaw tight, his eyes narrowed. He’s let his dark hair grow out since the beginning of the semester and it falls around his face in downright curly waves. I’ve told him more than once he looks like a pu**y with all that hair in his face.
But the chicks f**king dig it. He’s had more tail than I ever did. Big bad football player with the shaggy hair and pretty face gets all the ladies, which doesn’t make sense to me, but whatever.
That’s what we’re doing now. Having yet another party at our house. But this one is legit. We’re celebrating the big win, the one that’s taking us to the playoffs. Practically the entire team is in our house, spilling out onto the front porch, the front yard, the backyard. The neighbors are tolerant, the majority of the houses on our street are filled with college students, but still.
We’re loud. The party is getting semi out of control and it’s not even midnight. There are girls everywhere. The place is crawling with them. Even Des is here. Wade reluctantly let him come over since for whatever reason, Wade has decided to become my personal bodyguard, detective, and bouncer, all in one.
This is how he’s caught me, all alone in the bathroom with a joint in one hand and a lighter in the other. I’m happy as f**k, thrilled we’re on our way to the playoffs, but I’m plagued with thoughts. Bad thoughts.
I swore I saw Chelsea this afternoon at the game. Same hair, same style of clothes, same long sexy-as-hell legs, the girl had been with her friends, both male and female, and she kept distracting me. Especially when the guy sitting next to her slung his arm around her shoulders and pulled her in close, kissing her.
Jealousy had torn at me and I ripped off my helmet, glaring at her. Glaring at him. Could she really be ballsy enough to show up at a game and make out with some jackass right in front of me?
Turned out it wasn’t her at all, but it was too late. My brain was f**ked. Chelsea was in there. Insistent and sweet and pissed and sexy and naked and smiling, and hell.
I couldn’t shake her.
“Come on, dude, give it to me.” Wade holds out his hand, waiting for me to drop the joint in his palm, but I don’t.
Instead I flick the brand-new lighter and the flame appears. I spark the joint up, take a long, slow drag, and let the harsh smoke fill my lungs, holding it there until I finally can’t take it anymore and exhale.