Total pages in book: 129
Estimated words: 121233 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121233 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
A fool, that’s what I was.
A fool who wouldn’t stop playing the game he knew he’d lose.
The contrast between Giana and Maliyah ran through my head like a PowerPoint presentation all week, too. I couldn’t help but compare them, where one was soft and the other a sharp razor. Maliyah got off on manipulating me, on knocking me down a peg or two, on reminding me just how lucky I was to have her, and how easily I could lose her — just like I had lost her. I used to get off on that, how confident she was, the games she loved to play. It was a thrill, a chase.
But Giana was the opposite.
She knew before I even realized it was an issue that I put others before myself more than I should, that I let Maliyah and even my own family walk all over me because that’s what I’ve always been expected to do. She reminded me every chance she could that I was worthy, that I was good, that I was going somewhere.
My stomach rolled as I adjusted my tie in the dirty mirror of my dorm room, knowing I wouldn’t be able to avoid her tonight. It had been hard enough through the week to ignore texts or tell her I was busy, to not look her way every time she was on the field or in the cafeteria, to adjust my schedule so I wasn’t in the same place with her for too long.
But tonight was the team auction.
It was her event.
And I knew it’d gut me to see her, to be around her, to even be in the same room.
It would kill me.
And yet I craved it.
It was sick and toxic, and I couldn’t discern good from bad anymore, not as I turned to each side and watched my reflection in the mirror, smoothing my hands over the all-black tux I’d rented for the night. I was as much of a mess as I had been when I’d left her at the observatory last week as I turned out the light and made my way out of the dorm, telling my roommate and teammate that I’d meet him at the stadium.
I needed to walk alone.
Fall greeted me as I strolled through campus, ignoring the looks I got from various groups of girls as I passed them. I kept my hands in my pockets, listening to the breeze through the trees and watching as more and more of the colorful leaves fell to the ground.
I would have been lying if I tried to tell myself, or anyone else, that my mom’s situation wasn’t adding to my stress. I’d talked to her every night, and it had been the same every time. She was wasting her days away drinking or doing God knew what else, her words always slurred and garbled through tears when we spoke.
And for the first time in my life, I not only recognized that I needed help.
I was prepared to ask for it.
Still, my chest was on fire as I pulled my phone from my pocket, thumbing through to Dad’s name. I tapped it before I could talk myself out of it, pausing at a bench by the campus fountain as the line rang.
“Son,” he greeted, his deep voice familiar in the aching kind of way. “Good to hear from you. Ready for the big game tomorrow?”
I paused, thrown off by his joy, by how unbothered and peaceful he was. He’d been that way ever since he left Mom.
Since he left us.
A whole new life greeted him on the other side of that divorce, one where I wasn’t sure I fit anywhere anymore. He had his window office in Atlanta, his giant house in the suburbs, his perfect lawn and perfect kids and perfect wife. Outside of football, we had nothing in common.
He didn’t know a single thing about me, not anymore.
“Providence is tough,” he continued when I didn’t answer, mistaking my silence for nerves about the game. “That offense is quick and crafty. But you’re a beast. You’ll give them hell. Be aggressive and don’t get lazy in the second half — that’s where they typically do the most damage.”
“I’m not worried about the game,” I finally said.
“Good. You shouldn’t be. You—”
“Mom needs help.”
I was surprised by the depth of my own voice, by how steady the words came from my throat. I knew it surprised my father, too, because he grew silent, clearing his throat after a long pause.
“Your mother is no concern of mine anymore.”
“Yeah, I know. You left her and your first son behind years ago.”
“Clay,” he warned, like I was out of line. That deep rumble of his voice made me pause, made the hair on the back of my neck stand up the way it always did before I tried something risky — like a new play on the field.