Page 13 of A Wreck, You Make Me (Bad Boys of Bardstown #3)

Just when I think Ledger’s going to take me up on my offer, he throws me a smirk. “Yeah, well, if you break my nose, my wife will break yours. And as tiny as she is, she packs a mean punch.”

Ah, right. His wife.

My little brother is in love too. In fact, he’s already hitched and has two kids.

Almost a year old, and twins: Dove, the girl, and War, the boy.

Anyway, love seems to have done wonders for his temper.

More so than the therapy he had to do, that he still does.

These days, it takes a lot to provoke him.

No wonder people say love conquers all, and no wonder I want to fucking punch his face.

Again I feel guilty for thinking that, because I want him to be happy.

Just as I want Stellan to be happy. They’re my brothers. My family.

It’s just that… my head is fucked and them being here, showing concern isn’t helping.

“Didn’t know you were letting a girl fight your battles these days,” I say, smirking back; although I don’t think mine has any humor in it. “It’s okay though. You can run home to her with your ugly mug intact.”

He keeps smirking. “Ugly or not, this is the mug that gets me laid, so go fuck yourself.”

“I thought it was your big dick that gets you laid,” Riot chimes in at this point.

Ledger eyes Riot. “Why, you afraid you won’t get any action? Given the state of things downstairs.”

Riot throws him a smile, clapping his shoulder. “Appreciate your concern, man, but my girl has no complaints.”

“And why would she,” Ledger retorts, clapping Riot back, “when with your size, you probably just go”—he shrugs—“right in.”

Riot chuckles. “Ah, fuck, is that where you’re going wrong? See, it’s supposed to happen that way. You gotta prep your girl so it does go right in.”

Ledger opens his mouth—to retort, I’m sure—but I butt in. “All right, you fuckfaces, enough. Fucking 101 is over. Measure your dicks and trade your war stories on your own time, yeah? Let’s get back to the game.”

Then I can’t help adding, because were I in my right mind, I’d remind them of this fact—and despite them irritating the fuck out of me, I don’t want them to unnecessarily worry over me— “Besides, no matter how many times you bust out the ruler, I’m going to be bigger and better.

By a fucking mile . So the discussion is moot anyway. ”

They both flip me the bird before flipping each other one and finally jogging away. I take one last look at the glass partition, only to notice they’re both gone. Probably to get a room. Well, good for them, isn’t it?

The rest of the practice is uneventful. As in, I don’t miss any passes, but I also don’t score any goals.

Fantastic. I don’t let it get to me though.

I can’t. I can’t get into my head, not where my game is concerned.

I’m a natural. I know that. I’ve always known it.

I was born to play soccer. I’ve been playing it since I was five years old.

Through all the shit and fucking tragedy, soccer has been my one constant in life.

I just need a distraction. That’s all. I just need to find something that’ll get me to move on and focus.

Once I figure out what that is, everything should be fine.

We’re back in the locker room and I’m about to hit the shower when I hear my name being called. It’s Conrad. He stands at the door, his features looking grave. “A word.”

He doesn’t wait for me to respond either way before he turns around and, I’m assuming, walks back to where he came from, his office most likely. Well, he doesn’t need to, does he? He’s one of my coaches, the head coach in fact, and I’m going to have to obey him whether I like it or not.

Along with the desire to take care of each other, soccer was another uniting factor for our family.

While we were all busy with our lives, soccer had been the one thing that we could come together for.

I knew, given our love and talent for the game, we’d end up in the pros one day.

I also knew we may be crossing paths in our career as well.

While I could never have predicted that we’d all end up associated with one team—mostly by choice, so we could stay close to our home and our little sister—I’ve always been happy about that.

We always only had each other, so it made sense that we’d stick together.

Until I have to stand in my big brother’s office, ready to get chewed out for my game.

For the record, I’ve been in this position a million times.

I’ll be the first to admit that when you use distractions, you’re bound to break a few rules here and there.

You’re bound to be called rebellious when you’re caught breaking curfew because you were partying too hard, or when you’re sneaking into girls’ bedrooms in the middle of the night.

It’s a small price to pay, though, for being the easy one.

I’ve spent most of my life being in trouble with my big brother. But this will be the first time I’ll get a talking-to for soccer, and it makes me want to break something.

Sitting behind his desk, he commands, “Take a seat.”

“I’d rather stand,” I tell him, keeping my place by the door.

His jaw clenches and I’m expecting him to repeat himself. But all he does is throw me a short nod. “Fine. Suit yourself.” I’m still reeling from his unusual behavior when he goes ahead and drops another bomb. “How are you?”

“What?”

“Are you doing okay?”

“What the fuck?”

He narrows his eyes at me, telling me without words he’s starting to get pissed—good, me too—but manages to keep his tone calm as he asks, “How are you finding things here? At practice.”

It’s my turn to make him wait for my answer.

Mostly because I don’t know what else to say other than what in the goddamn fuck is he talking about ?

But then I realize what’s happening and my body tenses.

My blood heats and I fist my hands at my sides.

So this is it, huh. He brought me in here for this bullshit .

Clenching my teeth for a few seconds, I at last say, “If you’re taking suggestions, I’ll admit I’d like more variety at the vending machine. The same old shit is getting boring. And maybe some hot towels in the shower.”

Irritation flickers through his features but I don’t think it’s good enough.

I want him pissed. I want him as fucking pissed as I am right now.

But somehow—and I know it’s a struggle for him; I can see it in the tensing of his features—he manages to keep his calm and say in a brittle voice, “You know that’s not what I meant. ”

“Could’ve fooled me,” I say, my voice just as tight as his.

His jaw pulses. “I’m trying here.”

“Trying to do what?”

“To talk to you.”

“About what?”

“About the shit you’re going through,” he snaps.

I fold my arms across my chest. “And what shit would that be?”

Con watches me for a few seconds before breathing deep and shaking his head.

“Look, I’m not good at this, all right? And especially with you.

We’ve always been,” he pauses to search for a word, “at odds with each other. I’m the brother who makes the rules and you’re the one who breaks them.

And maybe it’s my fucking fault that this is…

fucking difficult. Talking. But…” He takes another deep breath here.

“This must be tough for you. Watching her. With Stellan.”

Tough isn’t the word I’d use.

It’s excruciating, watching the girl I thought was meant for me, with my twin.

Although if I’m being honest, I didn’t think it would be.

When I found out she wanted him instead of me, I thought I could handle it.

When I found out he wanted her back, I thought I could handle stepping aside and letting them be together.

Not only because you can’t really stand in the way of two people wanting to be with each other, but also because I knew Stellan deserved his happy ending.

What I don’t know is why I’m not over his new girlfriend yet.

“It would be for me,” Con goes on. “If I had to see Bronwyn with…”

He trails off, swallowing thickly, and I fist my hands tightly. Because I’m surrounded by fucking love, aren’t I? My oldest brother, like my other two brothers, is in love too. In fact, he just proposed to Bronwyn.

And I get the same urge to punch his face, like I did back on the field toward Ledger. And of fucking course , on the heels of that urge is my ever-present guilt. It’s not that I don’t want Conrad to be fucking happy. It’s just that I want him to go be happy somewhere else.

“All I’m trying to say is,” he continues, his eyes reflecting the same emotion that everyone else’s is—pity—“it’s not easy and I don’t fucking envy you. So if you’d like to take a break, no one?—”

“I’m fine.”

“No one would blame you,” he finishes his sentence.

I clench my jaw, gritting my teeth for a few seconds before saying, “Is there anything else?”

He watches me for a beat. Then, “You need it.”

“I need what?”

“A break.”

This time, I grit my teeth so hard I feel the pain radiating through my jaw. It’s a good thing though. It manages to distract me from this feral need to punch my older brother slash head coach. When I know I won’t fucking fly across the room in rage, I clip, “No.”

His nostrils flare. “Sitting out a season is not ideal, but it’s also not the end of the world. You’re?—”

“I’m not fucking sitting out a season,” I bite out.

“You—”

“Look,” I keep going. “If you have something to say to me about my game, you need to come out with it. I know today was shitty and maybe the last few weeks have been shitty as well. But I’m the fucking Wrecking Thorn. I’m not sitting out a season.”

A muscle is beating on his cheek as he says, “Well, Wrecking Thorn or not, you’re headed that way.”

“What?”

He sighs, his chest moving up and down. “You’re right.

Today was shitty. The last few weeks have been shitty too.

And people are watching. And by people, I mean the team management.

The board. There’s been too much bad publicity in the media, too many rumors, too much speculation, too many wild stories and theories.

Plus it doesn’t fucking help that you’re out there every night, partying it up, fucking girls left and right. ”

I’m partying it up because I’m trying to move the fuck on.

I’m fucking girls left and right because I’m trying to get over a certain girl who chose my brother over me.

If anything, the fucking management should thank me for it.

I’m doing everything I can to get into top form for the upcoming season.

All of this is to get this goddamn ache, the fucking pain out of my system and to get my focus back.

She wouldn’t have helped you with your pain…

I clench my jaw to stop that voice— her voice—flashing through my head. Then, “What I do in my personal time is none of their business.”

“It is if it scares the management,” Conrad retorts. “They’re afraid they might lose sponsors. But more than that, they’re afraid you might lose the fucking championship, and they won’t let that happen. Not after last year.”

My blood is roaring in my veins, howling like an animal as I say, “I’m not going to lose the championship game.”

“They don’t believe that,” he says. “No matter how hard I try to convince them, and believe me, I have. Really hard.”

“Try harder,” I growl.

“Shep—”

“No,” I bite out again. “I’m not fucking taking a break.”

“You need to get your head on straight, and you can’t do that when?—”

“I’ll do it,” I cut him off once again.

“You’ll do what?”

I unfold my arms, and it takes effort, given how tightly my muscles are clenched. Standing up straight, I declare, “Get my head on straight.”

“You—”

“I won’t party anymore. No girls. No bad publicity.”

Conrad doesn’t believe me. “No bad publicity.”

“No,” I vow, looking him in the eyes. “I’ll keep my head down. I’ll do whatever it takes, but I’m not leaving. This is my team. That’s my championship trophy and I’m bringing it home.”

And no one can stop me. Not the team management. Not my brother, the head fucking coach. Not the vultures of the media. Not even the girl who loves my twin brother instead of me.