Page 4 of Flagrant Foul (Totally Pucked #3)

Teddy “T-Dog” O’Reilly

“Yo, Tee. Wait up.”

A honeyed voice hits me between the shoulders and trickles down my spine. I stop walking, though I’m in no mood for small talk. Practice was shit, Coach is a dick, and I want to get home to my fish.

I steady myself before turning around. We’re in the parking garage at the arena and no one else is around. We’re alone. Just Sev and me.

This Sev is different from the one who sits opposite me in restaurants and locker rooms. He talks quieter and looks at me longer.

This Sev is the one who fucks me up royally.

When people ask what made me decide to become a goalie, I usually say I can’t remember.

If they press for more, I give them a little spiel about my agility, focus, and passion for the game.

What I don’t ever tell them is the truth: an offhand comment by my brother’s best friend changed the trajectory of my life.

I never tell anyone that when I was ten, I marched myself into the coach’s office at the start of the season and demanded to try out for goalie.

I don’t say that when he asked why I wanted to do it, I answered, “My reflexes are fire, Coach,” with absolute certainty.

God, it would be embarrassing to say that aloud.

I don’t say that long before Sev started fucking me up, he was a family friend who had more influence on me than anyone else in my life. I don’t say that he’s the reason I’m stuck where I am, despite the fact that everything in my life screams at me to move on.

“Samir doesn’t mean it like you think he does, Teddy.

” Samir is the new Blackeyes goalie coach, and he means it exactly like I think he does.

Believe me, that man thinks I’m on the team thanks to a heaping dose of luck and nothing else.

“It’s just the way he talks. It’s his voice or his tone, or whatever.

If you take a breath and listen to his words, you’ll see he’s saying all the same things Alonso used to say to you. ”

“He’s not.”

“He is.”

I sweep my hand heavily across my forehead. I’m so not in the mood for Sev and his bullshit today, but I know what he’s like. He has that infuriatingly dogged look in his eyes that lets me know there’s no way he’s backing down on this.

“Fine, I’ll listen to his words on Monday.”

Sev nods his approval, but I can tell he doesn’t believe me.

It makes me irrationally angry, so I plaster a fake smile on my face and start walking purposefully toward my car.

It’s a smile that’s meant to be bright and sunny, but from the way my bottom lip is pulling, I suspect it might be coming off a little affected.

“I’m fine, Sev,” I call back. “Everything’s fine. Make sure you tell Nate I’m fine.”

“I’ll tell him you’re fine when I’m sure you’re fine.”

And there it is. The fucking endless concern I don’t want or need from him. It stops me in my tracks and spins me to face him.

“Don’t be such a fucking asshole, Sev. There’s nothing wrong with me, and you know what Nate’s like. You think it’s no big deal, but this shit has consequences for me.”

“It has consequences for us too.”

“Oh, us ,” I say sarcastically, dragging the word out. “Right. Us being you and Nathan, right? Always you and Nathan. Always fucking you and fucking Nathan. It’s always what works for you and what you think is best. Never what I want, or what I think, right? ”

“That’s right,” he says calmly.

If he were someone else, I’d think he was attempting to deflect and improve the mood with a joke, but he’s not, and it’s the wrong thing to say to me.

“Do you know what that’s like? Do you have any idea how infuriating it is?

How invalidating? Do you know how it makes me feel to be watched like this?

It’s more than invalidating—it’s fucking irritating.

Yes, I went through a bad patch. Yes, I’m a person who has experienced anxiety and depression, but here’s a little news flash for you: mental health is like any other kind of health.

It has ups and downs, and sometimes you’re well and sometimes you’re not.

It’s something millions of people deal with, and it’s not some extra big fucking deal because it involved me for a while, okay?

I don’t need this bullshit from you, and I don’t want it.

I’m twenty-four fucking years old and I’d really, really love it if you could treat me like it for once. ”

I consider it an epic failure when I slip up and bring my age into the equation like this. And unfortunately, it happens a lot. Nothing says I’m a kid trying to act like an adult more than yelling about how old you are at every given opportunity.

“You’re always telling me what you’re like, Teddy, what you want and what you need, but here’s what I’m like: I will watch over you. I will make sure you’re okay, and I will step in if you’re not.”

No matter how many times my heart hears shit like this, and no matter how many times I explain to it that he doesn’t mean it like that, it takes it the wrong way—the racing, beating out of my chest, can’t breathe in or out way.

“Whatever,” I say, raising my hand and giving him the finger as I head to my car.

It’s your fault I’m like this, asshole.