Page 8 of Fragile (Cedar Lakes University #2)

Chapter seven

Miles

When you’re faced with a decision for your future, no one tells you how many roads there are to take. No one tells you that it’s so multifaceted when you make decisions for yourself as an adult. There’re needs versus wants, right and wrong, morals and dilemmas. But that gray area? The in-between, it’s huge. Often, the answer to what we want and doing what’s right isn’t always the same.

The little white pill weighs heavily in my hand. A tiny, embossed line on the one side grazes against my fingertips as I sit at my desk in my room.

Waiting.

Battling with myself, because I know the consequences. I know the risks.

Yet, every time I think of being able to impress my dad, I take it. Consequences be damned. Rinse and repeat. This is my third game doing it—fourth, if you count last year. And each one, I’ve gotten a better reaction from him. Can I do this without help now? The question plagues me. I hate the low and the mood swings and the shitty feeling afterward, but the high from knowing my dad is proud of me again? I can’t stop chasing it.

My phone buzzes on my bedside table. I glance over, and it’s like he knows I’m about to do something that could fuck up my whole career.

I place the pill back on my desk, next to the Tylenol pot I keep it in, and swipe the screen, mustering up all the energy I have to lift it to my ear. “Morning, Dad.”

“Did you call him?” Dad’s voice is sharp, no greeting, no warmth—just straight to the point.

I hesitate. “Uh...not yet.”

“You what? ” His tone drops, lower, more dangerous. “I told you days ago, Miles. And I’ve sent reminders. How hard is it to pick up the damn phone and make an appointment?”

“I was going to, but—”

“But what?” he snaps, cutting me off. “Too busy? Too tired? You’ve got an excuse for everything, don’t you?”

My heart starts pounding harder. “I just... I forgot, okay?”

“Forgot?” he repeats, voice rising. “This is your career we’re talking about. You think anyone else is going to forget to take care of their body? You think the competition’s out there slacking off like you?”

“I’m not slacking,” I say, but it comes out weak, almost defensive, and I hate myself for sounding that way.

“Really?” he barks. “Then where are you right now? Hmm?”

My throat tightens. “I’m, uh, just—”

“Stop stuttering, Miles,” he hisses. “Where. Are. You?” Each word resonates like a slap, his anger rising with each one.

“I’m at home,” I admit quietly, wincing in anticipation.

“You’re supposed to be at the gym!” He’s past the point of exploding now. “I gave you a schedule for a reason, and you’re ignoring it? Do you even care about this? About any of it?”

“Of course I care!” I blurt out. “I just needed a break, Dad. I can’t—”

“Oh, right, a break. Sure. Because you’ve earned that, right? With all the hard work you’re putting in? You didn’t even call the damn nutritionist!” He lets out a harsh laugh. “You don’t want this bad enough, Miles. You’re wasting time, my time, and you don’t even realize it.”

His words slice into me, guilt and something much darker curling in my stomach. I grip the phone tighter, attempting to stay calm. “I’m trying,” I reply through gritted teeth.

“Trying isn’t good enough!” he yells. “Trying gets you nowhere. Action gets you results. You keep this up, and you’re going to end up like everyone else—mediocre. Is that what you want? To be just another guy who didn’t make it because he couldn’t stick to a simple plan?”

I’m silent. I don’t know what to say. I hate when he talks to me like this, like I’m already failing before I’ve even started.

“Miles, I’m telling you this because I know what it takes. And if you can’t handle the pressure now, then maybe this isn’t for you.”

That hits even deeper. I bite my lip, my chest tight with frustration and rage I can’t release. “I’ll call the nutritionist,” I mumble, just to end the conversation.

“You better,” he says, voice cold as ice. “And get to the gym. Now . I don’t care how tired you are. If you want this, you’ll do what needs to be done. If not, I’ll stop wasting my time.”

“No,” I whisper, defeated, but hating that I’m succumbing to him. “I want to do this.”

“Then get your ass in the fucking gym and call the nutritionist. You’d better not be this sloppy at tonight’s game.”

Just then, I hear the faint call of a flight number in the background. He must be at the airport. I swallow hard, dread creeping up my spine. “You’re coming?” I ask.

“Of course I’m coming. Why would I not?”

My chest tightens at the thought of screwing up again, of him watching from the stands, eyes burning into me every time I miss a pass or hesitate on the field. The weight of his expectations pressing down on me is suffocating.

“You better not embarrass me.”

The line goes dead before I can respond.

The dial tone I’m so accustomed to greets me, and my grip tightens around my phone, before I launch it across my room with a deafening roar. Anger grips me in its fierce jaw, as I watch the device smash into the doorframe and land with an echoing crack. My breaths are heavy, weighted, and harsh as adrenaline courses through me all the way down to my toes.

I stand in a rush and grab my gym bag, slinging it over my shoulder as irritation makes my skin crawl. Why the fuck can’t I just tell him to fuck off? Even in my haze, I know why. My fists open and close rhythmically as the pill catches my eye again. The elephant in the room, my saving grace and my damnation. I’m moving toward my desk before I can register what I’m doing. This is my only option to get him off my back. I’ve worked hard my entire life, but it’s never enough, and I need an edge. I need this.

So, I take one and pocket the rest, heading out to the gym, just like he wanted. I pause by the door, staring down at the spiderweb crack on my phone, that spreads from the corner of the screen. Damaged. Broken. Tainted. Just like my relationship with my father.

***

The first quarter is a whirlwind of intense action. Seb is on fire, his passes precise. Our offense is clicking, and we’re moving the ball down the field with a rhythm that feels unstoppable. Hudson, our outside linebacker, is anchoring our defense, making crucial tackles and keeping the San Jose’s offense in check. I’m in the zone, blocking hard, running my routes, and waiting for my moment.

I’ve barely thought about the fact that my dad is here. I didn’t see him before the game, which is for the best. It meant I could focus and get my head where I needed it to be.

On the next play, I move to the line of scrimmage. The snap comes, and I rocket off the mark, breaking into my route. I glance back just in time to see Seb’s eyes lock onto mine. The ball spirals through the air toward me. I leap, fully extending as my fingers make contact with the leather. Pulling it in, I secure the ball tightly as I hit the ground. First down.

The crowd goes wild, and I can hear the chants of our fans, their energy feeding into our performance. We huddle up, and Seb’s eyes are blazing with determination.

“Great catch, Miles,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder.

“Great throw, QB.”

We line up again, and I see the San Jose defense adjusting, trying to read our play. But Seb’s too smart for them. He changes the play at the line, calling an audible. I nod, understanding my new route. The snap comes, and I’m off again, cutting through the middle of the field. Seb’s under pressure, but he stays calm and releases the ball just before a defender gets to him. It’s a perfect throw, and our tight end, Chris, catches it in stride, sprinting down the sideline for another big gain.

By the fourth quarter, we’ve built a solid lead, but we can’t let up. The opposition is fighting back, and we need to stay sharp. I glance over to the sidelines where the cheer squad stand in their uniforms and spot Quinn immediately, her flame red hair pulled up into a ponytail and a beaming smile on her face as she waves her pom-poms at me. “Go eighty-eight!” she yells, and I can’t stop the smile from spreading across my face.

Just as I refocus and go to make my break, a hulking guy named Derek, blindsides me with a late hit. Pain explodes through my side, and I hit the ground hard. The referee’s whistle blows, signaling a penalty, but it’s too late to stop the surge of anger that rises within me.

I push myself up, ignoring the pain, and get in his face. “What the hell was that?” I shout, shoving him.

He smirks, unfazed. “Welcome to real football, pretty boy. Too busy staring at the ass on the side of the pitch to notice me? That’s your too bad.”

When he flicks the side of my helmet, that’s all it takes. My fists clench, and before I can think, I’m shoving him again. He stumbles back, but then surges toward me. “You’re a fucking asshole!” I shout, just as he gets one decent right hook to my ribs, exactly where he knocked into me. The pain of his hit registers, but it doesn’t stop me. The field erupts into chaos as players from both teams rush in, trying to tear us apart. I can hear the crowd roaring, the mix of cheers and boos adding to the frenzy.

Seb and Hudson are there in an instant, pulling me back. “Miles, calm down!” Seb yells, his grip firm on my shoulder. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Let it go, man,” Hudson adds, his voice urgent. “We need you in the game, not on the bench.”

Derek is led away by his teammates, grinning like he’s won. He hasn’t won a fucking thing, the prick. I take a deep breath, trying to rein in my anger. But as the ref passes him, I see his face contort in fury as he throws his helmet off, and I know exactly what’s coming for me next.

He reaches me in four strides. “Eighty-eight, you’re off too. I don’t care who started it,” he says, his voice leaving no room for argument.

Seb and Hudson loosen their grips on me. “Miles, go cool off,” Seb mutters, but I barely hear him. The anger and adrenaline still course through my veins and cloud my thoughts.

As I make my way to the sideline, Coach approaches, his expression a storm of rage and frustration too. Hooray, it seems everyone is pissed tonight. “Miles, that was reckless. We needed you out there, not getting into fights!” he barks, his voice a harsh whisper meant only for me.

“Fuck,” I whisper. “I know, Coach, I’m sorry,” I manage to say, but it sounds hollow. The reality of my actions sinks in, and I realize how much I’ve let my team down.

I slump onto the bench, my head in my hands, the pain in my side a dull throb compared to the ache of how much I’ve fucked up tonight.

And worse? My dad is here somewhere, watching the whole thing.

Fuck.