Page 8

Ever since my run-in with Avery, things haven’t gotten any better.

If anything, they’re worse because I now avoid my usual trips to Java the Hutt for fear of bumping into her, and that puts me on edge.

I’m nothing if not methodical. I like the comfort of routine, and yeah, maybe I’m a little superstitious, too.

Regardless, the sludge West calls coffee that he brews in the little pot in our apartment isn’t cutting it, nor is the lack of superior caffeine.

My headaches are proof of that, and even if they weren’t, I desperately crave a latte and the nutty flavor of espresso mixing with vanilla, caramel, and cream.

I arrived late for my class on Wednesday and Karr called me out, but it was worth it to avoid her. When class ended, I had to bust my ass out of the lecture hall lest she catch me on the way out.

By Thursday, the team was growing weary of my shit performance on the field. Even Coach was at his wits’ end. Murmurs of starting Clayton, our backup quarterback, spread like wildfire. Spirits plummet, and dejection fills the eyes of my teammates where hope and determination once lived.

I’ve gone three years improving and increasing performance on the field, and I choose now to choke.

Now it’s Friday, and as we’re making our way off the field after practice, I can feel everyone’s eyes on me. Gone are the words of encouragement. In their place is the heavy weight of silence.

In the locker room, my name is whispered in corners, and I wince each time I hear it. The only thing worse than letting yourself down, is letting your teammates and your friends down too, and that’s exactly what I’ll do if I don’t get a rein on my feelings.

“Okay, are we going to talk about the elephant in the room or just ignore it?” Jace asks as he strips himself from his jersey.

I grunt out a response, unable to meet his eyes.

Brandon comes up beside him, peering over at me as he says, “What? You mean the five times he got sacked by our own line in practice?”

“Or how he hasn’t hit his target in three days?” Chris chimes in.

Across from me, West sinks down onto the bench, saying nothing as he gazes up at me like a mute. I’m not sure what’s worse: Chris and Brandon’s accuracy in their criticism of me or West’s silence.

I roughly yank my pads off. “You think I don’t know I’m playing like shit?”

“I think even the term ‘shit’ is being a little generous these days,” Jace says.

I sigh, and slam my pads inside my locker, then spin around to face them. My jaw clenches as I try and think of an explanation that doesn’t make me sound pathetic as fuck but there are none.

“It’s her, isn’t it?” he asks.

I scrub my hands over my face. “She’s fucking everywhere,” I mumble behind my hands. It’s overdramatic, but it feels true, even if it’s not.

“Shit. You have another class with her?” Chris asks.

I shake my head. “She works at Java the Hutt. I’ve been avoiding it all week.” I glance over at West who’s well aware I’ve been skipping my twice-daily coffee runs; he just doesn’t know why.

Chris crosses his arms over his chest, his eyes brightening. “So, you haven’t been getting those girly drinks of yours?”

“They’re not girly.” I scowl. “Besides, it’s not just the drinks.

” Though I fucking miss them like I’d miss a limb.

“It’s the routine. Everything’s off, I’m getting headaches in the afternoon, and she’s got me fucking paranoid.

Everywhere I turn, I’m looking for her, waiting for the next time I’ll see her.

For her to find one more thing I love, and tarnish that, too. ”

Chris grunts while Jace and Brandon exchange glances, but it’s West who speaks up. “You need to talk to her.”

“You seldom have anything to say, and that’s what you come up with?” I shake my head and pinch the bridge of my nose. “I told you?”

“But that was before the championship was at stake,” Jace interrupts.

Chris steps forward, meeting my eyes. “The whole team depends on you, man. We need you with us one hundred percent.”

“You think I don’t know that?” I snap. “You think I don’t know I’m letting everyone down? That I’m about to fucking blow it, all because I can’t get my fucking feelings in check?” I growl and peel my pants off while my stiff muscles scream.

“If you know it’s messing you up, then you need to do something about it.” Jace shrugs like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“Avoiding her isn’t working,” West agrees.

“This thing with her is eating you alive,” Brandon chimes in. “We can all see it.”

What the fuck is this? Jump on Damon day?

I scowl as I glance between their faces. “It won’t help.”

Chris scoffs. “Well, it can’t get any worse than this, so I think it’s safe to say it’s worth a shot.”

I clench my jaw so hard my teeth ache as I reach into my locker and grab a towel. I never should’ve told them about Avery. I should’ve just kept it all buried, bottled up in the recesses of my mind where my feelings belong. “I’m not talking to her, so just drop it.”

Jace throws his hands up. “Seriously, man?”

I slam my locker shut, effectively cutting him off. The sound echoes in the space between us like a thunderclap, and several heads turn my way while my friends just stare at me through narrowed, judgy eyes.

Without another word, I turn for the showers, managing to ignore everyone around me until I’m dressed and outside, headed for my car.

Sliding behind the wheel of my old Chevy pickup, I lean back in the tattered seat and close my eyes while I think about everything my friends said.

Deep down, I know they’re right. If I keep going like this, my game will suffer, and I’ll fail.

We’ll lose the semifinals, and all my hard work and dedication will be for nothing.

But I also can’t imagine sitting down across from Avery and listening to anything she has to say.

If it’s closure she wants, she can forget it.

I owe her nothing, especially not my time and energy.

The shrill sound of my phone cuts through my thoughts, the sound jarring in the silence. Turning, I rummage through my duffle bag and pull it out, glancing at the screen before I answer.

“Hey, Dad,” I breathe, trying to inject some semblance of happiness into my voice.

“Sound a little happier, will ya?” my father says. “The Peach Bowl,” he says, referring to our semi-final game, “is only two days away, and you sound miserable. Is Coach Greene working you too hard?”

My heart pinches at the sound of his voice. If there’s one person who wants this as much as I do, it’s him. He’s been there for me every second of the way. He’s my biggest cheerleader and my number-one fan.

“Yeah.” I force a chuckle past my lips. “Sorry. I’m just tired. He’s been kicking our asses, that’s for sure.”

“Did you just finish practice for the day?”

“Yep,” I say, trying to inject some happiness into my voice. “Time to grab some food and ice my arm. Did you finish making travel arrangements for this weekend?”

“Sure did,” he says like a proud papa bear. I can practically see him pushing out his chest. “I’ll be in Atlanta by Saturday night.”

My lips part, but nothing comes out. My father makes a decent living, but I know traveling to the game won’t be cheap. Part of me wishes he wouldn’t come. It makes the fear of failing so much worse.

I picture him sitting in the stands, decked out in orange and blue and cheering me on, and I wonder what he’ll think when he watches me flop?

I swallow over the fear clogging my throat. “That’s great. I can’t believe you’re driving all that way for me.”

“Are you kidding me? It’s not every day your son resurrects a losing team and takes them to the college playoffs. You should be proud, Damon. I know I am.”

“Yeah, sure,” I say, feeling some of my bravado slip.

A beat of silence follows, then, “Is everything okay?”

I straighten, even though he can’t see me. Dad knows me too well. “Yeah, why wouldn’t it be?” I ask.

“You sound . . .” He trails off, and I don’t blame him for being unable to put a finger on it, because even I can’t figure out how I’m feeling. Lost? Afraid? Frustrated? Angry? It’s too hard to tell when my head won’t stop spinning for a fucking second to let me process it.

Dad never said much about my relationship with Avery in the past, but I never got the impression he was thrilled about me seriously dating an Astor.

As a construction laborer, he’s worked on projects for the Astors before, so he’s no stranger to the family name.

But as a blue-collar worker who’s never had anything handed to him, and has had to work for everything he has, Dad tends to view anyone with that much money as entitled, spoiled, and out of touch with reality.

Asshole rich , he calls them. And even though Avery was always different from the rest, I imagine he viewed her through the same lens, regardless.

He’d never admit it, but when she broke my heart, I think he was relieved.

Which is precisely why I can’t tell him what’s really bothering me.

It’s bad enough I’m getting flak from my friends; I don’t need it from him too, especially when I’m beating myself up enough for the both of us.

“I’m just tired,” I say, which isn’t a lie. Until I ran into Avery, I was fucking pumped, but now . . . Now I’m exhausted. Worn out like an old blanket, threadbare and thin from overuse. It wouldn’t take much to tear right through me. “It’s a lot of pressure, you know?”

“It is, but are you doubting yourself?”

I sigh. “Yes. I don’t know. Maybe?”

“Don’t think for one second you can’t handle the heat.

I’ve watched you grow from a boy into the young man you are today, and I know without a doubt there’s nothing you can’t do.

You’ve been working toward this your whole life.

You’ve earned it, and when you win, I’ll be waiting for you proudly on the sidelines just like I have every other time.

This is your moment, son. Don’t let anyone or anything take it from you. ”

I swallow, feeling the unfamiliar prick of tears stinging the back of my eyes.

Fuck, I’m going soft.

“Thanks, Dad,” I murmur.

“Anytime. Now get yourself some dinner, get some sleep, and call me once you’re on the bus and on your way to Georgia.”

“Will do. Bye, Dad.”

I hang up and run a hand over the back of my neck, mulling over my father’s words. Don’t let anyone or anything take it from you.

For a moment I wonder if he suspects more than I let on.

My father and I have always been close. Growing up, it was just the two of us.

My mother left when I was young. I have zero memories of her, and I never minded because he more than made up for it.

Which is why I can’t stand the thought of letting him down.

He’d never say it, but if I lose this weekend, it’ll gut him.

I sit in the cab of my truck, phone still clutched in my hand.

The weight of everything presses down on me like shoulder pads after a two-a-day in the heat.

For the first time all week, I let myself be still.

No drills. No pretending. Just me, the quiet, and the realization I’ve been running myself into the ground trying to avoid the one person I can’t outrun.

Maybe my dad’s right. Maybe this is my moment.

But if that’s true—if I really want to rise to the occasion—I have to stop letting the past hold me hostage.

I stare through the windshield at nothing in particular, then reach for the ignition, thinking that’s easier said than done.