Page 3 of Love Game

Now I realize the reason. We don’thaveanything. I’m a bit of fun. I mean nothing to him. His cheating proved that. Maybe he’s having his college experimental phase or something, before he settles down with a girl like the good preppy boy he is. I’m his guy version of the Katy Perry song.I kissed a naïve boy and I liked it.But it’s on me, too. I had a choice. Knowing him as I do, I could’ve said no. I should never have let him seduce me. No,seduceis too romantic. I let himuseme. Why?

I don’t care. It ends now. I’m glad he cheated, in a way. It’s a warning. It just proves what I’ve always known… he doesn’t care about me at all. The sooner I put an end to our pointless, empty hookups, the better. Let him have his exhibition match and his applause. I have better things to do than him.

Chapter 3

Dane

“I’m home,” I yell out of habit, though I’m pretty sure the house is empty.

It’s a two-up two down terrace, small enough to tell if anyone is home the moment I step through the door. I don’t feel liketalking to anybody. I can’t get Alex’s expression out of my head. Like he expected better from me. I don’t know why he would.

I drop my tennis bag in the hall, where Mum will probably trip over it later and yell at me as though I’m thirteen years old again. Every time I come home, she acts like I revert back to adolescence. I go into the living room and flick on the TV, not bothering to turn on the lights on the Christmas tree. They always make annoying reflections in the screen, and anyway I’m not in the mood to be jolly. The same tree ornaments my family has used since my childhood hang from the green plastic branches. I feel like the reindeer are staring at me in disappointment. I swear they’re trying to make me feel guilty about what I just did to Alex.

I flip through the channels, unable to focus on anything. Hallmark film… Hallmark film… Christmas music clip show… ancient comedy repeats… TV close to Christmas is fucking dire. The advent calendar on the mantelpiece has ten pieces missing. Only a couple of weeks to go. And I just made a move worthy of Scrooge himself. I’ve never outright cheated in a match before. It was like something took control of me.

Forget Scrooge, I feel like Macbeth or something. Which makes me think about Alex again. His big brown eyes lined with smoky eyeliner and the ridiculous overdramatic clothes he wears even to play tennis. When we were at school we were in English class together and we studied Macbeth. Most students hated reading aloud and mumbled the lines into their books as fast as possible, their faces beet red. Alex owned it and loved it, giving monologues worthy of David Tennant. I could never take my eyes off his face, even back then. You could see every emotion flickering through his eyes. He’s always worn his heart on his sleeve too much. Even as a teenager he didn’t have the wit to hide that he was moved by the boring plays we had to read for English class. He either ignored or didn’t hear the snickersof some of the other students as he got too into it. Enthusiasm wasn’t the route to popularity at our school. I did my best to protect him from those snickering idiots, kicking the backs of their chairs or giving them dark looks that implied I’d catch up with them later. Sometimes I did.

The way he just looked at me over the tennis net made me feel likeI’mMacbeth. My cheating was unjustifiable. Alex didn’t deserve that. Even so, I’m pathetically trying to find ways to justify it. Alex doesn’t need this exhibition match like I do. I’m studying physiotherapy and considering a tennis coaching qualification on the side. Alex hasn’t been playing for as long as me. He only joined the club because I invited him. He probably doesn’t even care that much. Tennis is only one of his many talents: sport is the only thing I’m good at. He’s much more into music. Plus, he’s studying law and on his way to being a barrister. Already I can imagine him commanding a courtroom the way he tried to command our English classroom at school. He doesn’t need some small-time tennis match.

I know, I know. Weak excuses. I’m pathetic.

The front door opens, breaking into my spiral. My sister Olivia comes in.

“What’s wrong with you?” she demands.

“Nothing. What do you mean?” I couldn’t sound any more defensive if I tried.

“You look like somebody just gave you a week to live.”

“I’m fine.”

“Well, you look terrible.” A flicker of sympathy. “You lost the match then?”

“Won, actually.”

She wrinkles her nose, confused. “So why do you have a face like a slapped bum?”

“Because... I feel bad for Alex.”

“Why? You usually love beating him.”

Yeah, when Iactuallybeat him. Not when I cheat like a little bitch. I don’t answer, fidgeting with a thread on the arm of the sofa.

“Tell me what happened,Dean,” she orders.

She only calls me by my real name every now and again, when she wants to cut through my bullshit and get to the truth. Dean is my official name, the name on my birth certificate, but I started calling myself Dane in primary school because it sounds cooler. Most people have probably forgotten all aboutDean, except my family. I look up to see her puzzled, worried face, and suddenly I can’t hold it in any longer.

“I cheated,” I mutter.

“What?” The word explodes and Olivia’s face gets red with anger, the kind of righteousness only eighteen-year-olds are capable of.

I hold up my hands in surrender, worried she’s going to pummel me with a cushion.

“I know it was wrong. I just... got tempted, okay?” I say.

“You need to wise up. Get sport into perspective.”

“I do have it in perspective. It’s my life. Alex has so much more going for him.”