Page 51

CARSON

I down three beers and two shots of bourbon at Offside, watching a football replay on the big screens and ignoring the flirty look I’m getting from the girl at the end of the bar.

When she stands up to approach me, I shoot her a glare that has her backing off, and then it’s just fucking awkward because she doesn’t leave and keeps flicking me these hurt, disappointed, pouty frowns.

Fuuuuuuck!

I down my third shot and slam it onto the bar. It’s time to get the hell out of here. Shuffling out of the bar, I walk to my bike. I probably shouldn’t be riding the thing, but like fuck I’m leaving my baby here.

Slapping the top of my helmet once it’s secure, I throw my leg over the seat and… Fuck, I really should not be riding. My brain is swimming, and?—

“You serious?” a guy calls from behind me.

I swivel my head to see who’s just followed me out of the bar.

“Who the fuck are you?” I growl.

“Name’s Casey, and I know what wasted looks like. Now get your ass off that bike.”

“Fuck off,” I mutter, starting the engine with a loud roar.

His hand clamps over mine before I can rev the accelerator again.

“You got a death wish?” I glare at him.

“No, but you obviously do.” His look is dry and scathing.

I try to nudge him off me, but he holds fast, not giving an inch, his cheerful tone soon replaced by a hard look I can’t ignore.

“Just get the fuck away from me.” My voice starts to wobble and break.

What the fuck?

Am I on the verge of tears right now?

Fuck no! I am not a weepy drunk!

Sniffing, I grit my teeth and am getting ready to punch this guy in the balls if he doesn’t let my hand go.

“I’ll drive you wherever you want to go, and then I’ll get off your bike and walk. It’s not exactly how I want to spend my one free period, but I’ll do it if it means keeping you alive. So, come on, man. Move back.”

“You don’t even know me.” I spit the words.

“Yeah, I do. You’re the guy who scored a touchdown on Friday night. Thanks to you, the Cougars are going to the playoffs.” He nods. “And I don’t even fucking follow football.”

I frown at him, and he gives me a wide grin. “I’m a hockey guy.”

“I don’t give a shit.”

He rolls his eyes. “And I was actually in your house a few weeks ago, so I’m not the enemy. Now move your ass, or am I gonna have to drag you off this bike?”

“Just try it,” I growl.

He rolls his eyes again. “You get that I’m trying to help you, right? Stop being such a dick.”

With a huff, I shake his hand off me and move my ass back in the seat. Why the fuck I’m letting him boss me around, I don’t know, but he swings his leg over the bike and pulls out of the parking lot.

“You crash my bike, I’ll kill you,” I warn him.

He laughs and guns the engine, pulling out onto the road. I have no idea where the fuck I want to go. Maybe he’ll take me back to Football Frat so I can sleep it off. I’m about to tell him that’s what I want, but then I notice we’re pulling up outside the football stadium.

“What the fuck?” I bark.

He jumps off the bike with a laugh, and I give his arm a backhanded slap.

With a little flick, he pushes me away. “Figured you had practice. You got playoffs to prepare for, right?” Stepping back from the bike with a smug grin, he throws me my keys.

I miss them, and they land on the ground with a clunk. “Shithead,” I mutter.

“You’re welcome, fuck nugget.” With a two-fingered salute, he turns and starts walking back toward campus.

Glaring after him, I stay seated on my bike, my head still spinning.

Fuck that asshole.

He probably just saved your life, dude.

With a snarl, I rip off my helmet, dumping it on my seat and snatching my keys off the ground before acting like a complete idiot and walking toward the stadium.

What the fuck are you doing? Go home!

And do what? Mope in my room? At least this way I get to play a little football. Besides, I’m not that fucking drunk. I rub my forehead, only a little dizzy. I’ve been worse. I’ll just down a few glasses of water, and I’ll be good to go.

Reaching the locker room, I make a beeline for the water station and force down three full cups before I acknowledge anyone behind me.

The guys are all filing into the room, ready to pad up for practice.

Shit. I missed the pre-practice meeting.

Clenching my jaw, I keep my eyes on the ground and shuffle over to my gear. The guys are all talking around me, their voices loud and irritating. Someone’s laughing to my left, and it’s pissing me off.

It makes me want to unleash a little hell, curl my fists and just start punching the shit out of whoever’s closest.

Coach is fucking right. I’m reckless. I’m a loser. I only tear people down.

Fucking love.

Fucking feelings!

Nylah is too good for me, and I should be thanking Coach that he reminded me of that before I made the mistake of telling her I’m in love.

I don’t even know what love fucking is.

Anger swells and surges through me. I’m gonna practice like a demon today. I need to discharge some of this energy or I’ll explode all over that green grass out there.

Running onto the field, I do my best to follow the coaches’ shouted instructions. They’re giving us an easy practice because the playoffs aren’t for another two and a half weeks. We’re gonna win and get into the quarterfinals. It’s gonna be epic.

“This is our year! It’s our year!” Coach Mitchell is yelling from the sidelines.

I try to tune him out. My brain’s foggy, and I don’t need the extra noise.

I’ve just got to catch the fucking ball.

The ball.

Catch the ball, Carson. The ball .

I look over my shoulder, running forward and only just getting my fingers to it. The leather brushes along the tips before flipping off and dribbling across the grass.

“Come on, McAvoy! Where’s your head today? Let’s go!”

I ignore the offensive line coach, my mind crowded with Nylah’s face and that sad look she gave her dad when she realized I’m not actually the guy worth fighting for. I’m not the loser you fall in love with. I’m the guy you get wild with and then store away in your memory bank.

I’ll only tear her down.

I’m just a loser who will ruin her.

I’m not good enough. I’m not good enough. I’m not good enough.

The words are thrumming through my head as I jog down the field, my vision hazy as the ball flies through the air toward me. I’m so busy trying to see the fucking thing that I miss the tackle coming right at me.

A shoulder takes me out right in the stomach, and I’m careening toward the ground.

“Oomph!” I hit the dirt, the wind knocked out of me, and Fleischer is laughing in my face.

“Watch your blindside, shithead.” Slapping the side of my helmet, he spits on the bars protecting my face. His saliva hits my lips… and I fucking lose it.

“Ahhh!” I roar, grabbing his shoulders and shoving him back like I’ve been possessed by a bear.

His eyes flash with a quick look of surprised fear before I roll him over and rest my forearm against his throat.

“You fucker!”

“Can’t breathe,” he rasps, trying to push me off him.

I increase the pressure, his spittle still coating my lips. I want to kill this arrogant asshole.

“Carson, stop.” His voice is strained as I lean on his neck, cutting off his air supply.

“Carson!” someone shouts, but I don’t know who it is until I’m being hauled off Fleischer and thrown backward. “What the fuck, man?”

Fleischer rolls to his side, coughing and hacking, while Zander stares at me like he doesn’t even know who I am. Tyrell has his arm around me, holding me up and not moving an inch, even when I try to fight him off.

“Just chill, bruh. I’m not letting you go until you’re calm.”

“MCAVOY!” Coach Jones booms, striding over to us. His expression is thunderous, his eyes ready to cut me in half. “Get off my field.”

“He spit in my face!” I shout, wrestling a little harder to get Tyrell off me.

“It’s okay. Let him go.” Coach flicks his fingers and Tyrell releases me, but he hovers close by.

I can feel him breathing down my neck, and I want to turn and punch him for it.

“Fleischer, get up!” Coach barks over his shoulder.

The asshole struggles off the ground, his hands shaking as he holds his throat. He’s still coughing and wheezing. Drama queen.

Coach gives him a pained look, then tips his head at one of the assistant coaches. “Get him inside. Have him checked out.”

The coach nods and steadies Fleischer, leading him off the field and leaving me all alone to face judge and fucking jury.

My teammates stand around me, looking weirded out—shocked—by my behavior, and all I can do is stare at the ground and hate myself.

Coach takes in a few slow breaths, like he’s finding his inner Zen or some shit, and then his voice comes out soft and steely. “You’re benched. I’m not letting you play until you can show a little self-control.”

“What?” Zander steps forward. “Coach, no. Come on, it’s the playoffs. He just had a lapse in judgment. We need him.”

“He’s drunk,” Tyrell softly murmurs. “I can smell it on him.”

What the fuck? Has the guy never heard of the word “loyalty” before? Why is he selling me out right now?

“That might explain the lapse, Coach,” Tyrell finishes. “He won’t be drunk on game day. He’ll be good to go, sir. Come on. Give him a chance.”

My shoulders tense, and I clench my jaw so hard my teeth start to ache.

Well, fuck, he is loyal after all. Sort of. I’m still salty that he called me out in front of Coach like that, though.

“I can’t do it.” Coach sounds almost sad, and I glance up, hating the disappointed look on his face. “We’re gonna have to win without him. And you”—he points at me—“can sit your ass on that bench and support your team. If you can do that, then you might just be worthy of staying a Cougar.”

“This is bullshit,” I can’t help muttering, still riled that Fleischer gets off scot-free every fucking time and I’m the one Coach wants to hate on.

“You don’t like it?” He steps right up to my face, grabbing my helmet and speaking in a low bark. “Then you tell me what to do. You tell me how I’m supposed to help a guy who is determined to screw up every chance he gets.”

I go still.

“You wanna play for me? You act like you do. You want to prove yourself? You’ve got two weeks.

” He lets me go with a huff. “And you better be perfect, boy. In every aspect of your life! I’ve coached a team with players who had no respect, and I won’t do it again.

You want to play for me, you act like a man who is worthy of the game!

” He points to the ground, his voice getting even louder when he points toward the tunnel. “You do that, or you get off my field!”

My nostrils flare, that red haze glowing in front of me as I wrench off my helmet and throw it down on his fucking perfect grass before stalking away from my team.

“Carson, come on, man!” Zander calls after me, but I keep walking.

I don’t give a shit.

Like I’ll ever be good enough for Coach.

He asks the impossible and makes it sound so fucking easy when it’s not.

I can’t be perfect in every aspect of my life. I can’t even be perfect in one!

Ripping off my gear, I throw it across the locker room with snarls and growls. All my laundry misses, and my pads end up on the floor as well. I ignore it all, throwing clothes over the mud and sweat coating me before storming out of the stadium.

I’ve sobered up enough to drive. Sort of.

Shit, I nearly crash on the way home and have to slow right down. But eventually I make it, pulling into the driveway and stopping next to a building van. That Baxter guy is here again. I can hear the drop saw grinding in the backyard.

Kicking out the stand, I balance the bike, then stumble up the front steps and shoulder the door open.

I freeze when I hear laughter coming from the kitchen, and then my stomach bottoms out when Nylah appears in the hallway, carrying Zoey and looking happily surprised to see me.

“Hey.” She grins.

“What are you doing here?” I snap.

“Sienna invited me over.” She frowns at my harsh tone, and Zoey’s bottom lip sticks out.

“Cawson sad.” She points her little finger at me, and I glare at her for a second, struggling to breathe as I lurch for the stairs and take them two at a time.

“Carson?” Nylah calls up after me, but I ignore her.

Because I have to.

Because I’m not worthy of a girl like her.

And I never will be.