by Mariah Dietz
“And?”
“Mike was there,” I tell her.
Rae groans, dropping her head back. “Fucking Mike. Why did he transfer back here?” She releases a short sigh. “What happened?”
“What do you think happened?” I fire back, my tone dark and my voice loud, prompting Lincoln to take a step forward.
“You need to go talk to her again,” Rae insists.
My attention is still on Lincoln, weighing his intentions and thoughts. I can only think of one other time I’ve wanted to hit my best friend, and that was when I saw him kissing Rae for the first time. The instinct has my hands clenching and my mood darkening, dismissing my sister’s advice.
“Pax,” Rae says my name and takes a measured step forward, drawing my attention.
“It’s over,” I say. “I’m not doing this again. Make up, break up, rumor bullshit. I’m done.”
I head upstairs, my feet pounding each step with a new level of anger that briefly distracts me from the splintering feeling in my chest. I slam my bedroom door and kick the filled laundry basket across the floor, the clothes spilling out like my resolutions.
I cross the room, digging out the bottle of whiskey I haven’t touched since Halloween. Memories of that night play like a movie in my head, recalling Poppy in here, the way the light danced in her eyes, the mischievous grin she flashed when she reached for my glass. Her laughter plays like a soundtrack, and her smile is like a stamp on each thought that I flip through.
I uncork the bottle and bring it to my nose, pulling in a deep breath of the alcohol, appreciating the scent and the warmth it would cast in my mouth.
“This is the last time. You drink again, and I’m out.” Poppy’s words from that night ring through my head, so clear and precise it’s like she’s here, watching me and condemning me for wanting the crutch.
Anger and resentment lift the bottle. I tip my head back, the red flash of my practice jersey catches my eye from where it lies beside the Seahawks hat Candace had bought me—my lucky hat that is suddenly feeling incredibly unlucky.
I cork the bottle and set it down with too much force, my fears mocking me for not taking a drink while my future centers me. Drinking would be an insult to the last several weeks—years—of my life and the progress I’ve made, the goals that I’ve set and achieved, and to what Poppy and I shared. Binge drinking and being a drunk isn’t me, though I came awfully close too to allowing it to define me, and it certainly isn’t who I want to become.
I fall across my bed, knots filling my stomach and chest and throat, so tightly bound that I can’t do anything but lie and stare at the rules, recalling Poppy’s reaction to each of the numerals and what they represent.
I wake up to my alarm’s persistent buzzing. My head aches like I finished the bottle of whiskey, and I turn to ensure I didn’t. The bottle is still mostly filled, sitting where I’d placed it last night. I move to sit up more fully, noting my jeans are still on, so are my shoes and the floor lamp. I feel worse than I have after any hangover. My head feels like it was hit by a mallet, and my chest is no better.
I need to start getting ready for the community outreach event, but with every move, I find it a little harder to give a fuck. I think of the finality in Poppy’s tone last night, the way she’d regarded me with so much anger and disdain. I’d offended her on a personal level, worse than that—I’d broken our rules. Something that means more to me than football or having a relationship with my father because the rules had become more than my safety net they’ve become my inspiration—Poppy had become my inspiration.
Three quick raps at my door, and then it swings open and Lincoln stands in my doorway. “Good, you’re up. Get in the shower.”
I start to shake my head. “I’m not going.”
“Yes, you are,” Lincoln says. “Don’t make me see your naked ass. That’s not an image I want to see, but God help me, you’re getting in the goddamn shower.”
Behind him, Arlo appears, his trademark smile absent. “Come on, man. We’ve got you.” His gaze turns to the bottle on my desk and then returns to me, narrowed with what I think is scrutiny but realize a beat too late is sympathy.
I don’t want compassion or sympathy because those emotions mean I have to admit this is over and done. That what is happening between Poppy and me is more than just a misunderstanding that escalated into a fight.
“Where’s Rae?” I ask.
It’s the first time I can recall Lincoln avoiding my gaze. “She had things she needed to do.” To check on Poppy. He doesn’t say it, but I know that’s what happened, and the fact they’re not admitting it only amps up the pity meter.
I shake my head and sit back on my bed. My head feels like it’s a thousand pounds, my temples aching. “Is she okay?”
Lincoln nods once. “Let’s go. You have five seconds.”
“I don’t want to go.”
“You’re going.” He takes a step into my room.
“Goddammit, Lincoln! Back the fuck off.”
He shakes his head. “Not a chance.” He takes another step, so close I have to stand because the threat feels imminent.
“What is your problem?”
“I am not going to let you fail. You can hate me, you can hit me, you can reach for that goddamn bottle, and guess what? I’m going to be here, pushing you, carrying you if I have to. You’re not giving up. Not when you’re this fucking close.”
Anger is swirling in my chest, a thousand words of accusations and hate that refuse to form as they change their trajectory from him to myself. “I can’t,” I tell him, my voice small like a child’s.
Lincoln swiftly shakes his head. “You’re the best quarterback I’ve ever played with—the best quarterback I’ve seen. I refuse to let you think anything else. You’re not going to self-sabotage or hide from your feelings by drinking them away. We’ll figure shit out. Sometimes you just need to give it a little time.”
“Maybe Rae’s right. Maybe I need to talk to her?”
“Right now, you need to get ready.”
Arlo steps beside him. “You both need a little time. Let’s get you all cleaned up and show you off.”
I amble to the shower where the hot water does nothing to relieve what I’m feeling. The moment I shut off the water, one of my asshole roommates pounds on the door. “Five minutes, Pax,” Arlo calls.
I use both hands to flip him off, though he can’t see me, and reluctantly turn toward my pile of clothing and start getting dressed.
I open the door and find Arlo, fist raised as though prepared to knock again. “I’m going to punch one of you before the morning is over.”
Arlo grins in response to my threat and drops his arms over my shoulders. “Bro Code, buddy. Bro Code. Let’s get some breakfast.”
Lincoln is downstairs, tying his shoes. “Ready?”
“I thought we were going to eat?”
“I only cook your sister breakfast,” he tells me. “She doesn’t critique my eggs.”
My smile appears before I can stop it. “You’re such an asshole.”
He grins in response. “Come on.”
We take Arlo’s Tahoe because it’s the easiest for us to all fit in together and drive a short way to the restaurant my family favorites for breakfast.
The restaurant is constantly busy, and this morning is no different, but we manage to snag some seats at the counter and start flipping through the menu that I’ve already memorized before a waitress comes and takes our drink order.
“Is this another intervention?” I ask.
Arlo looks at me and then Lincoln, who continues reading his menu for several seconds before raising his eyes to me. “Do you need another intervention?”
“Depends. Can I book a vacation on a beach?”
“Once the season is over,” Arlo says.
I release a heavy sigh, debating the possibility of going to visit Maggie. Forget about football and school and Candace and Mike and Poppy and how my chest feels like it went a
gainst a cheese grater. “This shit is so complicated.”
“I’d normally tell you that shit is simple and we just make it complicated, but in this case, this shit’s complicated. I’m still trying to catch up on if you guys were dating or fake dating or what in the hell was happening,” Arlo says.
My attention stops on the cinnamon roll french toast. I have no doubt Poppy would be ordering this if she were here. “It started as fake, and then it became more,” I tell him.
“Did she know it was more?”
I nod.
“Then this isn’t complicated. Remove the shit that’s making it so damn convoluted. If Candace doesn’t already understand that you’ve moved on and don’t want to get back together, you need to make sure she knows that and then kick Mike’s ass.”
Lincoln smirks. “He can’t kick Mike’s ass. He’d look like a tool.” He turns his gaze to me. “You can tell him to back off, but Poppy has to make the decision with him. She has to be the one who cuts ties, and from what Rae said, that already happened.”
Arlo makes a show of wiping his hands together. “See? It’s simple. Job done.”
“You’re forgetting that I broke Poppy’s trust and she called it quits.”
Arlo turns his gaze to Lincoln. “We’re going to need you to go undercover and get some insight on the situation.”
“Already done.” He sighs, straightening his napkin so it’s parallel to the counter. “She said Poppy wants some time.”
“How much time?” Arlo asks as the words turn in my head.
Lincoln lifts his shoulders. “I have no idea, but my advice, not too long because if you let her sit on these doubts and questions, they’re only going to multiply. Lies hatch lies, like doubt hatches doubt.”
“We leave for Vegas this afternoon,” I say.
Lincoln nods. “I think it’s for the best. You can focus on the game, and when we get back, you talk to her.”
My own doubts are multiplying by the second, trying to grasp how in the hell I’m going to focus on the game when everything in me feels the loss of her, and it’s been less than twelve hours.
The morning goes better than I could have expected, better than I likely deserve. Several of the players knew who I was, all of the coaches did, and we managed to bring in truckloads of donations that will be going to good causes. I still kind of hate my roommates for making me come, and I hate myself a little for enjoying it, but I’m also grateful as all hell that these assholes are my friends—my brothers.
“Paxton,” Candace calls my name as I’m getting ready to leave. We only have an hour until we need to get to the airport. I don’t turn around, continuing toward the parking lot with Lincoln and Arlo and clinging to the fact the head coach of Seattle told me I was going to make something of myself. “Paxton,” she says my name again, louder this time.
I turn to face her, my head drawn back. “What do you want?”
Her eyes pierce me like fangs. “Really? That’s the response I get after I managed to hook you guys up with this opportunity?”
“What are you expecting?” I ask.
“Appreciation, gratitude, a hello.”
I shake my head. “You meddled. I gave you the benefit of the doubt and tried to make things as amicable as possible between us. I don’t want us to hate each other, but right now, I’m so damn close to hating you.”
She pulls her chin back, brows lowered. “It’s us, Pax. We’re just going through a tough time. I wasn’t trying to hurt her. I just … miss you.”
I shake my head again. “This feud and jealousy and bullshit game that we’ve been playing for years can’t continue. You hurt Poppy, and by doing so, you hurt me. Don’t you get it? I’m done.”
She stares at me, anger narrowing her eyes for several seconds. “You’re making a mistake.”
“Leave her alone, Candace. I won’t allow you to hurt her.”
She starts to open her mouth to say something that I know will be rude as she stamps her hand against her hip.
“Don’t,” I tell her. “Don’t make me hate you. Move on. Find someone who makes you happy. Find someone you don’t want to break up with, who the idea of hurting them makes you physically ill. Find someone who is good enough for you and deserves you and pushes you to be the very best version of yourself.”
She presses her lips together for a moment and then purses them. “Do you really think it’s going to last? You started off as a lie.”
I shake my head. “You’re wrong.” Even with the rules, Poppy and I were always honest. “I wish the best for you, but I don’t want to see you anymore. We’re done.” I turn and head to meet Arlo and Lincoln, who’d given us a few steps of privacy but were well within earshot to hear everything.
“I thought she was going to bitch slap you,” Arlo says.
“At what point?” I ask, hopping into the backseat because as good as today was, my good mood is quickly waning.
“When you told her to back off of Poppy,” he says, closing his door.
“You need to be sure to talk to Poppy when we get back,” Lincoln says. “That shit you described, that’s as real as it gets, and we both know how damn hard it is to find.”
When we make it home, I have twenty minutes to pack. I grab my duffle bag, but the sight of the flipped picture on my desk catches my attention. It’s the one of Candace, the one that’s been here for more than three years that she’d framed and given to me after our second date. I grab the trashcan from under my desk and place the frame inside, and then take my lucky Seahawks hat and throw it away as well. I spend the next ten minutes gathering the last few items she gave to me and toss them away as well. I don’t regret my past, and I don’t want to forget the lessons I learned while dating Candace. I just don’t need these items anymore because they were from when I was a different person, inspired by dreams of money and fame, and Poppy helped me recognize that this game is so much more than that and she is so much more than any relationship I’ve ever had.
33
Poppy
I lie in my childhood bed, staring at the wall. I’m supposed to be getting on a plane in thirty minutes with Rae to head to Vegas … and see Paxton. I have been struggling to know how to react and how to feel, and what to say since last night when my life took a nosedive. Nothing seems to have survived the wreckage, including my pride or our relationship. I asked him for space, and he gave it to me.
I hate that he listened.
I hate that I asked for it.
I peel back my covers and get ready to attend class. My enthusiasm is at an all-time low, especially since I hadn’t planned on going to classes today, but I need distract myself, so I grapple with my routine and manage to brush my teeth, make my bed, get dressed, and leave.
I arrive too early because I didn’t waste time doing my makeup or hair or worrying about what I was going to wear or messaging anyone. It’s too cold to wait outside, and my car is too quiet, so I walk across the street to a small coffee shop. My thoughts venture from Pax to how today will go. Mike claimed all of Brighton heard Candace announce my relationship was a farce, which left my bruised ego worried that people would heckle and tease me. After all, I’ve seen firsthand how awful people can be when it comes to rumors. Christmas lights twinkle in the window, and there’s a tree set up, lined with gold and peacock-blue ornaments. I kind of love it as untraditional as it is.
The line is long, but I have time to spare. As I wait, my gaze wanders across the small shop, noticing Santa’s hidden like Easter eggs, all of them unconventional like the tree. Santa wearing cowboy boots and a red bandana by a register. Santa wearing flippers and a scuba mask behind the counter. Santa in a tux near the door. I’m inspecting disco Santa when I feel the heavy stare of someone, pulling my attention to them. Maddie.
Her eyes are rimmed red, and she looks angry and heartbroken. Guilt fills me, drowning my own self-pity as regrets and fears float to the surface. I’d really like to hide and pretend I don’t see her. Get my coffee a
nd head back to campus and shiver outside until it’s an acceptable time to wait inside the classroom. But my heart aches for her, knowing a fraction of what she’s feeling. I duck out of line and approach her, my smile as fragile as the friendship she kept extending to me and I continued to decline.
“Do you mind if I sit with you?”
My question seems to open the gates on her tears. They stream down her face in thick rivulets, raining on my stomach like drops of acid. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she asks. “You guys made me look like a complete idiot. I thought you were his friend, and I invited you to hang out and tried to get to know you, and all along, you were his ex?”
I don’t know what all Mike’s told her, which makes this expedition of honesty and truths even more terrifying. “I’m really sorry, Maddie. I don’t know what Mike has told you, but I’m an open book. I’ll tell you anything. Whatever you want.”
She laughs, and it’s hard and sardonic and so un-Maddie-like. “Now, you’ll tell me everything? Now that I look like the town idiot.”
I shake my head. “You don’t look like an idiot. No one thinks that, Maddie. This wasn’t your fault. And I’m really, truly sorry. I don’t know if I can say anything to make you feel better, but I’d really like to try because I feel terrible, and I know I’m responsible for this to some degree. I should have clarified. I should have drawn lines…”
Her breath is a harsh gasp. “You guys probably laughed behind my back. I tried to be your friend, and you guys were hanging out without me knowing.”
I shake my head. “No, Maddie, it’s not like that. I don’t like Mike. Not like that.”
She looks at me with bloodshot eyes that are eerily similar to my reflection this morning. I don’t want to throw Mike under the bus.
“I can’t speak for Mike, but this entire situation really blindsided me,” I tell her. “I loved him for two years, and then he left. He was gone,” I snap my fingers, “just like that. He didn’t call or text or anything, and it seemed like he was being an adult about the situation, and I was being childish because it hurt and it was confusing, and it left all of these stupid what-if questions to form over the past year and a half. I hadn’t seen or heard from Mike until the day I met you, and I was still trying to figure out my feelings and his presence and everything in between, and then he introduced me to you, and it was like a curveball that hit me between the eyes. I didn’t know what to say or do, and when he introduced me as his friend, I assumed it was for your benefit, not mine.”
