The End Game

by Kate McCarthy

  “Get in the car, Jordan,” I command as my cousin walks away, disappearing back toward the party. “It’s not safe to walk home by yourself.”

  Jordan blows out a shaky breath, and I look her way. She quickly presses her lips together, but I don’t miss the quiver in them. If I give her a hug to soothe away the hurt, would she punch me for getting too close?

  Willing to risk it, I forge ahead bravely and take hold of her shoulders. Her lips press tighter, but she isn’t scratching my eyes out. It’s encouraging. With a slight tug, I bring her flush against me and fold her in my arms. She doesn’t resist, but her body is stiff and unyielding. I breathe deep and press a soft kiss down on her head. I don’t want to stop there, but I do.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, rubbing my palm in comforting circles on her lower back. “My cousin can be a real dick when he’s been drinking. And I’m a selfish prick for putting you up to this.”

  “I agreed to it,” she tells me, the sound muffled and resigned. “But I had tequila shots and forgot to read the fine print. I mean, I don’t know you at all. I’m not sure I want to.”

  “Ouch.” My hands pause. “You know, I’m pretty sure there’s a cooling-off period somewhere in there. You can change your mind.”

  “It’s fine.” Jordan sniffs and makes a little huffing sound. I resume rubbing her back. Firmer this time. “I’m fine,” she adds, her voice throaty. “Really.”

  My hand lowers and I keep rubbing. Bigger, warmer circles. If she gives me a moan, just one, I can’t be held accountable for my actions.

  “I’m just allergic to assholes,” she adds. “Which means I’m not sure how this thing with us is going to work out but … you know, you can stop feeling me up anytime now.”

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  Jordan hesitates and it almost kills me. “I’m sure.”

  “I’ll stop on one condition.”

  “Really? Because I’m pretty sure I can just knee you in the balls and that will work just as well.”

  I tut tut with mock despair. And I keep rubbing. “Violence is not the answer.”

  “Oh pray tell what is, Obe-wan?”

  “Love of course, young Skywalker,” I say with a grin. “Make love, not war, right?”

  Jordan shakes her head, but there’s no fight inside her to break free of my hold. Unfortunately we can’t stay here all night, clinched together on the sidewalk like we’re the last two people in the world. My car is parked on a wild angle and blocking the road, headlights blinding and the driver’s door wide open. My sigh is long and heavy.

  “Let me take you home, okay?”

  She pulls back, staring up at me. “That’s your condition?”

  “Yep.”

  “Huh,” she mutters as if I’ve confused her.

  Jordan spends the drive home looking everywhere but at me, and when I pull to a stop in the parking lot, she’s thanking me for the ride and out the door before I can stop her.

  “Wait up!” Getting out, I beep the locks and jog after her. “I’ll walk you up.” Snatching the card from her hand, I swipe us into the building and hold open the door. “Ladies first.”

  My eyes are on her ass the entire trek up the stairwell. I’m not religious but hers is an ass deserving of prayerful thanks. It’s high and round, and biteable like juicy apples. I watch it undulate hypnotically until we emerge onto the third floor.

  By the time we reach her door, my dick is straining against my shorts. Jordan uses her key to unlock it, stepping inside as I reach down to adjust it. Turning around, she catches me and arches a brow. I shrug without shame.

  “Goodnight, Brody.”

  This is the part where I’m supposed to leave, but my feet are super-glued to the hallway floor. It seems I can’t move until I get some solid reassurance of when I’m seeing her again.

  “So, Monday night?” I ask casually.

  “I’ll check my schedule.”

  “Really? You’re telling me you don’t have it memorized back to front?”

  “Fine. Monday night.”

  “Great. See you then. I’ve got dinner with my parents, so I’ll swing by after that.” She gives me a nod, and I force myself to leave. “Night, Jordan.”

  Halfway to the stairs I glance back. Jordan is standing in the doorway, a flush high on her cheeks and honey-colored hair spilling over her bare shoulders. I turn and walk backwards, giving her a wink. “Sweet dreams.”

  It’s a smooth move, and a total fail when her eyes widen on something behind me. “Brody, look…” I smack into a pile of bodies behind me “…out.”

  “Sorry, ladies,” I say, extracting myself from two sets of amorous limbs while trying to steady the drunk pair at the same time. The two girls manage to right themselves and continue around me in a giggling stumble on their high heels.

  “Did you hear that?” one of them whispers loudly while the other squeals. “He said sweet dreams!”

  Brody

  Last night’s sleep was fitful, and I’m awake before the alarm goes off. My body is sluggish and my mind is on Jordan. Each time I try and focus on the upcoming game, it veers toward her like a car going off course. This is the exact distraction I don’t need, and I have no explanation for why I can’t seem to care. I’m anxious for Monday night when I can see her again.

  Getting on the team bus, I pick a seat up front. Tired and irritable and in a weird headspace, I want to avoid my teammates and zone out instead. Slumping right down, I lift my legs up, resting my knees against the back of the seat in front of me. With my phone on my lap, I plug in my Beats headphones and set them over my head, fixing my current playlist to shuffle. The song kicks in just as the bus pulls out, and the way it begins to rock gently along the road soothes my irritation.

  My gaze shifts out the window. The sun is just a mere glimpse of pink and orange over the horizon. I know it’s early, but I like the idea of Jordan waking up to a message from me. Picking up my phone from my lap, I type one out. I don’t usually like messaging because my words and spelling get messed up, but autocorrect fixes what I can’t, and Jordan knows I’m dyslexic so I figure there’s no need to hide.

  Brody: I don’t like chocolate.

  It’s a small fact about myself that’s neither here nor there, but last night she said she didn’t know me. If she responds in kind, then I know it’s possible she might want to.

  After tapping the send button, I drop the phone to my lap and stare out the window. A rush of pleasure zings through me when it beeps an immediate response, highlighting the name I added her in as a contact.

  SweetVanillaGirl: Who is this? And are you crazy?

  I chuckle softly and type out another message.

  Brody: Shame on u. This is no way to treat the guy ur dating.

  I follow it up with another.

  Brody: Ur up early?

  Carter slams into the seat beside me, the force making my own seat shudder in response. To his credit he looks fresh and firing on all cylinders. Whatever’s going on in his life, he always manages to lock it down for the game. It’s the kind of player he is: dependable, enthusiastic, and oozing energy from every pore. Ryan Carter is a bottomless can of Red Bull.

  I pause my song and pull back my headphones, leaving them to rest around my neck.

  “How was that chick last night?” he greets me, along with a waggle of his eyebrows. Did I mention he’s also straight to the point? Carter doesn’t like to waste time on the smaller details. “Trust you to be the one bagging the hot Australian jock. She didn’t have much of a rack but those legs …” He trails off as though he’s picturing them in his mind. “Any good?”

  My stomach knots in anger. I don’t like the way it sounds like he wants a turn, or that he checked out her rack. And so what if it’s small. I’m not greedy, just goddamn fucking horny. “Jordan’s not like that, so watch your mouth.”

  Carter’s eyes round like saucers, and I know I’ve blindsided him with my response. I’ve never jumped down his throat ove
r a girl before. For a moment he can’t compute. His mouth opens and closes before he speaks.

  “You didn’t tap that sweet ass?”

  I shift uncomfortably in my seat, unwilling to spill any more details then absolutely necessary. “Jordan and I are dating.”

  Carter laughs and I glare. He shuts up quickly, and after a moment cocks his head. “Holy shit, you’re serious. I heard last night you were supposedly dating some chick, but I thought it was just gossip.” Turning around in the seat beside me, my teammate gets up on his knees. Facing the back of the bus, he shouts, “Madden’s got himself a girl!”

  All kinds of responses are called back alongside catcalls, but it’s the collective consensus of “bullshit!” that has me gritting my teeth.

  “I shit you not!” he hollers. “Her name’s Jordan!”

  The team breaks out into chants of “Jordan! Jordan! Jordan!” because they obviously have nothing better to do than act like a giant bunch of dicks.

  Pinching the bridge of my nose, I sink lower in my seat with a muttered curse. If Jordan wants out of this, well … it’s too late now.

  I tug my shiny dark blue headphones back on. They have epic noise cancellation. It’s just what I need right now. After hitting play and cranking the volume, I close my eyes against the blurring scenery.

  A minute later, my phone vibrates from where it’s resting on my leg.

  SweetVanillaGirl: I’m out jogging.

  I can’t fight the tug at the corners of my lips as I type out a lengthy reply.

  Brody: Don’t u no it’s dangerous to text and jog? You might run someone over or fall in a ditch.

  A quick sideways glance tells me Carter’s decided to let it go. For now. He gets up and returns to his seat down back, leaving me alone. I return to my phone with a smile on my face when another message pops up. I flick it open.

  SweetVanillaGirl: Well stop texting me!

  Jordan’s message is a red flag waving at a bull.

  Brody: Where’s the fun in that?

  SweetVanillaGirl: You remind me of your cousin.

  My brows draw together. After the events of last night, that comment is open to interpretation, and I want to know what she means.

  Brody: In what way?

  Jaxon and I might be similar on the surface, but underneath? Not so much. He’s the son my father always wanted. The benchmark. I’m constantly reminded that if only I applied myself like Jaxon does, I would have a respectable future—politics, medicine, law. Frankly, he’d just be happy with a son who could read, he tells me. But I know that’s not true. My father is the type of person who is never satisfied, and I know he expects me to fail at football too.

  SweetVanillaGirl: You’re both very persistent. Can I finish my run now?

  It’s true. We both are, so perhaps it’s a family trait. Regardless, I choose to take it as a compliment. Ambition without persistence gets you nowhere.

  Brody: By all means… finish ur run.

  I close my eyes and spend time thinking about the upcoming game. We’re well prepared. We watched a lot of additional play this week, and my extra training sessions are paying off. I’m working harder than I ever have. There’s no reason why we should lose.

  Before I know it, the gentle rocking of the bus lulls me into a light doze. Eddie nudging my shoulder wakes me. He says something, so I pull the headphone away from my right ear. “What?”

  He holds out a water bottle. “Hydrate, dude.”

  “Thanks.”

  He disappears and I crack the lid, tipping half the contents down my throat in one hit. When I pull the bottle from my lips, my eyes fall back to my phone. Restraint and self-discipline are traits every professional athlete should possess, and I like to think I have both in spades, but with Jordan … Perhaps she’s my kryptonite because I can’t stop myself from sending another message.

  Brody: How was ur run?

  SweetVanillaGirl: Don’t ask.

  Brody: U fell in a ditch, didn’t u?

  No response. The message was meant teasingly, but Jordan is a tough nut to crack. Perhaps she’s not a morning person. That leads to thoughts of Jordan in bed: naked, mussed hair, tangled sheets, and sweet, warm skin. My whole body begins to vibrate like it just received an electrical charge. I exhale in a deep huff and flick to a hardcore Eminem song on my playlist. There’s nothing sexy about his music.

  SweetVanillaGirl: I don’t like mushrooms.

  Her message comes in and I want to fist pump the air. I don’t though, because that would be lame and this is not some cheesy eighties’ movie. Hmmm … what next?

  Brody: My middle name is Abraham.

  I down the rest of my water. When I tuck the empty bottle beside me, her reply comes in.

  SweetVanillaGirl: As in Lincoln?

  Jordan knows some American history.

  Brody: Yes. My dad is a politician. He was hoping I wud follow in his footsteps.

  SweetVanillaGirl: Was?

  How perceptive of Jordan to pick on that.

  Brody: His dream. Not mine.

  SweetVanillaGirl: And your dream is football?

  Brody: Yes.

  From the moment I came alive with that leather ball in my hands.

  SweetVanillaGirl: My middle name is Matilda.

  Jordan Matilda Elliott. Why am I smiling when I say that in my head? My phone vibrates again before I can reply.

  SweetVanillaGirl: I have to go. Leah and I are going out for breakfast. Talk to you later?

  I swallow the disappointment.

  Brody: L8r

  It’s a nice casual response, but my insides curl with pleasure because I’m looking forward to it.

  I manage to draw Jordan into messaging me on and off during the day. And when I’m sitting in the locker room adjusting the lace on my cleats before the game, the alert on my phone goes again.

  So close to kick off I should leave it for later, but the anticipation is too much. If it’s Jordan and I don’t read it right this moment, I’ll be thinking about it all game. Preoccupation could cost us a win, I tell myself as I reach for it. My brow furrows when I check the screen. The message is from Lindsay, one of the cheerleader’s always hanging off Jax. I know she does it to get close to me. She’s not the only one. And after my cousin’s display last night, I get the impression he’s over it.

  Lindsay: I don’t know why you lied about dating that stupid jock. I set her straight. You can thank me later xo

  “Fuck!” I shout and kick the locker door in.

  “Christ, Madden!” Eddie glares at me from where he sits, readjusting his glove. He has a soft, gooey center when it comes to girls. I know my dating Jordan will have his full approval. “What crawled up your ass and died?”

  “Not what, but who.”

  I begin stabbing at buttons on the screen, intent on calling Lindsay to find out what she said. When it starts dialing, I put the phone to my ear at the same time Coach Carson storms inside the locker room.

  “Now is not the time to be calling your goddamn mother and thanking her for giving birth to your sorry ass!” His bellow echoes through the mostly empty area Brows, drawn together, form one long, fuzzy caterpillar. It’s his grouch face, and I’m not eager to be its focus. “Get out on the field, Madden!”

  “Yes, Coach,” I say quickly.

  “Now!” he roars.

  I hit the end call button before it answers and toss the phone in my locker before double-timing it out onto the field.

  We end up losing the game. No matter how small the margin, it still burns like a motherfucker. When tied at fourteen apiece, we were forced into taking some crazy risks that didn’t pay off. Carter threw me a long bomb and I reached up, but the ball tipped off my fingers and right into the hands of the opposing team. With Eddie winded, I was left open for a split second and took a huge hit. After getting slammed into the ground, it was a long while before I could peel myself off the grass. With a throbbing shoulder and three minutes left in the game, UCLA scored a fi
eld goal, and nothing short of a miracle would’ve saved us after that.

  I jog off the field, grimy, sweaty, and devastated at the loss, knowing we let down the entire state of Texas tonight. I force a smile for the reporter waiting for an on-field interview. It doesn’t reach my eyes, but no one who really knows me would ever notice. No matter what, you never show the media the truth. They don’t want to see the self-recrimination and the self-doubt, or hear about it. They want sportsmanship. They want you to accept defeat with a rueful smile. They want to hear you felt honored to play a great game against a great team, and that you’re coming back bigger and stronger for the next one.

  “You play Iowa State next week and then you have a bye.” I tuck my helmet under my armpit and brush the damp hair from my forehead while she speaks into the microphone, her perfect face angled professionally toward the camera. “After that you have Oklahoma. How are you going to come back from tonight’s loss in preparation for what’s touted as one of the biggest upcoming matches of the season?”

  “That’s a good question. Oklahoma is a grudge match for sure. They’re going to come at us hard, but we’ll be ready.” I flash her a cocky grin alongside the diplomatic response. NFL scouts watch how you speak in front of the media. They want you seen as the all-round nice guy, bred tough. “We’ll watch a lot of film and we’ll work as hard as time allows. Despite the loss tonight, we’re playing better than we ever have. I’m confident we’re going to win, and not just for the team or CPU, but for the state of Texas.”

  She gives me a professional pat on the arm, no doubt hiding the grimace at the transfer of sweat to her perfectly manicured fingers. “Their hopes are riding on you, Brody Madden.”

  No fucking pressure, I reply silently. I give her a nod and the camera a cheeky grin and wave before I jog away, leaving her to sign off.

  When we get back to our hotel room, Carter hands over a bottle of whiskey stashed in his suitcase. Tonight I don’t hesitate and grab it swiftly. Tipping back my head, I pour it down my throat, relishing the burn because oblivion can’t come fast enough. There are no bars tonight. No one wants to celebrate a loss. A small group of us gather in the twin room Carter and I share, and we drink in a show of solidarity.