I pause the trace, recalling her exact words. It depends on the definition of success, child. The word can mean many things, not necessarily what it means to you, and its meaning can change multiple times during your life.
At the time, I brushed her cryptic words off. It couldn’t mean anything else but soccer. I never longed for success in anything else, and I never would, I was sure of it.
“It’s good,” I confirm.
The best way to answer your question is to look at why you want to succeed, she told me at the end of the reading. To be the best of course, was my flippant reply. I love the game. It’s where I want to be, and it’s natural to want to succeed in your chosen career.
But maybe it’s not everything.
Why do I want to succeed?
Nicky’s face floods my mind. For my brother. To prove his sacrifice for me was worth it. That I’m worth it. But at what cost? My own happiness?
My soccer career is right where I want it to be, slotting in neatly with my very own definition of success, but I have nothing else. I don’t have my friends and family by my side; I’m unable to set down roots in a strange city; and the man I love is slowly, but surely, falling apart.
I’m not happy, I’m heartbroken.
“What?” he asks, breaking me from my introspection.
Taking a deep breath, I keep going, following along the lines of his hand. “Your heart line touches your life line.”
I read up a little on palmistry after my reading. Enough to know it indicates a heart too easily broken. And the curved indention is fragmented, representing deep emotional trauma. Oh Brody.
“And it means what?” He huffs a bitter laugh. “Let me guess. That I’m weak and mediocre. Unable to succeed at anything without the addition of chemicals.”
“Of course not. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s palm reading.” I twist my torso so I’m facing him directly, and I take his hand in both of mine. It’s cold and dry. I begin to rub, trying to warm the chilled skin. “Brody—”
“Don’t placate me, Jordan.” His voice is sharp, and he tugs his hand free of my grasp. “On the surface, we both appear the same. But we’re not. We’re opposites, you and I. I’m weak. But you…” he shakes his head “…your strength is like the sun, Jordan. It feeds me. And if you don’t let me go, I’ll just use it all up until you have nothing left.”
“Brody.” Seizing his chin, I drag his face until he’s looking at me. “I’m not letting you go. It’s you and me, and we’ll be strong together, okay?”
Doubt and bitterness shadow his eyes. “How can we? You’re there and I’m here. There is no together.”
Dropping my arm, I sit back and lift my chin. “I’m quitting Seattle.”
“Don’t be stupid, Jordan,” he spits with anger. I flinch from his word choice. Knowing it’s a word he hates makes the use of it that much worse. “Seattle is your dream. And not only that, you have a contract.”
“Contracts are made to be broken.”
“And how do you think that makes me feel?” Brody shouts and jerks up in bed, pushing away from me. “That you quit your dream because I got busted for drugs? Fucking pathetic, that’s how! Poor Brody takes a few pills and his girl has to drop everything to come running to his side and take care of him.”
My own anger riles in response. “I’m not quitting my dream! I want to be with you. And I can still play soccer. Houston Dash will take me, I know it. I can move here and—”
“Bullshit!” he roars. Brody scrambles from the bed, naked, and wrenches open a dresser drawer. Seizing a pair of boxer-briefs, he turns, jerking them on as he speaks. “The fact that you said move here rather than move home just proves it!”
“This is home!” I shout. Standing from the bed I jab a finger hard into his chest, right where his heart thumps visibly underneath. “Here. You.” My arms fly out in a sweeping gesture. “Not this bloody house. Not Texas. Not Australia. You!”
Brody glares for a long, hard moment, his chest rising and falling erratically. Slowly, his dark brown eyes lose their hard edge. “Finish your contract, Jordan. No team will want you if you break it. When you’re done, we’ll talk then.”
What he says makes sense, but I don’t want to finish it. I bloody well don’t want to. Instead, I want to drag him to Australia, away from all this. We can live by the beach, pretending it’s just the two of us without any cares, or obligations, or any need to prove our right to exist. But it’s not that easy. Life is not that easy.
I take a step toward him. “On one condition. No, two,” I correct. “Two conditions.”
Brody exhales heavily. His hands reach up and rest on my hips, tugging me closer. “What?”
“A holiday. When the season ends, we spend four weeks in Australia, away from everything. Friends, family, social media. No phones. No television. No football. Just you and me.”
“I can do that.” He nods jerkily and begins to shiver, goose bumps breaking out across his bared chest. They overtake his whole body. Only it’s not cold. The air circulating through the open window is almost too warm.
“What’s the other condition?” he asks, appearing oblivious to the way his body betrays him with its need for drugs. Does he even realize he’s shaking as if he were standing naked in the Arctic?
“You have to stop.” My eyes burn, filling rapidly as I watch him break apart before me. “All these chemicals you’re putting inside your body scares me. It scares me so much. Please,” I beg, my voice cracking as I swallow an emotional lump the size of a boulder in my throat. “Don’t do this to yourself. Promise me you’ll stop.”
Brody’s jaw trembles and when he blinks, a solitary tear falls, tracking slowly down his cheek. “I’ll stop,” he whispers hoarsely. “I’ll do the drug counseling session. And I still get to play. I’ll work hard,” he vows. “I promise. I’m not addicted, Jordan. I’m just…” Brody presses his lips together, looking over my shoulder as if the words he seeks are written on the wall behind me “…I’m just trying too hard.”
Another tear falls. Reaching up, I wipe it away.
He stares down at me, trembling violently. “I promise I’ll stop.”
But the words he speaks are just that. Words. They’re meaningless without actions to back them up.
Brody
I wake in a scorching sweat, my stomach churning like I’m sailing through raging seas. Jordan’s lying across my chest, blistering my skin with her body heat. Bile rises quickly. I swallow, but there’s no stopping it. Gagging, I shove Jordan off and stumble for the bathroom. Dropping to my knees, I grab the toilet bowl with shaky hands and heave. Last night’s dinner comes charging out like a bull at a gate.
“Ugh.” I spit in the bowl, hocking out the bitter taste from my mouth.
My stomach contracts again, pushing out every last bit of food until nothing is left. Breathing heavy, I sit back on my heels and groan.
A cool, wet towel brushes the back of my neck. It’s a little sliver of heaven in this hellish morning. I turn my head and look at Jordan. Even feeling half dead, she stirs my blood. She’s wearing plain white panties and a loose, hot pink tee shirt that hangs off a beautifully toned shoulder. Jordan’s perfect, and I’m a fucking disgrace. I hate her seeing me this way.
“Get the fuck out.”
The faucet gushes cool water and Jordan wets the towel again. “No.”
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I rasp, my throat stinging from the acid that raged through it just moments ago. “Like Seattle? You’ve been here two days already. That’s enough.”
Jordan brushes the back of my neck again with the cool towel. I hold back the moan. It feels amazing.
“I can’t leave you like this.”
“I’m not a damn toddler.” Pushing unsteadily to my feet, I reach across and open the glass shower door. I flick on the taps and cold water blasts out from the showerhead. Shoving my underwear down and off, I step beneath the icy spray and hiss when it hits my overheated skin.
“Would you fucking go already, Jordan? Book your flight back to Seattle. I don’t want you here when I get back from training.”
I slam the shower door closed.
My backside jars as I slam it down on the bench in front of my locker. Dropping my helmet at my feet, I hang my head and pinch the bridge of my nose. Today I trained like a newborn holding a football for the very first time. I’ve lost confidence in myself and what my body can do, and I have no clue how to get it back.
Eddie drops down on my left and the entire bench shudders beneath the force. His meaty paw slaps me in the back, shoving me forward a couple of inches on the seat. “What a shit show.”
I wipe my brow with my forearm. It comes away grimy—a testament to every body slam I took out there on the field, my face spending most of its day mashed in the dirt. “Thanks for the pep talk, Eddie.”
He leans over, droplets of sweat scattering to the floor as he starts untying his laces. “Pretty words aren’t going to fix anything.”
“Well damn, there goes my poetry reading session this afternoon.”
After peeling away his socks, Eddie stands and starts tugging off his equipment. “Jordan went home today?”
“Not home,” I correct him, resting my elbows on my knees and lacing my fingers together to hide the tremors. Jordan didn’t wait until after I left for training to leave. When I stepped out of the shower she was already gone. “Seattle.”
He grunts, wrapping a towel around his waist. “You’re a dick.”
“Christ, Eddie!” Jerking to my feet, I kick the base of my locker and face him. “I get it, okay? You’re not my number one fan right now!”
His hand wraps around my throat, and I’m slammed against the locker before I can blink. Eddie jabs a finger right in my face. “No, you’re the one who doesn’t get it, you fucking motherfucker.” His eyes are red and rife with emotion. “Everyone’s pussyfooting around you because you keep going off like a firecracker on the Fourth of July. I’m tired of it, and I’m not the only one. Someone needs to give you a ‘come to Jesus’ talk, and I hereby nominate myself.”
Unpeeling his fingers from my neck, I shove him off me. “Yeah? Well save your breath. I’m retracting your nomination, asshole.”
“Really?” he growls. “When you get home today, take a look in the mirror. A good, hard look. When you’re done, you can come tell me who the asshole is here.” Eddie stalks off toward the showers and pauses for a moment before turning back. “I don’t get it. Are you trying to make it harder for yourself?”
“Yes.” I roll my eyes. Slumping down on the bench, I give him my back as I tug off my cleats. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to do.”
“We want to help you, but you’re pushing us all away. Jordan didn’t just go back to Seattle, you forced her to go. That’s your usual MO. To deal with it yourself. Well guess what, you keep doing that, and one day you’ll wake up alone. A drugged-out fucking waste of life that nobody gives a shit about. Or worse, dead.”
Eddie’s stomping feet take him away and the locker room settles into silence. Grabbing the back neckline of my jersey, I tug it over my head and off, tossing it to the floor. Fuck him. Fuck Eddie, and fuck Jaxon for bringing Jordan home, and fuck everyone. Of course I’m dealing with it myself. It’s my problem. If everyone left me alone, I could focus on fixing it.
I ignore Eddie after showering. He doesn’t seem bothered. He jokes and laughs with other teammates as if I don’t exist. When I’m dressed, I leave for my drug counseling session. Our team physician passed on the address. It was written on a scrap of paper along with name McDougall. After killing the engine, my fingers tap restlessly on the steering wheel as I stare at the house in front of me, wondering if I read the address right.
The fact that it’s a house throws me—a nice house with leafy trees, garden flowers, and a porch. It’s private and discreet. You would never guess the reason I was here. And perhaps that’s the point. Stories like mine keep the media fed. You’re the carcass and they’re the vultures, and they will gleefully pick you apart until nothing remains except bones.
Huffing loudly, I get out of the car and step up onto the porch. After knocking, the door opens and I’m greeted by a guy, big and fit—almost my size. Maybe forty if that, he’s barefoot and wearing worn jeans, a black tee shirt, and a sauce-splattered apron with the silhouette of a dachshund in tartan print that reads, “Are you looking at my McWiener?”
As pissed off as I am to be here right now, I can’t help the laugh that escapes me. I clear my throat. “Dude. Cool apron.”
Holding a wooden spoon aloft, he glances down as if forgetting he’s wearing it and laughs. “Shit. It’s my wife’s.”
He catches my brows flying upwards.
“Aaaand I’m not sure that makes it sound any better.” Just when I’m ready to ask him if I have the right house, he checks his watch and then points the spoon at me. “You’re Brody Madden.”
“And you…” I take a step backwards “…look like you’re in the middle of cooking dinner.” Jerking my thumb in the direction behind me, I keep talking. “So I’m gonna go, and maybe—”
Transferring the spoon to his left hand, he holds out his right before I can make an escape, cutting me off. “Doug McDougall.”
My lips press together. Stepping forward, I take it, giving it a firm shake. “Great name, Doug.”
“The best, thanks to my parents’ perverse sense of humor,” he jokes and lets go of my hand. Stepping aside, he leans against the open door to let me through. “Though mostly I get McDee or Big Mac.”
I follow him through a cluttered hallway to a kitchen out the back. The whole vibe of his house is more well-lived-in rather than untidy. It’s comfortable. Like Doug is—a man who appears confident and relaxed in his own skin. It makes me wonder how it feels to be that way.
“Did I get the time right?” I ask when he heads straight for a big steel pot resting on a gas cooktop. Doug plops his spoon back in, giving it a messy stir.
“Yep. I’m just running behind thanks to afternoon traffic. It’s my turn to cook and it’s chili night. Not to mention my wife will bitch me out if she doesn’t get fed.” Doug tilts his head to look at me as he stirs. “You like chili?”
Usually, but today the scent has my stomach rebelling. “Sure.”
Setting down his spoon, Doug turns and rests his back against the kitchen counter. Crossing one leg casually over the other, he says, “So. Brody. Tell me why you’re here.”
I fold my arms and sidestep his question. “You ask me that like you don’t know.”
He waves a hand. “I got the official spiel, but I want to hear it from you. Humor me.”
“I’m only here because I’ll get suspended from play otherwise.”
“I see.”
It’s the first ‘therapist’ sounding statement to pass his lips and my nostrils flare. “What do you see, Doug?”
“I see that you’re here because you have to be, not because you want to be. I see that football is important to you, Brody. More so than yourself.” He cocks a brow. “How the hell is that going to work out for you?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you care more for football then you care for yourself. How are you going to get better if getting better is not your highest priority?”
I shake my head. “I’m not sick.”
“Okay.” Walking to the far end of the counter, Doug picks up a piece of paper from a crowded pile of books and folders. He hands it to me. I grab it before it flutters to the ground, looking at the page. It’s a bill for his electric.
My brows rise when he takes a step away, shifting back to his
leaning stance against the counter behind him. “And I’m holding your bill because?”
Doug’s shoulders lift in a casual shrug. “I just wanted to see how deep your tremors were.” And he’s right. The paper is shuddering in my hand like an earthquake just hit. He cocks his head, ignoring my curse as I slap the bill down on the counter. “And when I asked if you liked chili, your face took on the color of my lawn. Combined with the circles beneath your eyes and the epic lines of irritation on your face, I’m going to go ahead and call bullshit. You’re sick, Brody, but not the kind you can easily see because the sickness is in your head and your heart. Your body is simply the one paying the price.”
“Call it whatever the hell you like. All I did was take a few damn pills.” My chin lifts. “I don’t need to be here.”
Doug picks up his spoon again and turns to stir the chili, giving me his back. “So leave,” he says simply.
Tugging my car keys from my pocket, I crunch them in my fist so hard it hurts. When I start down the hallway, he doesn’t stop me. But before I reach the front door, he calls out, “Can I say one thing before you go, Brody?”
Turning, I see Doug standing at the kitchen entrance, lips pressed together and disappointment in his eyes.
“Sure.” My arms sweep out expansively like I’m doing him a huge favor. “Why not.”
“Prove yourself wrong.”
I shake my head. “That’s it?”
“Yep. That’s it.”
Grabbing the handle, I wrench open the screen door and step out. Dusk has fallen, streaking deep pinks and orange across the sky. It’s vivid beyond belief, but I don’t notice the beauty as I head toward my car, the screen slapping shut behind me. Cool air has hit the sweat dotting my forehead and my shivers are almost unbearable.
“I’m sure I’ll see you again soon!” Doug yells after me.
Sure. Soon. Good joke, Big Mac.
I fume the entire drive home. When I walk through the door connecting the garage to the living area, I find both Eddie and Jaxon sprawled on the sofa, Pitch Perfect their movie of choice. Both sets of eyes hit mine expectantly.
The End Game Page 33
