My father cries out. Letting me go, he covers his nose with both hands, blood spilling out beneath them. I didn’t want this—the inevitable confrontation and violence. Why does he push, and push, and fucking push? “Why?”
Jax grabs my bicep, trying to pull me away. I shrug him off, all the hurt I pushed deep now bubbling to the surface.
“Why don’t you care?” I shout as Dad wipes at his bloodied face.
“Because you’re not my son!” he roars.
Utter silence reigns for a single, heartrending moment. The air gusting between us stills. My voice lowers to a whisper. “What did you say?”
“You heard me.”
“Holy fuck,” Jaxon breathes, his feet frozen in place. “You can’t be serious.”
But he is. I know he is because it makes sense. Of course it wouldn’t matter what I did or how hard I tried. Why would it if I wasn’t his son? There’s no feat on Earth I could perform that would change something like that. “You’re not my real father.”
I say it more as a statement than a question, the words sounding foreign to my ears, as if someone else spoke them.
“No,” he reiterates. “I’m not.”
A feeling of emptiness steals over me—swift and consuming. I should feel something shouldn’t I? Even just relief that I don’t share the same blood that runs through his veins. But I’ve been sucked inside a void where it’s dark and cold, and ironically it’s a place more painful than anything I’ve ever experienced. My feet carry me forward a step. Jax puts a cautionary hand on my forearm, worried at what I’ll do. But even I don’t know what I’ll do. Everything I thought I knew is all wrong.
“Mom. Is she …” The question lodges in my throat.
Dad wipes the back of his hand under his nose, smearing a trickle of blood. “You’re hers.”
“I don’t understand.”
“By all means, let me explain in terms you can understand.” His upper lip curls with condescension. “Six months after we married, your mother went on a night out to celebrate a friend’s work promotion. She didn’t come home until mid-morning the next day claiming her drink was spiked. Nine months later there you were,” he spits out bitterly.
I stand stoic as he speaks, unresponsive, even as his words tear into my skin. I’m the product of assault. No wonder I’m unwanted. I’m a reminder of something ugly and sickening. The spawn of a monster. Does that make me one too?
My voice is a whisper. “Why didn’t you just get rid of me?”
His anger flares like a lit match. “It was too late! You were already there and they wouldn’t abort you. And once the media found out your mother was pregnant we were stuck. We couldn’t even give you away.” My father comes at me, hopeless rage twisting his face.
“Liam!” My mother steps out of the house, her face ashen beneath the flawless layer of makeup. I look between them, now able to see my parents with true clarity. They both wear a picture-perfect veneer to hide a fracture so deep it won’t ever heal. “Please. Stop!”
Dad keeps talking, too caught up to even hear her. “You wouldn’t die like I wanted you to. Instead you thrived. A fucking virus I knew would never go away!”
My shirt is grabbed and he heaves, snarling, and shoves me backwards, slamming me hard against the passenger side door of the car. I hear my mother cry out as air leaves my lungs in a rush.
“We never wanted you,” he gasps, his eyes so rabid I know he’s lost touch with reality.
Jaxon seizes Dad’s arms, his face white with shock. Mom cries my name, her voice desperate, begging me to do something. I’m not sure what she wants me to do. The most she’s ever expected of me is to just leave, so that’s what I’m going to do. I push an elbow between my father and myself, using it as a bracket so I can dig the keys from my pocket.
I’m halfway there when Dad wrestles free of Jaxon and launches himself at me. His fist smashes in my face. My head snaps back, hitting the rounded metal of the car where the roof meets the door. There’s no time to recover before an uppercut gets me in the ribs. There’s a powerhouse of muscle behind the punch and something crunches beneath it. A bone. Pain erupts. The intensity is like a starburst, brilliant and fiery.
But he’s not done. He comes at me again, and again. I can hear Jaxon shouting. I feel like I should do something. Defend myself. But all I can hear is the words we never wanted you. They batter my head like a broken record. You wouldn’t die.
Suddenly my father is gone. I stumble forward, dizzy and trying to catch my breath. Jaxon has him in an armlock. They grapple, and my cousin gets a hard elbow to the ribs. He grunts and lets go. Before I can blink I’m on the ground and a fist is coming at my face.
“Goddammit, you’ll kill him!” Jaxon yells. He’s trying to pull my father off me.
“No,” I rasp. Let him do his worst. Lance the poison and maybe then it’ll be enough. His large hands wrap around my neck and squeeze. It’s a vice, making my eyes water. My air is cut off instantly. I react instinctively, clawing his fingers, my body panicked.
The sound of a gun being cocked hits my ears. “Get off of him. Now.”
Hands release from my neck swiftly. Air floods my lungs, fast and sweet. I suck it in with hoarse gasps.
My eyes lift, landing on old man Lewis. Both his arms are outstretched, the gun in his hands steady as he presses it to my father’s temple. “You okay, boy?” he asks without taking his eyes from his target.
I can’t answer the question because I don’t know.
“Get that gun out of my face,” my father growls. He’s frozen beneath it, sweat trickling down the side of his face.
Lewis draws it back slightly, and Dad slowly shifts away and stands.
“Jesus. Brody,” Jax breathes in a shaky voice, sinking to his knees beside me. His hands hover above me, unsure which part is safe to touch.
I don’t spare him a glance. My stomach’s knotted with pain. I roll to my side and throw up on the front lawn. Even that simple action leaves me dizzy.
“Lay another hand on that boy,” Lewis growls, forcing my father to back away, “and it’ll be the last thing you ever do.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I sure as hell am.”
Well, what do you know? Old man Lewis has a heart after all. “Call an ambulance,” he orders Jaxon.
“No.” Adrenaline pushes me to my feet. Jaxon reaches for me. I hold out an arm in warning, staggering as I back away. “Don’t fucking touch me.”
Passing by Lewis on unsteady legs, I give him that casual salute that I always do.
Jaxon drives us back to his apartment because I refuse a hospital, but I don’t remember much beyond that point. I know he must have left me alone at some stage because I called Damien. I know I called Damien because I’m sitting on the tiled floor of the shower, an empty bottle of Percocet gripped in my hand. The water gushing from above is ice cold. It’s catching me in the back of my bowed head. I blink away the water in my eyes, not noticing how they sting. My clothes are soaked, but I can’t bring myself to care.
Taking a handful of Percocet gives a high like heroin so I’d chewed a large handful down to make them work faster. Today I need to feel good. Just once. But I don’t. Why isn’t it working? My heart is racing so hard I’m sure it’s going to punch its way out of my chest, yet I’m just as empty as I was before. Maybe I need to lie down. My fingernails dig into the grout of the tiles, the only leverage I have to pull myself upright. I stagger my way to the guest room, skidding against the walls, using them to prop me up when I feel myself falling.
Slumping down on the bed, I reach for my bag and some pills. I down a couple to help me sleep. Maybe they’ll stop my heart from galloping because it’s beginning to hurt. Falling back on the pillow, I close my eyes but oblivion doesn’t come. My arm trembles as I stretch it out toward my phone. I fumble and it drops to the floor.
“Fuck.” Rolling on my side, I grab for it. It takes several attempts before I get it in my hand. S
lumping back on my pillow, I dial Jordan. It starts to ring and I exhale deeply. Her soothing voice will fix everything.
“Hi. You’ve reached Jordan Madden.” I’m frustrated at getting her voicemail, but there’s a small measure of warmth hearing her message has changed to include her married name. It’s something small, really, but it feels huge. Jordan is all I have now, but for how long? She keeps slipping through my fingers. I’m doing everything I can to hold on, but the fight is too much. It’s too much. A sob rises up from deep in my chest. For the first time I can’t hold it in. It rips out of me, the sound loud and broken. I fist a hand in my hair as another follows. God, there’s so much pain inside it’s killing me. “I’m sorry I can’t answer the phone right now. Leave your name and number and I’ll call you back.”
A long beep follows. “Baby?” Christ I’m so fucked-up. I use my forearm to wipe the tears but it feels too heavy to move, so I just leave it there, resting across my eyes. “Sorry, I just …” The words don’t come out sounding right, like my tongue is too big for my mouth. I end the call and throw the phone away, remembering she has soccer finals. She doesn’t need my shit right now. Maybe not ever.
As I lie there my body begins to tremble violently and sleep still proves elusive. Did I take the Ambien? Why can’t I remember? Dragging myself from the bed, I dig for the bottle in my bag. Finding it, I rise, using the wall to prop me up as I empty a pile of pills in my hand. I swallow them down. My mouth is dry and they stick in my throat. I work them down and peace comes soon after. It’s a loving blanket that wraps itself around me, cocooning me in its warmth. My head tips back and my eyes close. A voice from deep inside screams at me as I slide down the bedroom wall. It has fists that bang against my chest, fingers that claw desperately, and sobs that are so deep and wounded they would break my heart if it wasn’t already broken.
I ignore it as the empty bottle falls from my hand, dropping harmlessly to the carpet beside my slumped body. In a brief moment of piercing clarity, I feel my last breath coming. The pain of leaving Jordan is like a sharp knife slicing through my skin, but I can’t stay. It’s so beautiful where I am. So calm and peaceful. I don’t have to fight here. I don’t have to prove myself. Here I’m not the son my father never wanted, the brother that’s never there, or the rising football star I don’t deserve to be. Here, I’m not anything, and nothing has ever felt more right.
Jordan
14 hours earlier…
Our soccer semifinal is just half an hour away and the locker room is crowded. My stomach rolls and my hands shake. Nerves get me every game. As soon as kick off comes I’ll be fine, but those final minutes beforehand wreck me completely.
Sitting down on the bench, I lean over and adjust the laces on my cleats. They’re new, and a little longer than what I’m used to. After tying a double knot, I grab some black tape and wind it around each boot, strapping the cords in place. As I straighten, a pang of loneliness robs me of breath. I wish I hadn’t sent Brody to see Annabelle. It was the right thing to do, but I miss him. I miss my husband.
My phone rings from inside my locker cupboard as I stand. My heart leaps. Brody always rings me right before a game. Flipping open the door, I take it out. It’s Nicky. My heart rate slows to normal pace. “Hey,” I answer.
“Jordan,” he replies. There’s an edge in his voice now. It’s been there since the news of mine and Brody’s marriage broke.
Brody said he would talk to my brother for me, and as much as I wanted him to take one for the team, it wouldn’t have been right. So I returned Nicky’s call later that night, my apology sounding lame and trite. My brother was deeply hurt, unable to comprehend my need to break free and do something fun and reckless.
How could I explain it to him? How could I explain the way Brody looked at me when he said ‘I do’ in the tiny little registry office? His eyes were dark and loving, almost fierce as he promised to cherish me forever. It was intense and romantic. For a single moment in time we were wild and free, the only two people in existence. After the clerk announced Brody could kiss the bride, his lips on mine were deliciously warm.
A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth when he drew back and whispered the words, “No regrets, okay?”
There would be no regrets. My love for him surpassed all reason and common sense. “None.”
Brody nodded, satisfied. “From now on, it’s just you and me.”
After speaking our vows, we went to a nearby bar. It was packed, the crowd rowdy. We pushed into the thick of it and tossed back beer after beer until we couldn’t see straight. We drank and laughed until the early hours of the morning. When the band began to play a cover of U2’s “All I Want is You,” Brody whooped, declared it our wedding song, and hauled me out onto the dance floor. I remember the click of my heels on the thick wooden floors and tipping my head back, looking at the beautiful fairy lights that covered the ceiling as Brody spun me around, laughing and drunk. It was crazy beautiful. He made my wedding night perfect.
Tears well up from the overload of emotion. I blink them back and sit down on the bench behind me. Holding my head in my hand, I close my eyes, returning to the present and Nicky’s phone call.
“I just wanted to wish you luck,” he says. “So … good luck.”
My voice drops to a whisper, not knowing what to say. “Nicky …”
“Don’t.” He lets out a sharp breath. “Focus on your game.”
I don’t tell him the game doesn’t mean to me what it used to. It’s not everything anymore. “I’ll see you at home in a few days,” he says.
Australia isn’t home anymore, but I don’t tell him that either. My brother has already been punched in the gut. I don’t need to kick him while he’s down. “See you then.”
He hangs up and I join the gathering huddle for our pregame pep talk. Our head coach gains our attention with a shout and a clap of his hands. Silence descends. Pausing, he scans our faces.
“Do you know why you’re here? What you’re busting your ass out on that field for?” Coach doesn’t wait for an answer. He stares at each of us in turn with a hard glare in his eye. “That’s what you need to remember today, because this game is already over for you if you’re not out there for the right reasons. You know you’re the best team. You know this game belongs to you. It belongs to your teammate beside you. It belongs to everyone who helped get you here today. To every person you love who puts up with never seeing you. To every fan who looks up to you.” He draws in a deep breath of pride, his nostrils flaring and his finger jabbing to emphasize his words. “When you leave that field at the end of the game, win or lose, be sure you did everything you could and gave everything you had, because if you didn’t, you’ve let down everyone and everything this game belongs to.” His arm rises high. “Now get the hell out there, bust your ass, and prove just how good you are!” Our coach raises his voice and it echoes around each and every one of us. “Prove that you’re better than even you thought you could be!”
It’s a rousing speech. One that makes me pause. I do know why I’m here. For the love of the game. That’s all it comes down to. But my love for Brody is stronger than even this. It’s for him I’ll do everything I can, and give everything I have. He’s the reason why I signed a new contract with Houston Dash this morning. When I’m done with my FIFA tour, I’ll be heading home. It makes my heart sing.
Unzipping my jacket, I shove it in my locker and turn to follow the team just as my phone rings again. Shit. I glance around the emptying room. The hell with it. I palm the ringing device in a furtive maneuver and hit answer, whispering, “I literally have five seconds.”
“Then why are you answering your phone?” Brody asks, amused.
“Because I love you and I miss you, and I’m a selfish bitch because I’m wishing I didn’t tell you to go to Austin. I want you here.”
He laughs in the face of my misery. “You just want a fuck to pound all those pre-game nerves from your system.”
My face flames
because he knows how hard I like it just before a match. It loosens tense muscles and clears my head. “You know me so well.”
His voice softens. “I do.”
Eddie shouts something at the television in the background. My brows pull together. “I thought you’d be in Austin by now.”
“No, we’re heading out for pizza with some of the guys from the team. I’ll leave from there.”
“You’ll be too tired to leave from there. You should go now.”
As if on cue, he lets out a loud yawn. “I know, but I want to catch your game on the TV. If I’m driving I’ll miss it.”
“Jordan!”
“Shit,” I mumble into the phone. “That’s my coach.”
“Go!” Brody booms. “Kick a goal for me.”
“Bye,” I whisper. Ending the call, I lose the phone and race out on the field with minutes to spare.
Just like he asked, I kick a goal for Brody. When it’s done, I press my index and middle finger to my lips and then hold them up high so he knows it’s for him.
Despite giving our hearts to the game, we lose. It doesn’t just sting either, it burns like a raging bonfire. My first season in a professional league has ended in heartache.
Brody rings me later that night. I’m stretched out in bed, declining consolatory team drinks. With no grand final ahead of us, I have a window of opportunity. I plan to use it wisely by flying to Austin in the morning to surprise Brody, and I want to get a good night’s rest.
“Did I wake you?” he whispers.
I stare up at the ceiling, wide awake. “No.”
“I’m sorry.”
Disappointment wells. “You can’t win them all.”
“Don’t give that bullshit line.” He’s right. It’s a standard one we all use to death and means nothing. “Tell me how you really feel.”
“I feel like a failure.” My eyes burn. “I gave it everything, Brody. I did the best I could, but it wasn’t enough. What if this is it? What if this is the best I’ll ever do?”
The End Game Page 37
