53. Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-seven
Leo
"Solid game today, boys," Coach Carter says, leaning against the wall as we celebrate our win in the locker room. "You played well. Quick on the ball, good reactions, you really listened to what I had to say at halftime, and I appreciate that." He runs his fingers across the silver stubble on his jaw, silent as he thinks.
"But we still made mistakes. Sully, your goal in the first quarter was brilliant, but you slowed down in the second half." I nod in agreement. "Arun, you saved some great balls, but you almost conceded in the eighty-seventh minute. Spend some time studying the teams we're playing in the coming games to better anticipate each player's favored scoring tactic. Wolfe, you almost got carded. The boys are looking to you as their captain to set the standard, so be better next time." Alex looks down at his feet. "And remember, success isn't accidental. If we want to win the league this year, we need to be tenacious, determined, and hard-working. But most of all, we need to love what we're doing and love that we're doing it together . We can achieve greatness as a team this season but only if we love the game enough. So, tell me, boys, do we love the game? And do we love this team?"
A chorus of yeses rings out, some more enthusiastic than others, but it appeases Coach enough to leave us with a sturdy nod and a few claps on the back. I fight back an eyeroll. Five years living in the States, and I'm still not totally acclimated to the cultural differences. I'm far more comfortable with a coach calling me a prick than I am with them slapping me on the shoulder and forcing me to declare my love of the game.
I am, for the most part, a stereotypical Englishman: reserved and sarcastic with a dry sense of humor and a preference for driving on the left-hand side of the road. Which are all, really, just nice ways of saying that we're grumpy bastards. So, while the joviality and optimism of the average American often makes me uncomfortable, I can at least be self-deprecating enough to admit that it's a problem with the stiff upper lip instilled in me by my home country.
Why shouldn't Apple employees greet me in the store like a soldier returning home from war? It's not hurting anybody. And besides, maybe if we found more needless shit to celebrate back home, scientific research wouldn't have discovered that British people are literally born to be miserable.
As if to prove my point, Alex stands to my right-hand side with a wide-ass grin on his face as he windmills his dick between his legs. "My parents came to the game today."
My eyebrow twitches in amusement. "Interesting topic of conversation when you're playing with your knob."
He doesn't acknowledge my words—doesn't stop swinging his dick either. "Wanna come say hi?"
Shit .
Until now, I've never had any hesitation about seeing Jack and Libby. They've always been wonderful to me, but now there's a nervousness twisting in my gut in anticipation of looking them in the face since I started sleeping with their daughter.
Will Jack take one look at me and somehow know I've been fucking Brynn six ways from Sunday? Will he break my nose for doing so, just like Alex will the second he finds out? Would I be justified in defending myself, or would I simply have to stand there and take it?
Probably the latter.
There's a slim chance of Alex ever forgiving me for sleeping with his sister, but I'd be dead to him if I punched his elderly father in the face on top of that.
Not that I'm a violent man, anyway. I'd never hit Jack. I'm simply assessing my options.
Finally covering his genitalia with a pair of sweats—no underwear because, in his words, he "likes to feel the breeze on his balls"—Alex finishes getting dressed and looks to me in expectation, and I realize I never answered his question.
"What?" I choke.
He tilts his head to the side. "You wanna come and say hi to my parents?"
"Oh." I clear my throat. "Sure, yeah."
He frowns, and my pulse skyrockets.
Can he read it all on my face?
Can he tell my secrets by the guilty flush on my cheeks?
Leaning against the bench, he keeps his narrowed eyes on me as I finish pulling on my black sweatpants and t-shirt, throwing a ball cap on my head that Brynn will undoubtedly steal later.
"Why are you looking at me like that?" I ask as we walk side by side out of the locker room.
"Why are you being weird?" he fires back.
I pull off my hat, ruffle my hair, then put it back in place. "I'm not being weird. I'm fine. Totally fine."
He snorts, holding open the door for me. "You sound like Ross walking in on Rachel and Joey making out."
The crisp winter air has me sucking in lungfuls of breath as we leave the foggy stench of old socks and sweat behind in the stadium. Across the parking lot, Brynn waits with my daughter in her arms and her parents at her sides. They're all bundled in thick coats, but my guilt has my skin burning so hot that the freezing wind doesn't register at all.
"Just feeling the pressure of the season, y'know?" I lie, internally begging myself to get it together while simultaneously cursing my own name for being such a monumental piece of shit.
Regretfully, Alex buys the lie. And though it's a relief, it's also an extra dagger to my soul. The dude is my best friend, and he deserves more than my betraying, lying, traitorous ass.
"I get it." He grips my shoulder in reassurance. "We all do. But you kicked ass out there today, so let yourself celebrate, even if only for tonight. You can go back to sulking and worrying tomorrow, yeah?"
He smiles, and it's so warm and genuine that I die a thousand deaths inside.
"Yeah," I say quietly. "Thanks, man."
"You're my best friend. I've got your back, and you've got mine." He says it with an air of confidence and trust that I almost blurt out what I've been doing just to ease the guilt aching in my chest. He turns away then, greeting his family with wide open arms.
I linger behind him, sinking lower and lower into my pit of self-hatred. Even when Salem reaches her arms out for me, squealing her happiness and mouthing my cheek, I can only manage a half-smile. I can't meet Brynn's eye, can barely muster the mental capacity to hold a conversation with Jack about the soccer season, and when Libby shoots me a knowing look over Alex's shoulder, I practically hyperventilate.
Salem, sensing my discomfort in the strange telepathic way only babies are able to do, dissolves into a flood of tears, which gives me an easy excuse to say my goodbyes and duck out early.
"Well"—I slap my knee—"it was lovely to see you both." I smile politely as Libby pulls me into an embrace.
Stepping back, she takes my face in her hands. "You're a good man, Leo Sullivan."
Fuck this. My conscience can't take it anymore.
I shoot my gaze to Alex, who is thankfully distracted by his father. Nodding my thanks, I try to pull away, but she only holds me tighter.
"Don't worry too much about my son, dear. He's protective to a fault, but he loves you. He'll understand when you're ready to tell him."
My brows raise in disbelief before I'm able to stop them. With a warm smile, Libby watches her husband and son throwing soft punches at one another on the grass bank just a few steps away. "It's true. He loves fiercely and has a stubborn streak as long as the Mississippi River, but he'll come around eventually—so long as you make Brynn happy and treat her right."
I sigh, wiping a hand down the length of my face.
"You love her, don't you?" She finally releases me, tucking her gloved hands back into the pockets of her parka. "You might not realize it yet, but you do. I can see it."
My eyes instantly search out Brynn, who has thankfully broken away from the group to chat with the wife of one of my teammates. Relieved that she wasn't around to overhear her mother poking into my deepest secrets, I scramble for something to say. "I…" I trail off, words evading me.
She laughs easily, like this situation isn't as grave as I know it is, as if it doesn't have the capacity to blow up my friendship with Alex like a nuclear bomb. "It'll all work out in the end."
She leaves me with that, striding across to Jack and all but dragging him across the parking lot in search of their car. I watch her go, my mind an even greater mess than it was before that conversation, imagining how Alex will react to finding out about Brynn and me and wondering why everyone keeps insisting that I'm in love when I've never given any indication that I am.
If I was in love with her, I'd know.
Right?