Chapter 11
brANDON
Istare at the television screen. The Eagles are playing the Ravens, but I couldn’t tell you the score or who’s winning.
Just like I couldn’t tell you who has possession or what quarter it is.
Though it’s been playing in the background for nearly two hours, I’ve barely watched a second of it. Because all I can focus on is Tatum.
I haven’t seen nor heard from her since the party Friday night, and ever since she left my side, stumbling as she clung to Ethan’s arm, it’s been eating me alive.
I haven’t gotten a wink of sleep. I couldn’t focus during yesterday’s game.
I played like garbage, continuously scanning the stadium between plays and hoping to catch a glimpse of her face, because despite knowing Ethan was in town, some stupid part of me still hoped she might show up.
But she didn’t show up. And I haven’t heard from her. Not a single text to let me know she’s okay or show me I still matter. It’s been nothing but radio silence on her end, and it’s a stark reminder of what my future holds if she transfers schools.
There will be more missed games, more unanswered texts and calls, and a growing silence between us.
I’ll no longer catch a glimpse of her in the stands, wrapped up in a scarf and mittens, cheeks pink from the cold.
Postgame-day hangouts will be a thing of the past. She’ll no longer text me for hours during my bus rides to and from away games, when I’m tired and sore and all I want is an ice bath and a pillow.
No more lazy Sundays with her after a week of getting my ass kicked on the field.
“Hey, I’m heading out.” Chase, my roommate and one of AAU’s linebackers leans on his crutches in front of the TV, and I wonder how long he’s been there, blocking my view.
My gaze flickers over him, and guilt pinches in my chest. The direct hit he took in yesterday’s game to the outside of his knee will cost him the season—maybe more. And here I am moping, like my problems are the only ones that matter.
“You headed home?” I ask, noting the dark circles beneath his eyes. If I had to guess, he didn’t sleep much last night.
That makes two of us.
“Yeah. My folks want me to see the surgeon there, so . . .” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal, but I can see the pain in his eyes. The shrug is too casual, his voice too flat. Something’s not right.
“You okay, man?” I ask, muting the TV, not that I was watching it.
“Yeah. Fine.” Chase shifts his weight on the crutches, wincing slightly with the movement.
I’ve known Chase for three years now. We’ve shared a room, celebrated wins, mourned losses. We may not be close like I am with Jace, Chris, Damon, and West, but he’s a good dude, and I know when he’s bullshitting me.
“Come on,” I press. “Talk to me.”
He stares at the floor for a long moment, then sighs heavily. “I don’t think I’m coming back.”
“What?” I turn closer to face him. “I thought your folks had a line on one of the best surgeons in the country? Isn’t that the point of going home?”
“They do. But this is my second ACL surgery, man. We’re juniors, and it’ll take me nearly a year to recover.
Even then, my performance might not be what it was.
My career beyond college is probably toast, and even if it wasn’t .
. .” He exhales, rubbing his left shoulder, a reminder of the torn rotator cuff he suffered through freshman year.
“I’m tired of the injuries, done getting beat up. ”
I sit, stunned for a moment before I can speak. “Won’t you at least come back for your classes? Finish your degree?”
“I might watch you guys finish out the season.” He chews his lip, staring at a spot over my shoulder, as if mulling it over.
“Cheer you on when I’m not under the knife, but after that .
. . My father’s a general contractor. Wants me to take on some of his projects, since he’s looking to retire soon.
I only came to college because I got a partial scholarship. ”
I swallow, unsure of what to say. It’s not the first time I’ve seen one of my fellow teammates taken out by an injury, but it sucks every time regardless. “Well, fuck.”
He grins. “Yeah. Fuck.”
I rise to my feet as he makes his way toward the door. I hold it open for him, then stretch my fist out toward his and bump knuckles. “See you in a few days, then?”
“That’s the plan. And, hey, say hello to your girl for me.” He winks, and I start to tell him she’s not my girl, when I simply shrug and close the door behind me.
Sliding my phone from my pocket, I open a group text with the boys. With the exception of West and myself, they’re all hanging out with their girls today. Lucky bastards.
ME:
Looks like Chase is out. I didn’t realize this, but he had an ACL tear in high school, too. He’s cooked.
CHRIS:
He tell you that?
ME:
Yep.
DAMON:
Shit.
ME:
Is it bad that I’d rather tear my ACL and risk football than lose Tate?
JACE:
Damn bro.
DAMON:
I get it. Football is temporary, man. The right girl is forever.
WEST:
That’s deep.
CHRIS:
Listen to you guys! Have some confidence, will you? You’re already talking like it’s over.
I sigh as I watch the typing bubbles dance on my screen before a paragraph-long text comes through from Chris talking about the Playbook that I don’t bother reading. One, because I don’t care to, and two, because a knock at the door pulls my focus.
Setting my phone down, I make my way to the door, trying not to get my hopes up. It could be anyone—West stopping by, the neighbor asking to borrow something, a delivery person. But when I swing the door open, it’s not just anyone. It’s her.
Tatum stands in my doorway, hair damp from the rain, wearing an oversized gray Griffins T-shirt I recognize as the one she stole from me during freshman year, along with leggings.
Her cheeks are flushed—whether from the cold or the sprint from her car to my door—and the unguarded softness in her gaze tugs at something deep inside my chest.
“Hi,” she says softly, her voice barely audible over the distant rumble of thunder outside.
“Hi.” I grip the doorframe, afraid that if I let go, I might reach for her. “I was starting to think I wouldn’t see you today.”
She tucks a strand of wet hair behind her ear, giving me a little shrug. “It’s Sunday,” she says, like she’s stating the obvious, even though I was starting to worry Sundays don’t belong to me anymore.
I stare at her for a moment, crushed beneath the weight of my feelings for her as rain patters softly against the windows. Somewhere down the hall, a door slams shut, and it breaks me from my trance. “You up for a lazy Sunday?”
She bites her lip, and I’m instantly worried she’ll say no.
I clear my throat. “Unless Ethan’s with you?” I ask, praying like hell he’s not.
Tatum shakes her head, and a drop of rain falls from the end of her inky black locks. “No. He went back to school this morning.”
The punch of relief I feel at the news is sharp and shameful, a stark reminder of how I want what I can’t have.
Stepping aside so she can come in, I study her face as she passes, searching for any sign of how she feels about the fact that Ethan’s gone and she’s here. Does she miss him? Is she relieved?
But I find nothing. She’s unreadable. A blank canvas. Suddenly, this girl I’ve known for years is as indecipherable to me as a foreign language, and I wonder when things changed and why.
“So, if we’re having a lazy Sunday,” she says, turning to me. “Who’s boss?”
I cross my arms over my chest, leaning against the doorframe as a smile plays over my lips.
Lazy Sundays are one of the things we made up in high school.
My mom was always working and never around.
For some reason her absence hit harder on Sundays, so Tate would come over and we’d spend the day inside doing whatever we wanted.
Eventually, it evolved into flipping a coin to see who got to dictate the day’s activities.
The boss could choose whatever they wanted, and the other had to honor their every whim.
“Flip for it?” When she nods, I add, “Let me grab a coin.”
I jog back to my bedroom, heart racing at the prospect of spending the day with her. I grab the coin we always use from my top dresser drawer and head back out to find her perched on the couch in my living room.
She glances up at me when I approach, and I hold the coin out, making a show of it as I toss it in the air and slap it on the back of my hand, stretching it out to show her.
“Heads!” she squeals, and I laugh.
Little does Tate know I’ve used a double-sided coin for years. The few times I won were at her insistence she flip it with a coin from her pocket, and she’s yet to make the connection.
“Damn. Looks like you win.” I sink the coin back into the pocket of my joggers. “So, what’ll it be? Romcom marathon? Baking ’til we drop? You get whatever you want,” I say with a grimace as if the thought pains me, when in reality, pleasing Tatum brings me far more joy than is probably normal.
“Anything?” she asks, drumming her pretty little fingers against her mouth.
I reach out and tuck a dark lock behind her ear. “Anything.”
“This is ridiculous,” I mutter, trying not to move my face too much as the sticky concoction Tate slathered all over my skin tightens like plastic wrap.
The pungent scent of bananas and honey fills my nose, and I can feel a massive glob of something threatening to slide down my temple onto the couch.
“Stop talking,” Tatum scolds, lying beside me, her head resting against the top of the couch cushions, and her own face covered in the same homemade rotting fruit mask.
“I think I just ate a gnat.”
Tate stifles a giggle before shushing me. “You’ll crack it, and then it won’t work properly.”
“And what exactly is it supposed to be doing?” I ask, ignoring her instructions to stay silent. “Besides making me smell like banana bread?”