Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Leo
I’m being watched.
It’s been a recurring notion over the past few months, and I’ve developed this fun game I like to play called Spot the Stalker.
Of course, the first time any game is played, people might stumble or make a couple of mistakes.
Sometimes they’ll play it safe, never stand too close to the edge.
The path a player chooses depends on the stakes and their personality.
Often there are too many variables, which makes it difficult to predict their next move.
But there will always be a single certainty. A guarantee. Regardless of whether they’re a brute, or they hold the delicacy of the finest flower, they’ll eventually head down the same path and become the same thing: sloppy.
It’s unintentional, usually from either cockiness, laziness, or general comfort. But a great player chooses when to be cocky. At the end of the day, they know it’s not just about the cards they have on the table, but how they put them down.
I have yet to work out which category my shadow falls under.
Jack Norton’s voice echoes somewhere behind me. My jaw tics. Fucking prick. There’s nothing accidental about anything the asshole does, despite how hard he tries to play dumb. I speed up my pace to my car, but the piece of shit clamps a hand on my shoulder, fucking up my getaway.
“What the hell was that about, man?”
I whirl to face him, throwing his hand off me. But I say nothing. I’m on thin ice as it is, and the last thing I need is more witnesses to my short fuse that’s going to force his dad to kick me off the team.
“I was in the zone,” I answer through gritted teeth, in case we have an audience that can hear.
He’s playing dumb. Jack knows exactly what he’s done. He knows precisely why I’ve been at his throat for the past couple of months. Tonight is no exception.
If he refuses to heed my warning and stay away from her, this is his fate.
Ever since we were young, he’s acted like this and needled his way into places and relationships where he wasn’t wanted.
He’s wearing his signature, pretentious, I’ve-done-nothing-wrong look, and it’s only tolerable because of the gash I left on his cheek earlier. Pity I didn’t hit a major artery. Nothing would make me happier than reading his obituary.
Jack, the future fucking corpse, tries reaching for me again. A couple of the guys catch up to us before I can shove his head through the nearest window—maybe then I’ll finally hit an important organ. It’d be such a shame if he died from it.
My eyes narrow on him, and I imagine hearing a choir of angels sing as his decrepit soul gets yanked from his body. Maybe tonight’s the night that I finally accidentally follow him home and run him over—a couple of times for good measure.
I’d sleep like a baby for once. Wouldn’t that be nice.
But I’ll get more than just kicked off the team if I kill him.
Pity.
My teammates are lucky I’m in a half-decent mood. One part fury, one part caged.
I have big plans later. People to meet. Promises to fulfill. Shit infinitely more important than breathing the same air as the assholes in front of me.
“Drinks at mine tonight?” Simon asks, a dopey smile beaming across his insufferable face. A monkey clangs cymbals together behind his eyes. He’s completely unaware of what he just walked into.
I’m surprised whenever he forms a full sentence. His two barely functioning brain cells are constantly fighting for third place. He has talent on the ice, but that’s all he’s got.
Jack and Calvin nod in agreement, then Dumb and Dumber turn to me with their leader edging uncomfortably close, invading every matter of personal space I have—aether included.
Pass. “Fine.”
Watching paint dry would be more enjoyable. For someone who earns a living playing a team sport, I’d often rather gouge my eyes out than be amongst said team. My eardrums threaten to burst every time I’m at a game, and I’m surrounded by men with below-average hygiene on a daily basis.
The last thing I want to do is go to a place where everyone will be loud, sweaty, and insist on encroaching on my personal space.
Unfortunately, the whole team part requires my occasional attendance every couple of weeks, since I need to maintain trust amongst us with my less-than-sunny demeanor.
I’m also too new to be pissing every person off, although it’s a path I’ve already headed down, and where I currently stand, they’ll all quickly hate me the moment Jack says so.
My attitude and personality aren’t helping my case. I’ve always been one to stay silent and keep to myself, but Jack and his antics bring out the worst in me. I can’t help it.
No one likes how I treat Jack, and I’ve lost too many brownie points to feel secure in my position. I try to keep it in, but he makes my goddamn eye twitch.
So I have no choice but to force myself to attend these events that make me question whether my career is worth it. The alternative is getting traded again, and right now, that’s the last thing I want.
One of the guys hoots—I don’t care to figure out which one—as I head to my car. But I can hazard a guess.
“Fuck off, Jack.”
He doesn’t.
He never does.
Jack huffs. “Can I hitch a ride?”
“Get an Uber.”
He closes the distance, a hair away from bumping my shoulder like we’re old friends. “We’re teammates. We help each other out.”
How can one person’s voice be so whiny? Better yet, how can one person be so insufferable? Why does he bother trying to be friends again when I spent years making it abundantly clear that ship has long sailed?
From the corner of my eye, I spot Calvin and Simon reach their car first. “Go with them.” I try to keep my voice even, nodding in their direction as I pop open the trunk of my car to throw my gear inside. “Walk. Bus. You could crawl there for all I care.”
“Come on, Leo, my—”
Fuck it. “That wasn’t an opening for further discussion. Go. With. Them. They’re your teammates. They’ll help. I’m done doing anything for you.”
I’m a prickly asshole on the best of days, but when it comes to Jack, I’m a right fucking asshole both inside and outside of working hours. It’s a miracle I haven’t been immediately traded.
“Mom misses you, you know.”
I still. Mom. She always got her kicks out of Jack calling her that.
If she really misses me, she knows where to find me. But she won’t ever reach out. She already has a replacement for the son she birthed.
He tries to say more, but I’m in my car and locking the doors behind me before he can do more than leave his filthy fingerprints on my irksomely dirty car. Jack keeps trying to speak to me from the other side of my tinted windows, but I tune him out as I flick a text off to Mitchell.
Leo: Tell me you’ll be at Simon’s tonight.
Mitchell: Since he personally invited Sabrina and left two x’s in the message, there’s no way I’m missing it. I’m preparing his eulogy as we speak.
Leo: I’m going to kill him.
Mitchell: Get in line.
I take my time reversing out of my parking spot, saying a silent prayer that I accidentally drive over Jack’s feet—I don’t, much to my misfortune—then tear down the street to Simon’s penthouse.
If what I saw on my phone earlier is any indication, I have a couple hours to kill before I can arrive at my scheduled outing.
Accruing brownie points in the meantime seems to be an appropriate alternative—especially when Coach reamed me again last week for not being a team player because I don’t spend time with my work colleagues outside of work.
Tonight’s performance didn’t exactly help my case either, but we won.
Coach and the rest of the team can be pissed off all they want; by the end of the game, they’re thanking me.
The apartment is on the outskirts of the city, but it doesn’t make finding a parking space any less tedious.
The attendant in the lobby is too busy sprouting hushed instructions into the phone receiver to pay much attention to me beyond scanning me into the elevator.
The faint remnants of cheap aftershave, perfume, and booze filter through my nose and into my lungs in the enclosed space, leaving a sickly, sticky coating at the back of my throat.
My phone weighs heavy in my pocket with the knowledge that she still hasn’t replied to me. The jury’s still out on whether I’m offended or pissed that the only person outside of my sister who I willingly speak to regularly has chosen to leave me on read.
Read.
Like I mean fucking nothing. Inconsequential. Something other than her priority.
It’s unacceptable.
I send off a message knowing I’ll get nowhere.
Leo: It’s in your best interest to reply.
It’ll dictate my next step.
The elevator doors slide open and music slams right into me, amplifying my irritation. I check my phone before shoving it into the pocket of my dress slacks. Fucking nothing. I storm inside to locate my counterpart and her miserable sidekick—I only manage to spot the latter.
Over half my team is here. Other than a nod, they carry on like I don’t exist. Everyone seems to be over my earlier display of chauvinism.
Being the sole reason we had a landslide win against the team we were expected to lose to will predictably do that.
Livid at the start, kissing my feet at the end.
Even the coach conveniently forgot that I intentionally socked his offspring in the face.
People shower me with praise as I pass. The most I have the bandwidth to offer in return is a terse thanks. I give it twelve hours before everyone goes back to giving me dirty looks.
I’m aware I played spectacularly. The best game of my career, in fact. Except the one and only person I want acknowledging my success hasn’t fucking replied. Not so much as an emoji, or one of her shitty cat reaction pictures, or a trending soundbite.
No, she was rooting for the other fucking team.
The muscle in my jaw ripples. I snatch an unopened drink from the bar and join Mitchell in the corner, so we can skulk side by side, playing a game of who currently hates their existence more.