42. Hendrix #3
“See? Putting up with my shit has its benefits!”
After a quick ruffle to my hair, Carlo asks Jerome where his partner went, then nods when he’s told to touch base with Vic. As if the man doesn’t already have the entire street under surveillance.
“Okay, a few more minutes.” I look down at my phone for the time, and my lip twitches when I find no update from Saint or my besties on the game. Should be over by now, unless they went into overtime.
Ugh.
Shooting a quick text to both Saint and Bex, I not so politely demand an update, then return to wandering the aisles, feet throbbing in these damn heels the entire time.
“Okay, okay, I’m sorry!” I apologize again to Carlo, who’s got two armfuls of grocery bags as we leave the store twenty minutes later. “How was I not supposed to answer Saint? He just won the damn championship.”
Did I have to stand in one place until we hung up? Probably not. But I couldn’t shop, ignore foot pain, and listen to Saint going over his winning play.
Holding my empty hands out to Carlo, I tell him, “I can carry some bags, you know.”
“No, it’s -eh too cold and you fight me on wearing the jacket.”
I did do that, yeah. Regretting the decision too since it’s December and he parked all the way at the end of the damn parking lot.
“Well, where are your buddies? They could at least help.”
“They go ahead to the street, then we follow behind.” Carlo grunts, adjusting the bags. But once again, when I offer to carry some, he denies, insisting it’s his job.
Stubborn Sicilian men, I swear.
A chill runs through me, so I tighten my arms over my chest while trying not to stumble.
“I hurry to the truck for you, turn on the heat,” Carlo offers, picking up the pace. I’d stop him, but it’s not like I can high speed chase anyone in these damn heels.
At this point, I’m just trying not to hit the pavement.
“Right behind ya!” I yell, even though it’s a flat out lie.
They could name a small canyon after us.
A few dozen steps later, Carlo reaches the trunk of his Escalade, placing the bags on the ground, and thankfully I’m not much farther behind blowing hot air into the palms of my hands.
“Just need to find- eh my keys!” Carlo shouts, patting down his pockets, so I drop my arms and debate whether to start speed walking.
I barely make it five steps when the chink of metal hitting concrete snags my attention, but because I suck in these heels it takes me a few more to actually stop.
What the heck? I twist behind me to find what it is.
“Let’s go, signorina , I turning on the truck!” Carlo demands, opening the driver’s door just as my eyes lock on the shiny gold horn a few feet away.
“Oh, no!” I cry out, rushing over to pick it up, “Carlo, wait, I dropped my necklace!”
I squat down, those four words being the last thing I say to him before a deafening boom strikes the air, and I’m hit by a wave of heat so powerful it knocks me to the ground.
Saint
“So, tell me Saint, how does it feel bringing home the championship title?” our local sports reporter Nile asks, holding out his microphone. “You got a decade winning streak for the school, that’s pretty big.”
“Always a team effort,” I tell him, keeping an eye on Theory from across the hall, who’s got Stanley doing nothing to keep the crowd away from her. I whistle, catching the old man’s attention, then snap for him to look the fuck alive before I give him a reason to look dead.
After the stunt Theory pulled at Good Guy’s party, I still don’t understand why my father hasn’t canned this guy.
Like a torch is blown up his ass, Stanley finally does his job protecting my sister, and I return to showing my face for the cameras. Which is the last shit I want to be doing knowing Hendrix is on her way back to Riverside.
“I’m hearing whispers about Nottingham and Vanguard. Could there be a trip to the south in your future?” Nile sneaks out the college question he was specifically told not to ask. For good reason.
If this was a year ago, my decision to get out of this city would’ve been instantaneous. I have the pick of the litter when it comes to universities. But shit’s changed.
I’ve changed.
Since age four when I picked up my first football, the game’s become a fundamental part of me, and it still is.
Just not alone.
Instead of cursing the motherfucker out the way I’d like to, I keep the interview classy for the sake of ending it. Especially now that I’ve got Dad at my side, squeezing my shoulder in reassurance.
“Not sure yet, Nile, may be thinking about staying local.”
“Really?” he says, trying not to appear dumbfounded, and I don’t necessarily blame him. There’s not a single four year in the state that counts high enough to reach the Big Ten. “Can you elaborate for us where you’re thinking?”
“Alright, alright, Nile. Let my boy finish celebrating with his team,” my father interrupts, tightening his grip on my shoulder, the only reassurance it’s giving this time is how I better shut up.
Let’s just say talks of my future career in football have taken a bit of a back seat to current existential crises.
“But it’s only been three!” he shouts as my father drags me into the locker room.
“Didn’t we agree to sit on it?” Dad stops in front of me, where I can see Nile peeking eagerly through the closing door. “No big decisions until you get your head on straight.”
I make my trek down the packed aisle, zigzagging between my teammates and other reporters trying to snag an interview.
“And here I am thinking you’d be happy I’m settling down.”
“I am happy, son, trust me.” He presses, falling in stride. “But you’ve wanted to attend Vanguard since you were a kid. Bromwell, as great of a school it is, has very little to offer great athletes like yourself.”
“It’s got a lot to offer.”
“Hendrix doesn’t count.”
“Guess it’s a good thing the decision is up to me, then, huh?”
“Lavell!” Coach Balkan shouts from the end of the aisle, waving me over. Next to him stands Bill Reilly, a former NFL quarterback and current head coach from Vanguard, who I’ve been trying to avoid like Syphilis since I caught wind of him scouting in the crowd.
We were supposed to meet earlier in the season, but since I fell into a rut, Coach insisted we hold off on intros until the championship.
“Keep things vague for now, but don’t refrain from showing interest. Bill’s got a thing about enthusiasm, even from the players he’s hungry for,” Dad states, leaning in.
“After all, it was you who said you wanted to earn your spot. I’d imagine that hasn’t changed regardless of which college you attend. ”
Of course the fuck it hasn’t, why else would I have been busting my ass this season training in between everything else? My father knows this, but as always likes to cater to my pride when making a point.
And since it’s a good one, I decide to keep my options open, mostly because I know Hendrix would want me to. The rest because even though I want to be, I’m nowhere near as selfless as she is when it comes to long distance.
So if I have to glue her ass to my bed in South Carolina, so be it.
I’ll buy Hendrix her own fucking university, along with every professor from Bromwell.
Courtesy of the two men waiting for me, all I can respond to my dad with is a clenched jaw.
“Straighten your jersey, look presentable,” he demands right before we reach them. “And maybe leave out the mention of staying local.”
“Don’t you have an annoying wife to fuck?”
Yeah. I’ve got some tricks for him in my arsenal too.
“Saint, this is Bill Reilly, head coach over at Vanguard.” Balkan claps a hand on the guy’s back. “I’m sure you’ve heard of him.”
Holding my hand out for the guy to shake, I nod and say, “I have, nice to meet you sir.”
He shakes mine in return. “I’ve heard just as much about you, son. What a win today. You were exceptional.”
After a few more rounds of Bill’s compliments, he moves on to game talk, the plays, my execution, and even my history on The Royals.
All typical selling points from a man trying to recruit the most sought out high school quarterback in the state.
“Coach Balkan here tells me you’ve been considering a spot on The Renegades. I won’t lie and say it’s not music to my ears.”
“I have…ever since I watched you guys take out Florida State’s decade-long streak.”
I think it’s been proven by now I’m not one to kiss ass, but when it comes to the game, I give credit where credit is due. O’Reilly’s first year with The Renegades, and they managed to bump The Mavericks out of the first spot.
“It was a good year, even better since. We’ve got a solid line up of freshmen, would be even better if you were a part of it.”
My throat turns to dust, not because of how long I’ve waited, or how hard I worked to hear this guy say those words, but because they’re not packing the punch I thought they would.
Hendrix coming into my life has altered the visions I had for myself. Shifted my thought process. Made every decision feel that much more finite.
Not in a way that sets restrictions, but in a way that sets extensions of who I am. More so, who I want to be.
Where I want to be.
And that’s anywhere she is.
“Actually, I’ve been considering—” My response gets cut off by the loud ringing of a phone.
We find out quickly it’s my father’s when he pulls it out of his suit jacket pocket.
“Sorry, I’ve gotta take this,” he apologizes, then pierces me with a stern look. “You guys keep going, I’ll be just a few feet away.”
My lip twitches as I watch Dad stride over to Balkan’s office, closing the door behind him before picking up the call. Through the window I see him talking, covering one ear, as if trying to listen closely to whoever is on the other end.
“You were saying?” O’Reilly picks up where we left off, and I take my time dragging my attention from the office, unable to shake the sense of dread creeping up on me all of a sudden.
It takes over in the form of a pang in my chest, making me wince like I’ve been stabbed by an invisible object.
So hard I have to physically rub it to thwart the pain.
I’m asked a question, but it’s hard to tell what or by who through the sound of my heart beating in my head.
Something’s wrong…very fucking wrong.
I’m proven right the second my eyes drift to the office again.
In slow motion I watch as my father launches his phone, then swipes his hands across Coach Balkan’s desk, sending the contents of it crashing against the wall.
I blink, seeing but not hearing how loud he’s screaming.
The locker room falls still as everyone draws their attention to the back of the room, where the calmest head of the Royal Families turns full-range unhinged. Walls get punched, chairs get broken, even a bookcase gets tipped over.
I should go in there, ask what the fuck happened, but my feet root to the floor, the answer to my question already coming through in horrifying images of my worst nightmare.
My father must sense the realization, because actual tears are glistening in his eyes when they land on mine.
Full of apology, regret, and indescribable loss.
Except…I know it can’t be his.
Because June and Theory? They’re here with us. Even the aunt.
Leaving only one other person important enough to break his heart this way.
On the outside, I’m frozen.
But on the inside? A blazing hot fury disintegrating by the second.
Nothing—exactly what I’ll become if my fear is justified.
It isn’t until my father grips the back of my neck that I realize he’s in front of me. “Saint…” he calls out, the apology in his voice cracking me wide open.
No.
No.
It can’t be.
This can’t fucking be.
“Look at me,” he orders as I shake my head, using motion to try and stop the hot tears blurring my vision.
“Don’t you. Fucking. Dare,” I tell him, half threat, half plea. “Don’t you fucking dare tell me Hendrix is dead.”