Bonus Scene
SEAGER
Two Years Later
Lloyd Commons Residence
The numbers in the textbook swam in front of my eyes. Nothing was working in my brain since that hacking bullshit went down. Damned Fendleman and those buncha baseball rejects.
I slammed the book shut. "Hackers." My voice rumbled in the empty room. Strikers don't fucking cheat. "What's wrong with those boneheaded morons?"
I let out a long breath as fatigue leached at the fight in my veins.
"Rrrrah!" I stood, stretching my shoulders and arms. I paced, bare feet slapping against the tile, trying to loosen the tight, aching desperation—to move, to punch, to run!
I wanted to jump off the top of the residence and land on my feet.
I wanted to go fifteen rounds with that damned jarheaded Marine who'd actually give me a run for my money.
"He's a piece of work." I spoke to the outline of my reflection in the window.
Students milled about on the lawn outside.
A jeep blaring hip-hop music, and crammed full of arms and legs pulled into the parking lot.
Whoops and hollers loud enough to wake the damned dead greeted the group as they spilled out.
The roar of a souped-up engine—without a muffler, ass, alerted the people in the next county that the guy with the smallest dick had arrived.
"There's always a fucking party." I rolled my eyes and turned away. I'd have to make an appearance at some point. The job of quarterback for the top-ranked team in the country was already wearing a bit thin in places. People recognized me all over this one-horse town.
I was the "loose cannon" with a cannon for an arm. Which was apparently the same as being the most expensive bauble a chick wanted to wear on her arm. There’d been some pretty hot girls to come and go through my bedroom, but not a one of 'em had fucking ears that worked.
I flicked open my phone as I paced back toward the window. The background wallpaper rotated; today's was the unicorn picture Amberine drew for me.
“Aw, such a pretty unicorn. Does it come with a crown, sweetie?”
I snarled at the redshirted moron. “You have two seconds to get out of my face, ass-for-brains.”
“Don’t you trash talk that unicorn now.” Sato appeared out of fucking nowhere. And yet he was the only guy on the field that made me look small.
“Amberine made that, and she’s a certified angel. Don’t start shit you’re not prepared to finish.”
The redshirt scurried off like the insect he was.
I turned and glared at Sato. “Just because Mick said to keep me out of trouble—”
“He meant it." The grad student and assistant offensive line coach pointed his finger in my face. "Every damned word.”
Heat rose from my abdomen. "I’m a grown-ass adult and the quarterback for this team.”
“But you’re not the captain.” He lowered his head to look at me.
The fucking nerve of this guy!
“And you ain’t gonna be the captain until you learn humility. The number of times Mick tied my shoes, man." He chuckled and shook his head.
"You've gotta be fucking kidding me. Are you a toddler?"
"You just don't get it." He crossed his arms. "And that's why you ain't captain."
"Certified angel, yeah, right." I huffed. At least they're in an apartment now, instead of that shelter. “No place for a kid to grow up."
I scoffed at my reflection in the glass.
My blond hair had fallen from its spiky greatness, like it was too tired.
And were those fucking worry lines on my forehead?
What's the difference between those and crow's feet?
"Ugh. You've turned into an old man, just like Mick.
Next thing you know, you'll be gardening like a geezer.
" I turned away. "Jesus, I'm talking to myself. "
A loud knock at the door spiked the adrenaline in my system. I stumbled and caught myself midstride. Took a deep breath and sighed. That didn't take long. I moved across the living room and wrenched open the door to find…
Caden. "What do you want?” I turned away and left him to figure out the door.
"Heard you took on your own offensive line today. Wasn't sure if I'd missed the emergency phone call for bail? Or the hospital."
"Like I’d call you," I grumbled. "Assholes wouldn’t let me throw down with the traitor fucking hacker,” I snarled and sat down on the edge of my bed.
"That was epic-level bullshit." He leaned back against the door. His hair a shade darker than mine, those same reddish-brown eyes stared at me. "Heard some reporter chick caught the guy, then had to prove it to the dean or something.”
“As long as he’s fucking gone.”
Silence sat like a big fat elephant in the middle of the room. Why was he here? He never needed anything from me. Not like when we were kids…
“Beaux, wait up! I want to go too.”
It’d been a long time since those days. "So why's the wunderkid hockey princess darkening my fucking door?"
"Just stopped by to say a big Texas 'howdy' to my pain-in-the-ass big bro."
"Hil. Air. Must've taken too many pucks to the head. You forget I’m fucking dynamite and you’re an ice princess.”
He rolled his eyes. His face was leaner than mine, and he was a good three inches shorter, so he'd always be my "little" brother.
"Mom asked me to give you this." He moved closer, extending a plastic-coated card.
I stood to take it from him.
"Pops wanted you to have it," he said.
I bristled against the pain that flooded my chest. Held up the card in a clear plastic pouch. "A baseball card? This some kind of joke?" I swallowed the aching lump in my throat and pushed away the thought. He's gone.
"Pops collected them, remember?"
"Why the fuck do I want a Buck Posterby rookie card?" I tossed it on top of my desk, keeping the anger close and shoving the pain down.
"Maybe he knew you needed a hobby other than fighting."
"Then I'll start gardening,” I sneered. Like old man Mick. Pain in my ass. "So, great, you gave it to me. Now what?"
"She misses you." He squared his shoulders and narrowed his eyes. "You could at least call her sometime."
"I've been running two-a-days since the first week of August, while you and your ice dancing team just started learning choreography last fucking week.
If they'd actually show up to homecoming—to see their son, the starting quarterback—maybe I'd have something to say.
But as it is, my own family—" I caught myself.
I don't need them. And they've never needed me. "I’m busy, go away.”
"You're such a prima donna. It’s like because you play football, you get a free pass at the rest of life. Give a shit about someone else? Nope, I play football. Participate as a member of my own family? Nah, I don't have to do that, because I play fucking football.”
Heat flashed over my skin. "You have no idea what you're talking about."
"One day, you won't be the big man, the almighty starting quarterback." His features crushed up into an older version of his "life's not fair, so I'm gonna whine about it" face. His cheeks turned red. White streaked the sides of his jaw.
"Just get out."
"Who will be there then, Beaux? Your girlfriend?" He stuck out his bottom lip. "Oh."
You asshat!
"Your teammates? Coaches? Who?"
I rolled my eyes. "What do you care?"
"You couldn't even come home for Pops's funeral!” His hands formed fists at his sides. “Do you know what it was like for Mom? Or Grandy?” His voice rasped and he had the nerve to shed God-damned tears. “Do you care about anyone other than yourself?"
I sucked in a breath as I tried to tamp down the pain. I couldn't go to the funeral. If I went, then Pops would really be…gone. I turned away as warmth pricked my eyes.
He cleared his throat. A silent moment passed, I wasn’t sure if he expected me to answer him and his garbage accusations. So, I left it for him to figure out.
When he spoke again, his voice changed to a hollow, quiet timbre. "Pretty sure everyone who's ever met you knows the answer to that."
Fire ignited and boiled the blood coursing through my veins.
"You know, for all your mouthy 'look at me, I'm an ice princess' talk"—I pivoted to face him, again—"the only ones I ever hear about are that Wynter guy, his old man—who's not even on the team—and Frenchie, the French Canadian. Nothing about Caden Fuckboi Seager.” I know how to hurt you too.
"I'll be first line this season. Wyn's about two practices away from hanging up his skates for good. And I'm skating circles around Giraud." The knuckles of his fists turned white. "Not that you'd bother to come watch a game or do anything that wasn't for almighty football."
"That's right. The sport you gave up on.” I pointed at him. “The one I'm gonna go pro and have a career in, junior. But maybe Mommy and Daddy will come to your games."
He shook his head, one side of his face scrunched up.
His lips curled into a sneer. "I stupidly keep thinking that one day, you’ll actually be, I dunno, someone I recognize.
” He flipped me off and turned away. Wrenched open the door, but paused mid dramatic-exit to throw over his shoulder, “I’m done waiting for you to grow up. "
And then he was gone.
Instead of the insipid party, I stretched and went for a jog. There was a hill about a mile from campus. I liked to jog to the top and pause and stretch. It cleared my head.
And the view…
At sunrise, the West Texas sky formed a tapestry of clouds over a violet backdrop—orange threads dazzling amidst the chaos. The world was quiet. And I was the only person alive.
But at sunset, the autumn breeze spurred a thin, misty veil to chase the sunlight away. In the distance, the frat party continued. Cars rushed by.
And I was alone.
"You'll make a great girl dad someday." Red grinned and tossed her hair.
I chuckled at the memory. "Idiots."
I trudged down the hill and decided to just walk for a bit. Something pulled at me even as the burning, bone-deep ache to move finally relented.