Chapter 12 Blake
Blake
The bus ride to Westhope on Saturday takes three and a half hours, and for the first half of the trip my mind doesn’t deviate from Tinsley’s mum.
There’s no denying Everett’s stepmum is attractive, and there was something almost familiar about her, which is ridiculous because I’ve never met her.
Everett does the pick-ups and drop-offs when Tinsley stays over.
I’m not the only one with something on his mind, though.
“You okay, dude?” I ask, shooting a pointed look at Everett’s bouncing knee. “You’re making me antsy.”
He grimaces, placing his hand on his leg to stop it jiggling as he glances down at his phone. “Sorry.”
I nudge his shoulder with mine. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. We’re sitting clear. Westhope won’t know what hit them.”
“It’s not the game,” he mutters, checking his phone again.
“Is everything okay with Em?”
His girlfriend stayed over last night and dropped us off at the stadium this morning so we could catch the bus, and it didn’t seem like there was any tension between the two of them.
“Yeah, it’s not her.”
I frown, unsure what else could have him so strung out. “Do you want to talk about it?”
He sighs and slips his AirPods out of his pocket. “Not really.”
Shrugging, I don’t push. If he wants to talk, he will. As someone who keeps his cards close to his chest, I’m not going to force anything out of him. Following his lead, I put my own AirPods in and close my eyes, focusing on getting mentally prepared for the game.
Nothing could prepare us for how bad tonight’s game would go.
The Westhope University pitch is narrower than ours; the stands are close enough that you can hear individual voices cutting through the air.
But the home team’s taunts don’t bother me.
If anything, they spur me on. The only thing that bothers me tonight, besides the grass being a little too long and a little too damp, is the fact we’re playing like shit.
We’re sluggish, our passes aren’t connecting, we’re spending too long on the ball, and we can’t find the bloody net. Frustrations are boiling over on the pitch, and Westhope are capitalising.
Admittedly, I’m distracted. As much as I try not to, when the ball’s in our defensive end, I can’t stop my thoughts from drifting to Euphoria.
It’s a masked night, and even though I know Pixie won’t be there, I can’t get her off my mind.
I’ve accepted I have no way of finding her, but it’ll take time for my mind to catch up.
Noah’s pissed. We’re down three-one in the second half, but despite the easy tap-in I got in the fifty-eighth minute, we haven’t even looked like scoring. I don’t know why we’re playing so badly. Our training sessions this week were tight, and no one’s carrying an injury.
Westhope is sitting middle of the table while we’re on top, but we’re not playing like back-to-back champions tonight.
There’s a scramble in the middle, and Griff wins a free kick. I peel off my defender, drifting into the half-space. The ball comes in fast and low, and I take it on the turn, making my run. My eyes scan ahead for an opening, and I take my shot, my left foot swinging through, but it’s blocked.
The defender throws himself in the way, clearing it over the sideline. The crowd roars, masking my shouted curse. My lungs burn, the cold night air sharp in my throat, but I welcome it. The pain grounds me, keeps me on task.
I get into position for the throw-in, but it’s futile.
Westhope’s defenders win the ball, and we’re left chasing yet again.
Everett is subbed out first, and my eyes widen when he tosses his drink bottle into the fence.
I’ve never seen him lose his cool like this.
He’s usually the carefree jokester on the team. You want comedic relief? He’s your guy.
When Westhope scores again, I’m subbed off, and I take a seat on the bench next to my housemate.
“You good?” I ask, sucking down some water.
“Yep,” he mutters flatly. “Fucking brilliant.”
I arch a brow. “Are you going to tell me what’s eating you?”
He meets my gaze. “Maybe I’m a private person who doesn’t like sharing.”
Ouch. I guess I deserved that.
Leaving him to sulk, I turn my attention back to the game and watch as Ashcroft scores an absolute banger for us, but it’s too little too late. Our winning streak is over, and we lose five-two. We hang our heads as we trudge into the change rooms.
There’s no joking or laughter as we listen to Coach’s address, then rush to shower and change. There’s no excuse for this loss. We didn’t play for each other, plain and simple.
The bus ride back to the hotel is quiet, each of us reflecting on our own game and what we could’ve done better. Knowing the boys as well as I do, we’re all blaming ourselves. It sucks, but that’s the nature of sport.
When the bus reaches the hotel, Coach hands out room assignments and says he’s booked dinner at the restaurant for seven. Everyone beelines for the lifts, but I notice Everett on the phone in the corner of the reception area having what looks like a heated conversation.
I grab the second keycard off Doyle for our room and tell him I’ll be up in a second. He nods, and I head over to where Everett’s pacing, his phone glued to his ear.
“—expect me to do anything to help you… No fucking way. I won’t let you use her as a pawn in your sick mind games. You’re done trying to control me.”
His eyes flick to me, then he scowls and turns his back on me.
“Just try it. I’ll take great pleasure in exposing the monster you really are.”
He hangs up on whoever he was talking to, and I half expect him to throw his phone in anger. His shoulders are tight with tension, but when he finally turns to face me, his expression is blank.
“What do you want?”
I keep my tone light when I shrug and say, “I was just checking on you. That sounded pretty heated.”
“It’s nothing,” he says, brushing past me to head for the lifts.
I follow him. “Okay. I’m not going to push, but I will throw your advice back at you. If there’s anything I can do to help, or if you’re in trouble…”
He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I’m not in trouble. Dad’s just being a pain in my arse. I’ve got it handled.”
I don’t believe him, but I also know I’m not the best person to help with family drama. Not with the skeletons in my cupboard.
Instead, I clap him on the back and say, “Forget about him. Let’s get ready for dinner and drown our sorrows with the team.”
He huffs a humourless laugh as the lift doors open. “Way to cheer me up.”
I grin as we step inside, squeezing his shoulder. “That’s what housemates are for.”
Everett shakes his head with a laugh, and the tension between us fades away. “That game was a disgrace.”
“It was embarrassing,” I agree, rubbing the back of my neck. “I don’t envy Jasper having to room with Galdeen. I’ve never seen him so pissed.”
“I don’t blame him. We didn’t help him out there tonight.”
The lift opens to our floor, and we walk down the hall until we reach our rooms, where he holds out his fist.
I bump it.
“See you at dinner,” I say as I let myself into my room.
There are a few sore heads on the bus on the way back to Beckford on Sunday morning. A few of the guys went back to Griff and Halloway’s room after dinner and continued the pity party. I’m glad to have a clear head, since Everett and I have his sister’s party.
“Are you sure this isn’t weird?” I ask, tugging on the hem of the white and gold Prince Charming shirt that Emily brought with her. The maroon pants are embarrassingly tight, and I feel like if I bend over, they’ll split up the middle.
Everett snorts, fixing the collar on his blue and silver shirt. “Of course it’s fucking weird. We’re in our twenties dressed as fucking Disney princes.”
I roll my eyes. “I meant me coming to Tinsley’s birthday.”
“Oh, no,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re not pulling out on me, man. She thinks of you like another brother. If I have to look ridiculous to keep that little girl happy, the least you can do is keep me company. It’s like housemate law or something.”
“That’s completely made up,” I scoff, but something warms inside me at his comment about me being like another brother to her. She’s a sweet little kid.
“I think you both look ruggedly handsome,” Emily says, brushing Everett’s hair off his forehead and fighting to hide her grin. She’s dressed in a blue Cinderella ballgown, her blonde hair pinned in an elaborate up-do.
With a groan, I grab the pink gift bag off the dining table. “All right, the quicker we get there, the quicker we can get home and out of these ridiculous costumes.”
“Wait!” Emily pulls out her phone. “I want to get a photo.”
“Absolutely not,” I say, stalking towards the front door. “No chance in hell.”
“Party pooper,” she calls after me.
“Sticks and stones,” I call back.
I climb into the back of her car, cursing as I try to get comfortable in the small space.
Everett and Em chat the whole way there—the tension from his phone call last night seems long forgotten.
I don’t know why I’m letting it play on my mind.
The last thing I need is to get involved in someone else’s problems. I have enough of my own.
We’re about fifteen minutes late to the birthday party, and there are a few cars already parked out the front of Juliet’s when we pull up.
I cast an awkward look around as we approach the front door, feeling like a bit of a creeper.
Thankfully, Everett lets himself in, so we don’t have to stand on the front step waiting.
We follow the sounds of kids laughing and squealing through the house and out to the backyard, which has been turned into every little girl’s dream paradise.
There are fairy lights strung up in the trees, a giant blow-up princess jumping castle, and a marquee set up with tables draped in princess tablecloths. Juliet went all out.