30
LJ
Classes dragged. Spring workouts dragged. Even fielding questions from fans about what was coming next dragged. It all slowed to an excruciating pace, grinding out day after day.
Even hearing that my dad’s results had all come back negative and he could now switch to annual visits instead of every six months hadn’t lifted my spirits like it should have.
There was a Marisa-sized hole in my life, and I hated it.
The look on her face when I’d told her she was like her dad had felt like someone had reached inside my chest and squeezed my heart to the point of failure. But I couldn’t take it back. I couldn’t be with her if she didn’t believe we could make it—if she wasn’t one hundred percent as heart-poundingly, body-tinglingly, soul-scorchingly in love with me as I was with her.
“Hey, you want to head out? The taxi’s here.” Berk poked his head into my bedroom. “You okay?” He stepped inside the darkened room.
“I’m good.” It was a bitter pill to swallow that I couldn’t even talk to him about Marisa. Telling him everything now felt like it would only invite more questions, and they would be questions I either didn’t have the answers to or didn’t want to answer. Looked like my plan had worked out.
A hysterical, not remotely humorous laugh came out like a wicked witch’s cackle.
Berk froze and tilted his head. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
No. Not even a little bit. I stood from my chair and grabbed my coat. “Hell, yes, let’s get fucked up.”
Without waiting for Berk, I rushed down the stairs.
Jules and Keyton stood by the front door.
They both flinched when they saw me.
Was it my five days of stubble? My probably-smelly pits? Or was it my Joker smile? “Who’s ready to go out?” I clapped my hands and rubbed them together. “Let’s go out.”
Berk padded down the stairs. “Are you sure you’re good?”
I wheeled around. “Totally. Never better.”
He looked from Jules to Keyton. “Maybe we should wait for Marisa. Is she still keeping Liv company while Ford’s traveling?”
I was running out of excuses. Not exactly wanting to face the fact she might not come back. I channeled my sadness into the need to get blind-fucking drunk.
Keyton barged in before I could drop into full hyena laughter. “She said she had a study group tonight.”
“Yup, she’s long gone. Let’s go.” I jerked the door open and headed outside. Inside was too close. The walls pressed in with every minute I sat there thinking about what happened next.
It would be a lot better to get blitzed. I didn’t have to be responsible anymore. The season was over. The combine was over. There was nothing left to do but wait for my future to be decided by some big wigs in stadium sky boxes, and hope my agent turned up with a draft invitation.
That would mean I’d go in the first, second, or possibly third round. But right now, all I could think about was the woman I’d loved not being able to love me back, which called for booze. A lot of booze.
“LJ!” A collective shout from behind me.
I spun around.
Berk, Jules, and Keyton stood beside the open door to the taxi waiting in the middle of the street.
Berk cupped his hands around his mouth. “The taxi, remember?”
Marching back toward them, I kept my gaze diverted and walked around to the front passenger seat of the car.
The three of them silently got into the back seats. Their doors closed with a muffled thud. In the mirrors, I could see them whispering and exchanging glances.
The bar was already bursting with people when we arrived.
Inside, Berk herded us to a booth, which was already occupied. Reece and Nix sat in the middle beside Seph and Elle. Exactly what I didn’t need right now: the whole gang back together.
Jules grabbed Elle in a former-roommate reunion. All the guys exchanged bro hugs and sat, but my knee bounced under the table as everyone filled the group in about what was going on with them.
Reece’s update on his first pro season was the most interesting. Everyone wanted to know about our agents, draft rumors and what else we had going on.
I wanted to get up from the table and get a drink. My chair scraped against the floor and I nearly took out a server with a tray of drinks. “I’m going to order at the bar. I’ll get something for everyone.”
A server stood beside our table with a notepad out.
“Second round. So we don’t have to wait to order.” I disappeared into the crowd of people and went straight up to the bar, finding the only free spot beside the high-backed barstools that only trendy places had.
I waved for the bartender’s attention. She came over after taking a couple other orders.
“Can I get four Sam Adams and three vodka cranberries? And two double shots of vodka right now?”
She took my card and started a tab, returning with the double shots of vodka while she made the rest of the rail drinks and opened the beers.
“Is one of those for me?” A brunette on the stool beside me leaned in with a light and airy smile.
I glanced down at the shots and back up at her. Lifting one, I handed it over to her.
If I squinted and turned my head to the side, she could look like Marisa. No dent on the bridge of her nose though.
She raised the glass and clinked it against mine. “To a wonderful night.”
Keeping my gaze on her, I knocked my shot back, letting it burn all the way down. To a wonderful night.
The pounding at the front door didn’t stop. Halfway down the stairs, the light from the window above the doorway blazed straight into my eyeballs, searing them. A stadium full of people were stomping on my brain. A truckload of ibuprofen might be a good start.
This was what happened when you were a senior year lightweight. Other guys could drink their body weight in booze, but I hadn’t been blitzed in a long time. I’d always needed to be ready during the season and off-season practices. Right now, though, I felt more like I’d been scrambled.
Last night had been a shit show of epic proportions. I’d hoped to sleep it off for the next two to three months. No such luck.
Shielding my eyes, I opened the door.
“Quinn, what are you doing here?” My eighteen-year-old sister stood on the porch in a jacket she’d painted by hand that was reminiscent of the pattern I’d splattered all over the toilet last night.
My parents’ sedan idled, double parked, outside the house. “Do Mom and Dad know you have the car?” I dropped my head, squeezing my eyes shut.
“They left for Florida yesterday. Do you really want to bother them with a pesky little detail like me borrowing the car?” She held up her thumb and pointer finger less than half an inch apart.
“What have you done?” I squinted, opening one eye.
She rolled her eyes. “Can you drop out of Dad Mode for a whole ten minutes? I’m here to make a delivery.” Held in her hand at eye level was a folded piece of lined notebook paper—the same kind Marisa and I used to trade during high school chemistry. My initials were scrawled over the front of the paper.
I hesitated.
“Like you’re not going to take it.” She shoved it against my chest.