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I watch her eyes flash with confusion and a hint of hurt before she spins around and marches off down the hallway. There’s a sense of satisfaction in knowing that I can still get under her skin, but there’s also an unfamiliar pang striking at my chest. It’s the realization that I’ve hurt someone who matters to me more than I’m willing to admit.
I close the door behind her and flop onto my bed, thinking about her. Always fucking her. I can’t get her out of my head. She’s driving me crazy. Her laughter, her fire, and how infuriatingly attractive she is when she challenges me. But what’s even scarier is the fact that I’ve started seeing her as more than a game. I care about her feelings when I shouldn’t. Caring will only bring us both more pain.
However, it won’t stop me from ruining her.
From tormenting both of us.
The dull ache from my shoulder injury burns and throbs. I really did a new number on it by showing off at practice to please Coach. I know better than to push it to the limit. I know any day now my shoulder is going to give out and football won’t be my ticket out of here. I’ve been saving. Doing stupid fights. Racing my car. Whatever it takes to leave this damn house and never look back.
The painkillers I took earlier are wearing off. I don’t know how I’ll be able to play in tomorrow’s big game. With a heavy sigh and increased self-loathing, I pop more pills. More than I should take, but not enough to hurt me. Only enough to give me a slight buzz and numb the pain for a little while.
Eventually, I pass out to awaken in the middle of the night, well past midnight.
Fuck my life. I glance at my phone to see I have zero missed messages. Zero notifications. It would be pathetic if I didn’t already know that no one truly gives a shit about me. Not my stepfather. Not even my own mother gives a fuck as long as I do my part to maintain this perfect image they’ve created. Absently, my fingers trace the edges of the sleek black phone. The silence from the device isn’t unusual, but tonight, it seems magnified. Is this what I’ve been reduced to? Being mocked by the silence stemming from my fucking phone. I’m Kyson fucking Allen. Being captain of the football team means I’m popular. I’m desirable… yet not a single soul in this world cares enough to check up on me.
I reach for the bottle of whisky under my bed, hidden away from prying eyes to stop myself from going to her bed and wrapping my arms around her. The bottle feels warm in my hand even though it’s been stored away in the dark. The escape it will provide is a comforting warmth that spreads out from my palm and engulfs me. The liquid burns as it travels down my throat, lighting up the dark emptiness within me.
In the lonely silence of my room, surrounded by the crushing guilt and regret, I think about Dahlia again. Perfect, beautiful Dahlia. Her innocent smile and those wanting eyes haunt my thoughts as I lay here trying to drown all my sorrows.
No matter what, I’m never good enough. I’m never enough. But Dahlia looks at me like she thinks I’m somebody. Like she expects more from me than anyone else, and that kills me more than anything. Because part of me wishes I could live up to her image of me, but I can’t.
I’m not a good guy.
In the end, I’ll only destroy her beauty and I’ll get off on it.
It’s what I do.
I ruin anyone who dares to love me.
“Get your head out of your ass,” Coach gripes at me, slapping his palm against the side of my helmet.
I’m sluggish from drinking far too much. I’ve just missed another pass. He should bench my ass, but he can’t afford to. I’m the best player he’s got, and everyone knows it. The sun is too bright, and the air too thick with humidity and expectation. My mouth feels like sandpaper. Everything is a blur. The black jerseys of my teammates, the green of the field stretching out before me, even the resounding roar of the crowd seems distant, unreal. It’s all haze, and every sound is static buzzing in my ears.
My shoulder throbs in time with my heartbeat, an insistent reminder of my weakness.
“We need you to focus, Allen,” Coach barks. “You screw this up and we’re out of the running for state.”
I nod without meeting his eyes. I’m not sure I could look him straight in the face even if I wanted to. I don’t want him seeing how bloodshot my eyes are or how heavy the dark circles under them are. I barely slept at all last night. Every step I take is a battle not to vomit.
“Get your shit together,” he snaps before walking away, leaving me standing here with the responsibility and knowledge that I’m single-handedly carrying an entire team’s dream on my shoulders.
The weight feels unbearable.
All I want to do is disappear. But then, as though she’s my saving grace, I hear Dahlia’s laughter ringing through the air. I focus on her blonde hair shining from the bleachers like a fucking beacon of hope. I don’t know why but having her here gives me a renewed sense of determination.
I don’t know why she bothered to come and though I’d never tell her as much, I’m glad she’s here. No one else from my household gives a damn. I can’t even remember the last time my own mother showed up to support me.
I glance back in Dahlia’s direction and wonder if she’s here to cheer for me or Gauge.
I get my answer when she turns her back and I see her wearing the shirt with my number on the back.
That’s my good girl.
I grin and get back on the field.
At halftime, I pop four more painkillers. I know I shouldn’t be on the field in the shape I’m in, but there’s no alternative. The team is counting on me. If I fuck this up, it’ll only serve as another reason for John to ride my ass harder than he already does.
I trudge back onto the field and play my damn heart out because she’s watching.
