False Start (Eastshore Tigers Book 2) (17 page)

I
t’s only been
a few days since I broke it off with Mitch, and it’s taking more of a toll on me than I thought it would.

While Coach gave us all a holiday break, we’ve pretty much paid for it in blood, sweat, and tears to get ready for the Fiesta Bowl. Two-a-days filled with drills and conditioning exercises all designed to keep us at the top of our game and work off those stray holiday calories.

I don’t blame him. We’ve never been so close to a title. Every guy on the team can taste it. And there’s nobody who needs it more than me.

It’s not just the title and the attention the Fiesta Bowl will draw from NFL recruiters. It’s the nonstop grind of hard, grueling work that keeps me busy from sun up to sun down. I wake up at 5, I hit the gym, then I show up at practice and go hard all day until I’m ready to fall into bed at night.

It’s the perfect recipe for letting go of a heartbreak. If only my ex wasn’t there every step of the way.

Mitch and I have been civil to each other, but our estrangement is noticeable. What little free time we do have, the guys expect us to spend together. That’s not happening, and neither Mitch or I are even going out to the normal haunts with everyone else.

So yeah, there’s talk in the locker room.

It gets inside my head, burrows deep and takes hold every time I see Mitch and feel that deep desire to just forget my integrity and cast off everything I said.

Those thoughts start to keep me awake at night, and eventually they contribute to my poor performance during practice. After I choke on two plays where I had easy access to the QB, Coach calls me into his office.

“What’s going on with you, Mills? Are you being pressured by headhunters? If you are, you need to tell me now and I’ll put an end to it.”

“No, Coach,” I say, clutching my helmet in my hand.

I’m not. I’ve gotten one call from someone who might be interested in representing me, and that’s it. The NCAA doesn’t allow us to interact much with agents until we’re ready to sign a professional contract, and I’m not enough of a star to inspire anyone to break the rules.

“Trouble at home?”

I shake my head. “No, Coach. Just not getting enough sleep.”

He looks up into my eyes. Coach has an uncanny ability to tell when we’re bullshitting him, and I know he sees through me now. He sighs, then looks back at his papers.

“You know I can’t start every LB.”

“I know.”

He’s silent for a long time. I hear the swoosh of his pen as he signs something. I almost ask if I’m dismissed, but he finally speaks again.

“I understand if you don’t want to tell me what’s going on, but if that’s the case, you’re going to have to sort it out on your own. I can’t start an LB who doesn’t have his head in the game.”

I nearly cave, but what the hell am I going to say? I’m depressed because of a decision I made to end something that was going to end anyway? He’d tell me to suck it up and get my head out of my ass, and he’d be right to say it.

So instead I just nod and let myself out of his office. Trent is waiting there, far enough away to feign disinterest, but I know better. His gaze meets mine, and I see concern flicker through him.

“Everything okay?”

“Yep,” I say, pushing past him.

He puts his hand on my arm, and I immediately shake him off. I cut a glare at him that makes him take a step back. This is the Dante I remember. The person I became after Jason left and before I met Mitch.

Looks like he’s back in full force.

But Trent doesn’t cower away from me, despite being half my size. He stands tall, staring me down.

“Nobody else is going to say it, but I’m tired of walking on eggshells around here, man.”

Behind me, the locker room becomes mysteriously quiet.

“You and Erickson need to work out your shit.”

My jaw clenches. “What, are we making you uncomfortable?”

“No,” he says firmly. “But you’re making yourselves miserable. You’re both playing like shit. Erickson’s just playing like slightly better shit than you.”

I snort, but I don’t have a comeback for that. It’s true.

“Sorry to disappoint you, Trent, but you’ll have to find somebody else to be your Rainbow Tigers spokesperson.”

That was uncalled for, and Trent immediately jumps on me for it.

“Don’t be a prick, man.”

“I’ve got shit to do. See you Monday.”

I don’t bother to change in the locker room. I just grab my bag of street clothes and walk to my mom’s house. It takes me almost an hour.

It’s still not enough to clear my head.

* * *

“
Y
ou know
you
are
allowed to take a break.”

My mom leans against the doorframe of her apartment. I have my earbuds in, but my music is low enough that I can still hear her. Sweat drips from my body, soaking my shirt, and my muscles burn from my run.

She hands me a glass of water and I smile at her.

“Can’t. Have to start.”

I have to keep Mitch from getting inside my head, too. The rhythmic pounding of pavement helps.

But Mom frowns at me, giving me the same look she gave me when she found out I’d chugged three energy shots to stay awake during finals my senior year of high school. It’s half disappointment, half concern, and I hate it.

“Come inside, Dante. You and I need to have a little talk.”

I want to just turn around and run the other way, but she’ll find me. I don’t know how, but I know she will.

I pick up one of the oranges from the counter and then sit with it at the table, knowing I’m not getting out of this. She talks while I peel.

“I’m gonna guess your daddy told you that you had to be the man of the house after he was gone.”

It comes out of nowhere, and I look up at her in shock, my fingers still on the orange.

“You think I haven’t noticed? You were a normal boy, and then overnight you decided you were going to work your ass off, and God help anybody who got in your way.”

“Would you really rather I just sit around and do nothing?”

“Of course I wouldn’t. But I don’t want you working yourself to death, either. Especially when I know you’re doing it for me.”

How does she know? I’ve never said anything about what I plan to do with my signing check. I’ve never mentioned wanting to buy her a house and help her retire from these shit jobs she has to keep.

But somehow she knows anyway. I can’t face that soft, understanding gaze of hers. I look away and go back to peeling my orange.

“I don’t know where you got the idea that I can’t take care of myself, Dante, but I can.”

“Yeah, by working two shitty jobs and still having to apply for assistance,” I growl out.

I glance back at her long enough to see that it was the wrong thing to say.

“Excuse me?”

“I just mean—”

“I know what you meant, but that doesn’t make what you said any better. I’m proud of what I do. I
have
a job. I have the means to live and to help support my boy, and I thank God every day for that blessing.”

“You’re worth more than the bare fucking minimum!”

I stand up so abruptly that the chair falls to the ground behind me. Mom doesn’t even flinch.

“You’re assuming my worth is however much money I’m bringing in, right? I know what I’m worth, and it doesn’t have a damn thing to do with my income. I raised you to know better than that, too.”

A cold weight settles on my shoulders. She’s right. All this time, I’ve only seen a woman struggling to make ends meet. I haven’t seen my mother, who goes to church every Sunday, thanks God for what she has, and gives to those who have less.

I slowly right my chair and sit back down, wanting to curl in on myself.

I’ve fought so hard against these perceptions. But they’re so toxic they’ve crept into me, too. And my beliefs about my own mother are worse than anything anyone else could say about us.

I feel her move behind me, and her arms come around my shoulders.

“Now you be honest with me,” she says. “Is the NFL something
you
want?”

Of course it is. I’ve wanted to play ball since I was little. But… I don’t have to be in the NFL to play. And when I first started in peewees, the thing I liked most about it was the excitement my dad got out of seeing me flatten another kid.

Jesus.
Do
I want to go to the NFL? Who wouldn’t want the chance to play professionally?

…Maybe me. Because when I think of not seeing Mom more than once a year, of not having time to volunteer at the Boys’ club, of not being able to have a relationship without being in the public eye, I can’t help but wonder if it’s worth it.

I’d have enough money to buy Mom anything she wants, sure. But she’d probably still keep working, and assuming she wants a big house and a fancy car is completely ignoring what she’s told me.

“I don’t know,” I finally say after a long lapse of silence.

She hugs me tight, holds me like I’m four years old again, then kisses my cheek.

“I want you to be happy, baby boy. And you don’t seem very happy right now.”

I’m not. I’m not happy at all. The pain of that realization slices straight through my heart.

But it’s not all because of the upcoming bowl game. A lot of it is Mitch. Or the lack of Mitch in my life. I feel like my center’s gone; the tether that was keeping me grounded.

A stupid part of me wants to make some grand gesture to win Mitch back. But I’ve been seeing him the same way I’ve seen my mom. Defined by the things he has instead of the person he is.

We
are
from two different worlds, but maybe I helped paint that boundary a little sharper than it needed to be.

“I’ll figure it out,” I say softly, patting her hand. “I promise.”

Suddenly, starting doesn’t seem like the most important thing in the world to me. Maybe it hasn’t been for a long time.

T
rent comes
up to me at our last big practice before we leave for Arizona. It’s three days until the Fiesta Bowl, and I’ve since given up hope that my family will be able to see the game in person.

Until he steps behind me while I’m pulling on my pads and waves five tickets in front of my face.

“Holy shit!” I reach for them, but he yanks them away seconds before my hand swipes the air.

When I turn to face him, he’s grinning like an idiot.

“Remember our deal?”

I roll my eyes. “I carry your shit and buy you drinks for the next year.”

“Starting now,” he says, hefting a bag full of his gear toward me with his free hand. “Make sure it gets on the plane tonight.”

He hands me the tickets with a smile, though, and I just stare at them.

“How the hell did you get these so close to game day?”

“Magic. And my cousin works in the athletic department. He sat on ‘em for me.”

“I owe you, man,” I say, clapping him on the arm.

“Yep, you do.”

I’m still marveling at the tickets when I see Dante out of the corner of my eye. He comes into the locker room as quietly as he has these past few days. This time, though, he actually looks at me, and my heart clenches in my chest.

“Fiesta Bowl tickets?”

“Yeah,” I say, choking down my emotions.

I want to offer him one, but I know that would be the wrong thing to do. He already believes I have a silver spoon shoved up my ass. He’s probably thinking I just waved my magic rich boy wand and got these tickets for free.

I guess he wouldn’t really be wrong.

“Hope your family’s able to get away.”

I search for the sarcasm in his voice, the biting edge of cynicism, but it isn’t there. He seems sincere, and I don’t have time to apologize before he heads off to his corner of the locker room to get suited up for practice.

I’m not even sure what I’d say. I think about it while I finish putting on my mesh, and later when we’re on the field. I think about it while I’m hitting blockers so hard my mouth guard rattles against my teeth.

I think about it as I see Dante miss tackles. I think about it as I see the lack of tension in his body, like he’s deliberately putting in less work. But he wouldn’t do that, not with such huge stakes. He wants that NFL spot more than anything.

I can’t help but think about it when Coach tears him a new one, though, and when he ducks out before the starting list is posted, like he knows he isn’t on it.

He isn’t. I am.

I should be happy, but there’s some part of me that feels sick. Like this victory isn’t actually mine. Like it’s been handed to me by the guy who deserves it most.

I think about confronting him. Chasing after him like they do in the movies. But in the end, I change into my street clothes and duck out to call my family before our flight.

It’s fear that drives me, plain and simple. But I can’t seem to escape it.

* * *

“
Y
ou’re
sure you can’t come?”

I knew this was going to happen. I knew before I even begged and bartered for the tickets. But it doesn’t change the feeling in the pit of my stomach.

“I’m sorry, darling. You know we’d love to, but your father has to work.”

As much as my father loves to “work” on holidays, I seriously doubt he’ll be doing anything resembling it on New Year’s Eve. He’s most likely hosting another party.

“That doesn’t mean you and Greg and Aidan can’t come, though.”

“Oh, well we have to be here to support him.” She says it so convincingly that I might believe it’s true. “I’m sure Lydia will come to your game.”

“She already confirmed.”

I called her first. She was ecstatic. She said she was going to find her future husband there; whichever one was covered head to toe in blue body paint and reeked of stale beer.

I should know better than to expect that kind of support from the rest of my family.

“You’re not upset, are you, Mitchell?”

I press two fingers against my temple. “No, it’s fine. Maybe you can catch a few minutes on TV.”

“That would be wonderful!”

I know they won’t. It’ll go on the DVR list, which Abigail will be sure to set up. But no one will actually watch it.

Why do I keep doing this to myself?

“Are you and your friend going to celebrate after you win?”

It takes me a moment to figure out who she’s talking about. When I do, it’s a stab through the heart.

“Dante and I broke up.”

I can hear her sharp intake of breath. I imagine her clutching her pearls right now. It’s probably not hyperbole.

“Oh, dear.” There’s a long pause. I expect she’s gathering compelling evidence for why I should find a nice, sweet girl. But she surprises me. “I want you to know, your father was only looking out for your best interests.”

That stops me cold. I pull the phone away from my ear and look at it, as if expecting to see my mother’s number has been replaced by someone else’s.

“What do you mean?”

“We always knew it would be a problem for you someday.”

I get the sick feeling that I know exactly what she means, but apparently I’m a glutton for punishment.

“You always knew that
what
would be a problem?”

“Do you remember Greg’s fiancée? Oh, what was her name? Vivian?”

“Veronica,” I say through gritted teeth.

“That’s the one. We knew you’d have your own Veronica one day.”

For a long moment, I forget how to breathe. I feel like I’ve been kicked in the chest, and my lungs scream from the pain of it.

My heart, meanwhile, is invaded by ice. It trickles through all my veins, spreading to every inch of my body.

Veronica was, by my parents’ estimation, a gold digger. Greg hasn’t been the same since their engagement was called off.

“…What did Dad do?”

Rage shakes my voice, and I know my mother feels it. She takes what seems like an eternity to answer.

“Don’t be angry, Mitchell. He really just—”

“What did he do?”

Another pause. I wonder if Dad is there, hovering.

“I believe he had a talk with the boy. I’m not sure what it was about, but he said he discovered his true nature, and that they understood one another.”

Oh, God.

I can easily imagine how that conversation went, and as I hear it in my head, everything makes sense. Dante’s silence, the distance, and the breakup. No wonder he said what he did.

My father convinced him of it.

I can’t believe he would do something like that, and yet… I can. All too well. It’s just another piece in the fucked up game of chess he’s played with my life.

He wants so badly to preserve his precious Erickson legacy.

I swallow hard, trying to control myself enough to say something. In the end, I settle on just a few words.

“Tell Dad our deal’s off.”

I hear my mother start to protest, but I hang up before she can make any headway. A storm rages in me, and it’s headlined by one declaration: Fuck the Erickson legacy.

I’m staying in Eastshore. Without his money, without his support, without his love, if it comes down to it. My self respect is worth more.

Dante is worth more.

Realization washes over me, and I feel a desperate, clawing need to find him. It wouldn’t be hard. We’re sitting in an airport, waiting for our plane to board. He’s got to be around here somewhere.

But fate conspires against me, and they call for us to board before I can even look. I see him jog up to the gate with Trent and Oakley, but I’m swept up in the crowd before I can make it to him.

We sit just rows apart on the six hour flight, and yet it feels like a continent exists between us. I have no idea when I’m going to get the chance to talk to him in private. Maybe not until after the bowl game. But I have to have that chance. I have to apologize. I have to tell him I’ve cut ties with my family.

I have to tell him…

It hits me hard, echoing through every fiber of my being.

I have to tell him that I love him.