The Fall (Rules of Play Book 4) Page 7

  Are you a team?

  It’s an away game for us. Indiana University Bloomington. Woke up at six this morning, drove to the field so we could all board by seven to make our two o’clock game. I’m buzzing with so much energy it feels like my skin is going to rupture, like my spine is stretching and my bones are cracking, painful bursts of agony, and I’m going to transform. Become something so much more. Something better.

  Now is the time to prove, once and for all, that Denver made a mistake in letting me go.

  I want to win.

  I have to.

  It’s the only way to prove I’m worth it. And, in a way, thank Notre Dame for taking me in when they could easily have said no. I don’t want Coach Wheeler to regret bringing me on as a player.

  Early afternoon, and the heat is as oppressive as smoke, heavy and wet like damp cloth pulled over our mouths and eyes. Not a single seat in the stands is empty. The energy is so thick I feel it coat the back of my throat as I take in the rising stands, the waving flags, the roar of sound, the colors. The air is electric, the air is alive. And I’m alive too. This, I think, is what I live for.

  I am so, so alive.

  Kellan claps me on the shoulder. His fierce features dare Bloomington to get between him and victory. He may be a goof as practice, but when it comes to the game, he’s all business. “You ready?”

  I accept the water bottle he offers me and take a huge gulp. The game doesn’t start for another twenty minutes. Plenty of time to calm my nerves. “Ready as I’ll ever be,” I reply, handing the bottle back to him. Juan, our captain, gives us both encouraging smiles. But I’m not paying any attention to him. I’m studying Kellan from the corner of my eye.

  Not for the first time, I wonder if Maverick told Kellan about what happened on the Ferris wheel. I have a feeling he didn’t. Nosy Kellan, always gossiping. If he knew, I’d definitely know. As would the rest of the team. Considering Maverick is a rather private person, I’m confident he’s kept quiet about the ordeal. Not sure how I feel about it, honestly.

  Since that night, Maverick and I haven’t spoken about it. In his eyes, I see that he wants to, but he has to make the first move. Otherwise, I won’t know if he truly wants it. I can be patient. For now.

  Once Notre Dame finishes our warm-ups, it’s time for the game to start. Juan heads to centerfield to shake hands with Bloomington’s captain. They flip the coin. We get the ball first. Good. Like I said, the first game often determines the rest of the season. Start strong, end strong. We have a difficult opponent.

  Since I came onto the team as a transfer, I’m not starting. I perch on the bench with the other guys, anticipation tightening my lungs and speeding my heart rate. We’ve worked hard for this. All we need to do is play our hearts out. We need to remember to communicate. We need to pass frequently. So long as no one tries for glory, we should have a shot at winning.

  The whistle screams throughout the stands.

  The game begins.

  The crowd, the ball, Coach Wheeler—each is a piece in this large puzzle, and I’m a part of it. When I was kicked off the Denver team, I feared that was it. My career, over before it had even started. Cut short too soon. To sit here and be given a second chance—it’s everything. And yet inside, I’m screaming. Because I’m not out there. I’m here, powerless, my hands tied and my ankles bound. I know I’m sitting out because of hierarchal decisions, not because I’m not good enough. But a small voice in the back of my mind is trying to convince me otherwise. That I’m not worthy of the glory.

  The moment the whistle blows, your world becomes the ball and the grass beneath your feet and the goal. But I can tell our teammates aren’t in the zone. It’s… messy. Within the first three minutes of play, Bloomington intercepts the ball away and makes a break for our goal.

  My blood rushes hot. The roar is all around. “Where’s the D?” I bellow, cupping my hands around my mouth. With each step closer to our close, my stomach drops another inch. It’s already too late. They get past our defense too easily.

  He scores.

  Within the first five minutes, he scores.

  The stands go wild. The small group of Notre Dame fans waves their flags in spirit, but my stomach drops so low it drags across the ground. That interception was a fucking rookie move. Yeah, Coach isn’t happy about that. The guy sounds like he’s ready to bash some skulls in. Can’t blame him, really. If Carter had looked before passing, this could have all been avoided.

  It will get better, I promise myself. It will.

  It doesn’t.

  At halftime, Coach takes us all aside and speaks words about teamwork, not giving up, giving it our all, yadda yadda. It all goes in one ear, out the other, because right now, the words don’t apply to me. I’ve been reduced to a bench warmer. Other guys have gotten a chance to sub, but not me. Seems like I’m the only one left who hasn’t had a chance to play.

  I mean, I get where he’s coming from. We have to keep our spirits high. We have to keep fighting no matter the turnout. But come the second half, Bloomington scores not one, but two goals. We’re still at zero. Behind by three. I can sense the energy of my teammates dim. Kellan’s kicking ass out there. Honestly, if it wasn’t for him, Bloomington would have gotten way more goals. He’s working as hard as four guys, yet he’s only one man. Where’s the support? Are they even talking on the field?

  As if by some miracle, we score. I still think it was a fluke though.

  Ten minutes later, Bloomington scores another goal. There are five minutes left on the clock and I’ve yet to be put into the game.

  I can’t sit here any longer watching our men get butchered. I hop up and approach Coach, who paces the sidelines, his face creased in rage. The man is scary as hell, and I’m definitely taking a risk asking him this when he’s in one of his moods.

  “Coach,” I say, my voice pleading. “Coach, I haven’t been put in yet and I want to help. I need to help. Please.”

  He doesn’t hear me. The crowd is so deafening I can’t hear myself think. In agony, I watch our offense clump together. There’s nowhere to pass it too—because they’re standing right next to each other!

  Motherfucker.

  “Coach.”

  “Not now,” he snaps through gritted teeth. He white-knuckles the clipboard he holds. Any moment now it’s going to snap into kindling.

  My heart plummets. I return to the bench. Juan sits beside me. He sprained his ankle in the first half. We’re suffering as a result.

  “It’ll be over soon,” he says.

  Hopefully.

  I duck my head, rub my hands over my sweaty scalp. Sweaty because I’ve been sitting in full sun for the better part of two hours, not because I’m in the game. I don’t know. I thought Notre Dame would be a new start for me. Turns out I’m disposable. “Coach isn’t going to put me in,” I mutter.

  “Hey.” Juan waits until I lift my head. “You’re a great player. Your time will come. Be patient.”

  Easier said than done.

  I swear, in the next five minutes, I suffer from two heart attacks. Our keeper barely stops a goal, and Bloomington gets a penalty kick that goes wide from a sudden gust of wind. I’m dripping sweat, feeling shaky. It’s one disaster after another. Why am I here if I’m just going to warm a bench? Maybe Denver was right in kicking me off the team.

  “August,” Coach barks. He clutches his clipboard in an iron grip. He’s not happy. I’m not either. We’re doing terrible. “Sub in for Preston.”

  Preston is a sophomore, center mid. I spring to my feet and switch places with Preston. We clap hands as we pass.

  It’s my time to shine.

  Finally.

  I take my place on the field, and a few of the guys nod at me. Sweat coats their faces and brings a sheen to their skin. Chests rise and fall, hands propped on hips, feet shuffling.

  The w
histle blows, and I’m off.

  Our right forward, Christian, nabs the ball, but he’s blocked by their impenetrable defense. “Back!” I yell. Carl is open on my left. If I pass it down the line to him, it might give us a shot on goal.

  It never happens. I’m not sure if Christian doesn’t hear me or if desperation has given him tunnel vision, but he gets reckless. He gets selfish. A selfish player is the worst kind of player. Ball hog. Christian takes it upon himself to try and maneuver around not one, but four players. Why isn’t he passing? The Notre Dame mid-fielders stand there, too shocked to offer support. What the hell is he doing?

  Needless to say, he doesn’t reach the goal. Bloomington steals it right from under his nose, and their sweeper blasts the ball up and over our heads. I chase after it, but it’s too late.

  It’s far too late.

  The final score is four to one. To say it’s a disappointment would be an understatement. We couldn’t get it together. Everything fell apart and no one knew how to fix it. A domino effect. Lack of communication, not following through kicks… they had us beat before we even stepped onto the field. Why? Because they worked as a team and we didn’t. Simple.

  With each mile driven on the return trip back to Notre Dame, my mood darkens. This was supposed to be my year. My comeback year. It’s off to a terrible start. What will this mean for the rest of the season? Will I continue to warm benches instead of contributing? The thought sits heavy in my gut.

  Back at Notre Dame, we all file quietly out of the bus.

  “We’ll discuss the game at tomorrow’s practice,” Coach says. “Get some rest. You all did well.”

  Someone snorts. I understand the sentiment.

  Kellan says, “That’s nice, Coach, but we all know what a shitshow it was.”

  Coach Wheeler repeats, in a hard tone, “We’ll discuss the game tomorrow.”

  After that, there’s nothing left to do but get in my car and drive.

  Chapter 11

  Maverick

  Just get it over with.

  I’ve been staring at my phone for nearly ten minutes. It’s late, but even with the time difference between Indiana and Seattle, Noah should still be awake.

  Before I can chicken out, I dial my brother’s number and wait. The phone rings and rings. I tense up on the couch, my fingers curling into claws around the cool metal. I’m home alone. August has an away game and won’t be back until later. I’d rather him not be here for this conversation anyway.

  “Hello?”

  I swallow. Gather my courage. “Hey, Noah.” Fuck, my voice sounds funny. “What’s up?”

  It’s quiet on his end. He replies with, “The sky.”

  I snort and ease back into the couch cushions. My heart is racing, and I feel feverish. No reason to be afraid. This is my brother, the one I’m closest to. The only person aside from my therapist who I’ve spoken to in length about Kaylie’s death. I know Noah would never judge me. “Clever.”

  “You sound weird,” he says. “Is everything okay?”

  “Fine, fine,” I say around the lump in my throat. “I can’t call and see how you’re doing? How’s Max?” A distraction is just what I need.

  “Hm.” A skeptical sound, but he lets it go. “Max is good. Just got a promotion.”

  “And?” It takes a while for Noah to warm up.

  I can sense him thinking. “We’re thinking about planning a trip next year. Maybe Canada to do some hiking.” Nerves flutter in his voice.

  I burst out laughing. “You? Hiking? Please.” Noah feels safest in enclosed spaces, preferably with his computer or a video game in hand. He doesn’t like getting dirty either. The thought of him sitting around a campfire is comical. “Did Max rope you into it?”

  Noah chuckles as well, knowing I’m right. It sounds a tad maniacal. “He promised if he gets to choose this vacation, I’ll get to choose the next vacation.”

  “Which will be where?”

  “At our house.”

  “Staycation. Nice.” Needing to move around, I wander over to the bookshelf and scour the line of titles. Most of the books are August’s. A lot of nonfiction, but I catch a book of short stories, too. That’s one thing we haven’t discussed—literature. I file that information away for our next breakfast session. “You coming home for the holidays?”

  “Not Thanksgiving—we’re heading to Max’s parents’ place—but for Christmas, yeah.”

  I’m glad. It’s been lonely with Noah gone. Kellan and I get along, but we’re cut from two different cloths.

  Noah says, “A worthy attempt at distracting me from the reason you’re calling, but it’s not going to work. Spill.”

  My groan slips out before I can call it back. “The curse of a brother who actually pays attention.”

  “You say you’d rather have this conversation with Sebastian?”

  “Hell no.” I love Sebastian but.. no. Just no. He’s always trying to bring the spotlight back to him, and right now, I need this to be about me. “I wanted to ask you—” I stop. Ugh. It doesn’t fucking matter. All of my brothers are in relationships with men. It’s still a scary thing to ask though. Stepping into the unknown. “When... how did you know you were attracted to men?”

  The quiet changes. It’s like it becomes sentient, like it can hear my thoughts, see the expression on my face, the one that’s a clash of anguish and helplessness. Noah has always been the most observant of my brothers. He can read between the lines. He hears what I don’t say.

  The reason I called him and not Kellan or Sebastian is because, aside from us having the closest relationship, Noah also grew up in the shadow of our brothers. I don’t hold it against Kellan or Sebastian. They’re skilled at what they do, and they’ve worked harder than anyone to achieve their dreams of going pro. But when you have four boys, and two of them need private tutors, personal trainers because of their active schedule, it was natural for Noah and me to lean on one another. As such, I trust him to hear me, to guide me, and to give me space to make my own decisions.

  Noah says, “I knew for sure in eighth grade. My favorite class was gym. It never hit me at the time why I enjoyed it so much, since, well, I hate exercise. A few years later I realized it was because I got to see the boys naked in the showers after class.” He snorts.

  I’m smiling at absolutely nothing. Can’t say I’ve experienced the same thing. I’ve only ever looked at women. I love their softness and curves and the sweet smell of their shampoo or perfume when tucking your nose against their necks. What I feel for August is an anomaly.

  Noah waits for me to respond, and when I don’t he asks me straight out. “Mav, are you attracted to men?”

  My hand falls from the book spines, and I retreat to a corner of the couch, pulling my legs up to the side and tossing a blanket over my lap. “One man. My roommate.”

  “Ah.”

  “Is that an I-knew-the-whole-time-you-were-gay ah, or a you’re-fucked ah?”

  “That’s an I’m-trying-to-figure-out-what-you-need-from-me ah.”

  Pressure swells in my face, and my eyes sting without warning. How many people, I wonder, are lucky enough to have a brother to turn to? Or anyone, for that matter? I remember when Sebastian first came out to our parents. They accepted his sexuality, but I can’t imagine what it must have been like thinking he was the only one of his siblings who liked men. “This is enough, Noah. This is more than enough.” Deep inhale. I hold the air in my lungs, then release it. “I really like him, Noah, but a part of me feels like I’m betraying Kaylie.”

  “Have you kissed him?”

  “Yes. It was... nice.” And hot. And sweet. My blood surges at the memories.

  Noah shuffles some papers. His hard exhalation as he sits on something soft. His couch, I imagine. “Did you feel guilty while you were kissing your roommate, or only after?”

 
“After.”

  I’m imagining my brother tipping back his head and staring at the ceiling. He’s a thinker, through and through. Careful. Wanting to get his point across as succinctly as possible.

  Noah says, not unkindly, “I’ll tell you what I think. I think there’s no shame in what you feel for your roommate. Kaylie is gone. You’re still here. I know she would want you to be happy, to find happiness with someone else. But if you’re not ready to let her go, then I think you should wait. If you’re not certain, someone could get hurt.”

  As always, Noah makes perfect sense. He couldn’t possibly know of the pull I feel toward August though. I can’t explain it. I feel myself with him, and I feel safe. The last time I felt that was with Kaylie.

  The lock turns in the front door, which bursts open, slamming against the wall. August barrels into the house like a storm. Cold, piercing eyes. I’ve never seen them anything but warm, and it takes me by surprise. Red hair matted against his scalp. Thunder crackling through his expression. He gives me only a passing glance before tossing his athletic bag onto the floor and stomping to his room, the door snapping shut behind him.

  The front door gapes. It’s dark outside, cloudy. The moon hides behind the trees. What the hell just happened?

  “Noah? I’m going to have to call you back.”

  After shutting and locking the front door, I approach August’s bedroom with soft footsteps. I press my ear to the wood. It’s quiet. Then—a squeak. He must be in bed.

  Judging August’s mood, either the game didn’t go well or something happened that upset him. I think of how cruel his face looked, how unlike him. My fingers sweep back and forth across the wood, hesitant. Something tells me he shouldn’t be alone right now.

  I knock tentatively. “August?” Low voice.

  Fabric shifts and sighs. The air around me grows cold.

  I try the knob. Locked.

  “August.” I knock harder against the door, unease circling my throat like a noose. “Open the door.”