: Chapter 27

Mason

Now, October

My hand is fucked. Every time the ball presses to my palm, the ache reaches deeper. How I managed to do so much damage is beyond me. Chase didn’t even have a black eye, just a swollen cheek, and I get a fractured knuckle?

Not that I know for certain. There’s no way in hell I’m going to go to the doctor, not when the only insurance I have is athlete insurance covered by the school and it could get back to my coaches, but I know something is wrong.

I can hardly make a fist. Thankfully, I don’t need to in order to throw a ball, but it’s getting harder to hide. We’ve got a tough game this week against a team we lost to last year. If I can win this, if we can win this, it will be the first W over Oregon in five seasons, ending the damn losing streak.

Coach says I’m gonna make it happen, and I’m determined to prove him right, which is why my hand’s shoved in a bowl of ice, my skin screaming in protest as I glare across the room at my sister, Cameron, and Paige as they fight over how to fry a damn tortilla.

“What the hell is the issue?”

All three scowl my way.

“Noah said,” Ari begins, and the other girls groan dramatically.

“Noah isn’t here, Arianna.” Cameron frowns at the stove. “We’re dropping it in the oil folded.”

“If you fold it, it will break.” Paige puts her hands on her hips. “You have to put it in flat first, flip, then fold.”

“We need to heat them first, then fry,” my sister argues. “Brady, tell them!”

Brady’s brows jump, and he looks from the TV to me to them. “What Ari baby said.”

“You don’t even know what she said, you big dummy! You just like to argue.” Cameron shakes her head. “I’m doing it.”

“Paige is right,” Chase pipes up.

“Oh, since when are you team Paige?” Cameron quips.

Chase’s head has never popped up so quick. “What? I’m not!” He frowns, though his eyes stay locked on Cameron rather than looking at the blond who is now staring down at her fingernails.

Cameron smirks, a challenge in her eye I’m not sure I understand, and when I look to Chase, his are narrowed in on our friend.

Finally, he huffs, shaking his head. “Whatever, but it’s going to split if you fold it first.” The other girls glare, but Chase looks past them to the stove. “And I’m pretty sure you have to start over now, because your oil is smoking.”

All three look to the stove, freaking out in unison.

We chuckle, refocusing on the game film and starting back at the top for the second time tonight.

The game is tomorrow, and if we want any chance of pulling this off, we can’t miss a thing.

Chase huffs, shaking his head. “I’m not seeing any tells. The running backs don’t even shift. They give nothing away.”

It’s true. They have no tells. Their heads don’t pull, and their feet don’t point any which way that could lead you to connect the dots and anticipate the play call. The quarterback doesn’t double tap the ball or lift his foot to indicate any damn thing. They’re stone still, staring straight ahead until the snap.

Sighing, I sit back. “I can get us down the field, but in the end, this one is coming down to defense.”

“You’re going to have to go with the handoffs as much as you can, brother.” Brady motions toward my hand. “You talk to Coach about the plan yet?”

“Far as he knows, I’m good, but I did put it in his head that they expect us to pass most of the game, so he’s all for the run plays.”

“Good, good.” Brady nods, and Chase echoes his agreement just as the girls walk in with plates of food.

None of us comment on the fact that we’re now eating with microwaved flour tortillas rather than fried corn ones.

“I can’t believe you’re playing on Halloween.” Cameron bites into her burrito, talking around a mouthful. “That blows.”

“The fact that you can still get your mouth open that wide with all that food in it means you know how to, too,” Brady teases, laughing and dodging her backhand when she stretches her long-ass arm across the coffee table.

“Speaking of Halloween.” Ari smiles. “How cute is Deaton’s little costume!”

My brows snap together, and I look to my sister, but she’s looking at Cameron.

“I know! I told her she should add a little war paint under his eyes, but she said that’s just a football and baseball thing.” She shrugs. “Still be cute.”

“Little dude’s gonna be a buff little badass when he gets bigger.” Brady stuffs his face, eyes on the TV.

My appetite is gone in a single instant.

So they’ve all seen his costume. His first Halloween costume.

They’ve seen it, and I don’t even know what it is.

A bitterness coats my tongue, and I lift my water bottle to my lips, trying and failing to wash the taste away.

My sister nudges my ribs, and my head snaps her way, but it’s Paige who discreetly opens her phone, setting it on the carpet beside my feet.

My eyes fall to the screen, and there he is, smiling all big and bright, and goddamn if the murkiness in my mind doesn’t grow a little lighter at the sight.

He’s wearing what looks like overalls but a spandex version, his name printed across the chest in the same font as our university hoodies.

He’s wearing a singlet.

He’s a little wrestler, and when I look to the second photo, zoomed in to only show his shoulders, printed proudly across the back is Vermont.

Because that’s his last name.

He’s not mine, and as much as it pains me to think it, I don’t think she’ll ever allow him to be.

Not that I’d ever want to take big D’s place. I wouldn’t. I don’t.

But little man has four sides, right?

Why can’t I have one?

Why can’t I have her?

I push to my feet, excusing myself for a minute, and step into the hall.

The door opens a few moments later, and surprising me for a second time, it’s Paige who joins me.

She smiles softly, propping her shoulder against the wall, her body facing mine. “She didn’t send them the picture.”

I look at her from the corner of my eye, and she shrugs.

“I made the costume. Dropped it off when I went to check on the progress of my studio last weekend. She only just tried it on him today and…well.” She shakes her phone in the air.

“You made it?” I ask, surprised and trying not to read too much into her explanation.

So Payton didn’t send it to everyone but me. That’s good.

But why didn’t she send it to me? She must know I’d want to see. We talked about it once…when we were still talking.

“I did. I make the costumes for my dance students all the time. It’s cheaper that way, and the kids in my classes can’t afford to be there, let alone to pay for something they’ll never wear again.” She smiles. “Although this was my first time making anything wrestling related, and to be honest, I don’t know much about it…but I was a little surprised to learn wrestlers have numbers.”

I chuckle despite myself, shaking my head. “You’re right, you don’t know much. Wrestlers don’t have numbers because while they are part of a team or club, it’s a solo sport. No need for numbers when it’s just you and the other guy on the mat.”

Paige makes a face of confusion, but the pinch of her eyes tells me she’s not all that confused, and the simple “huh” that leaves her is even less convincing.

I raise a brow, and she giggles, but the playfully patronizing way she pats my chest on her way back inside tells me it’s at my expense.

A moment later, my phone pings, and I pull it up. The number isn’t one I have saved, but I know it’s Paige when I open it, her first text telling me so.

Unknown: stole your number from the group thread.

Before I can respond, a second message comes though, this one the image she showed me inside of Deaton smiling wide at the camera, his big blue eyes as bright and glacier-like as his mama’s.

“Hey, little man,” I murmur, gliding my thumb over it a moment…but then my eyes travel lower, and I see something I missed before.

My spine shoots straight, and I push off the wall, dragging the screen closer but zooming out as much as the image allows.

How did I miss it?

Right there on his chest is a number, stitched in big block letters to match his name.

The number four stares back at me, and all the air leaves my lungs, because holy. Shit.

That can’t be a coincidence.

It’s not random.

The number bolded on his chest is the same one I’ll be wearing on mine tomorrow…when he’ll wear it on his.

He’s going to wear my number as I wear it.

My eyes burn, and I clutch my phone tighter.

Baby, did you do this for me?

I squeeze my eyes closed, breathing through the thin thread of hope threatening to take over.

When I first left for school last summer, after Deaton died, we talked a few times that first month, then weekly, and that quickly turned into every damn day.

I liked it like that. I want it like that.

But the girl has gone radio silent on me, and I haven’t figured out what to do other than let her. I stopped hounding her because I didn’t want to push. That’s what Noah did, right? When things got tough with Ari. He gave her space and waited like the saint he is.

I’m not like Noah, though.

I’m not strong enough for this shit.

I’m freaking the fuck out and constantly stopping myself from walking out of class, driving my ass to Oceanside, and forcing her hand. I’ve almost done it. Four times now, I’ve found myself sitting in my driver seat, keys in the ignition, but each time, something’s held me back.

The sad part is I’m pretty sure it’s not my deciding to give her the space she’s clearly after.

No, it’s straight-up fear.

What if it’s not a little extra space she’s looking for…but a set of shears to cut us off completely? If I go to her and make her talk to me, she could say those words.

Call me weak, which wouldn’t be a lie.

I’m already weak when it comes to her, so if she cuts me out, it will only get worse.

My eyes fall to the photo again.

This means something, though, doesn’t it?

She told Paige what she wanted, and what she wanted was my number included with his name.

She didn’t tell me, didn’t show me, but maybe she will?

Maybe tomorrow when I get off that field, I’ll have one of those texts from her, the ones I looked forward to all last season but have yet to get this time around.

Too bad when the end of the game comes, the only messages I have are from my parents. Suddenly, the epic win under my belt and relief in my hand, thanks to the cortisone shot my trainer gave me after Coach saw me wringing it out on my way off the field, mean jack shit.

The weight on my chest is heavier than I expected, a fucked-up sense of dread burning through me like whiskey without a chaser.

My restraint slips, and I send a message of my own.

Me: Happy first Halloween, little man. I wish I could have seen you tonight.

I hit Send and toss my phone in my bag, where I plan to leave it for the night, the thought of no response too much for me right now.

There’s a huge after-party happening tonight to celebrate the end of Oregon’s reign over us, but I won’t be there.

How can I celebrate a win when I’m drowning in the weight of loss?

I need to get some shit off my chest, have a conversation I should have had a while ago, and I know just where to go to have it.

My phone rings for the third time, but I ignore it, just like the others, and finally put my Tahoe in park.

The minute my seat belt is thrown off, my skin pricks with nerves, and I close my eyes, dropping my head back against the headrest. My knee starts to bounce, and the ache in my hand decides to flare up again, likely from the death grip I had on the wheel the whole drive.

Our quarterly check-ins from our professors went in this morning, and I know the minute I get back to campus I’ll be fucked in yet another aspect of my life, but I’m not going to worry about that right now.

I drove all through the night for a reason.

Pulling in a lungful of air, I step from the vehicle. As if this shit wasn’t ominous already, a storm cloud rolls overhead, rumbling its warning of what’s to come.

I’ve never been real good with warnings, though. Never been able to switch to chill mode like my friends. I run at a hundred all day, every day, in every aspect of my life. It’s likely what got me here, and while I can’t say it’s a comfortable place to be, I wouldn’t trade it. Incessant, overbearing sense of fucking failure or not, I want every part of it.

It can only be a fraction of what she’s felt over the year, right?

My feet meet the curb, and I look to the sky, praying for the first time in a long time I’m not making a mistake, while knowing he and I would be the only people aware of it if I were.

Before I can bitch out or tell myself this is stupid and solves nothing, I push forward, counting the rows vertically, then horizontally until I’m stepping in front of a stone plaque, so large I could have spotted it without the map ingrained in my mind.

Sighing, I drop onto my ass, hanging my arms over my bent knees as I stare at the wet green grass near my feet.

“Hey, man.” I clear my throat, blowing my cheeks up with air and releasing it slowly. A dry chuckle leaves me, and I wince. “This is fucked-up,” I mumble, shaking my head.

I nearly stand but grit my teeth and talk myself out of it, instead sitting there silently for way too long. So long, the rain spills from the clouds, falling over me and adding to the weight I’m already carrying.

“You don’t want to hear this, do you?” I mumble. “You don’t want to hear how the girl you left behind has become the most important person in my life. Or that I think I felt it even when you were the one holding her hand while I watched from across the beach like a fucking creep.” I pluck a piece of grass and toss it. “You don’t want to hear how in the months that followed your death, she was breaking over and over again because all she wanted was to have you back, and all I wanted was to take your place. I wanted her to let go of you so she could grab on to me.” A revolted chuckle leaves me, and I look away. “Fucked-up, right? What kind of man falls for a girl who’s already on her knees?”

I stare at nothing for a long while, images of her flashing through my mind from the first day we met to the night I slipped out without her knowing and everything that happened in between.

“I didn’t know what I was doing, and I didn’t know how to stop it. Believe me, I tried. When I first got to Avix last year, I masked it all. I smiled and laughed. I went out and did the whole college thing, but when morning came and reality set back in, she just…slid right back into my mind. I tried to give her space because I was here and she was there and our lives were so fucking different, but it didn’t matter, and sooner than she was ready for, I was all in.

“No one knew.” I scoff. “Shit, most still don’t. They suspect, but they don’t know the half of it. I’m different now. Better because of her.” My lips twitch. “Better because of him.”

A low laugh leaves me, and I shake my head.

“He’s something else. Big and strong. He looks just like you, man, but with his mama’s eyes.” I blink hard, taking a deep breath, looking up at the cold stone before me with a smile. “I think you would have hoped for that.”

I read over the words written before me.

Deaton Vermont, son and brother. Loved by many and lost too soon.

It says nothing about his legacy, the only person who truly loved him and the little boy he left behind, let alone never got to meet.

I blow out a long breath, tamping down my anger, and pull my wallet from my pocket, taking out one of the copies of the little picture I had printed, the first and only thing I see when I flip open the old leather.

I run my fingers over the number on his chest, wishing I’d thought to print the back side that showed they share a last name. His real dad’s name.

His only dad?

I focus on Deaton’s chubby cheeks, the tight squish of his smile making my own wobble. With shaky hands, I stretch out, leaning the little photo against the headstone, the sight forcing me to look away to get myself in check.

“I…uh…” Fuck.

How is it so hard to talk to someone who can’t even talk back?

Blowing out a long breath, I force myself to keep going.

“I know he’s yours. He’s every bit you as he is her, and I’ll never forget that, not for a minute, man. I can promise you that, but…I love him like he’s my own, and I know I’ll never stop. You have to know I didn’t plan on any of this, but it happened, and I don’t know what to do.” I clench my teeth. “She’s pulling away, and I’m losing my mind. I’m losing her, and that means I’ll lose him, and that right there makes me feel like I’m fucking dying.” I wince at my word choices but can’t take them back, because it’s true.

Nothing that mattered before matters anymore. Not without her.

Not without him.

I swallow, shaking my head and whipping the rain in my hair with my hands.

I look down, whispering the words aloud to the only person who could possibly understand.

“I love her, Deaton. I love her with everything I am, and I’m so fucking fucked because I know now what I missed then. That no matter what I do and no matter how much time passes, she’ll never truly love me back, because at the end of the day, I’m not you. You left, but she didn’t let you go. She’s holding on with all she’s got, and I can’t even hate you for it. I want to, but I can’t. If she loved you this much, you must have been one hell of a guy, because she’s…an anomaly.”

My anomaly.

She’s my everything.

Yet she’s not even mine, is she?

“So what do you say?” I look at the headstone once more. “Do I learn to let go or keep fighting?”

Thunder breaks from the clouds then, and the rain pours in heavy streams.

I close my eyes, pointing them to the sky.

Yeah, that’s what I was thinking, too.

She’s inside me now, and no matter how sharp the blade, nothing is cutting her out.

All I can do is weather the storm and hope when the clouds clear and the sun rises, I’ll still have the strength to stand.

Even if it’s not at her side.

With a sigh, I pull out my phone. “Okay, Big D. Time to teach me a little something…”