Charming. Charismatic.
I just… didn’t want to pretend, I guess. Maybe I just want someone to want to kiss me for a change. Do it because they want to and not because I pushed all the right buttons and said the right words.
Maybe I’m just all fucked up because I’m quite literally fucked up. Physically and mentally.
I’ve never had a successful relationship unless you count what I had with Britt, and that had its problems, too.
Maybe that’s my issue. Maybe I just need to not date or hook up with people for a while. Maybe I need a break.
But Kearstin and I can still hang out. We’re both kind of in the same boat, I guess, which is nice. At leasthanging out with her—even if it’s in a non-romantic way—will keep my mother off my fucking back.
I don’t think either of us are looking to get serious with anyone right now, but I’ll make sure to tell her that when we hang out next.
Totally! Maybe we can grab dinner this week?
I work till 4 through the week. Friday I have plans, but any other day works.
Cool. I’ll text you later.
Sounds good!
“Alex!” my dad yells, and I realize I’m still not dressed. “Five minutes!”
“Leave without me!” I holler. “I have my own fucking car!”
I half expect him to come barreling back in here and start a fight, but he doesn’t, and for that I’m thankful.
I toss my phone on the bed as I adjust my brace once more, wincing at the way it pulls my leg hair and skin. I hate this fucking thing, and I can’t wait to get rid of it. Can’t wait to get back to my life.
My phone rings. “Daddy Issues” echoes in the air and a startling thought creeps in.
What am I going back to?
Vance is still my teammate. He’s the fucking captain.
Is he really sorry? Is he just going to let me waltz back into that locker room like everything’s fucking fine?
I don’t know, but I can’t think about it. Not if I want to get better and get back on the ice.
One thing at a time, Alex.
I open my closet, staring at the clothes inside. I didn’t exactly pack country club gear because that preppy shit isn’t my style, and I probably should have, but I didn’t think I’d have to show up for the weekly daddy-son reading of all my failures on the green, so I guess that’s on me.
Thankfully, my parents haven’t changed a thing in my room, including the closet. It’s still packed full of polos and khakis and button downs. When I left home, I took allmyclothes. All the vintage tees and ripped jeans, my chucks, and all my good Under Armor stuff. When I left, I left the person they wanted me to be.
I haven’t looked back since. I grab a black polo and a pair of khakis which look like they’ll fit. I slide into an old pair of Sperry’s, run my hand through my hair, and spritz myself with some cologne. I should shave or at least trim, but my dad’s already seething and halfway to the club by now, so I don’t.
My phone rings. “Daddy Issues.”
I silence it without a second thought and shove it into my pocket.
The entire time during lunch, I feel like shit. My leg hurts, the alcohol isn’t helping, and my dad ignores me, gushing over Lenny Georde and his trip to Italy with his wife. Lenny recounts his weekend, but I note the faintest twitch in his shoulders when he talks about his wife. His eyes don’t light up. It’s fake as shit. But then again, that’s par for the course in Ashbourne.
Everyone here is pretending to be someone they’re not. It’s exhausting.
“You up for a round on the green, Edmund?” Dad asks, waving his glass at Lenny and his dad.
“Of course!” he says, clapping my father on the back.
