The barista was watching them over the coffee machine. Patrick leaned in and lowered his voice. “Stop it—”
“Fuck you! That girl is walking around in stripper outfits and you’re slobbering all over her and pretending to me like you’re ‘just friends!’”
“We are—”
“You’re not fucking friends! You want to sleep with her!”
Winona had completely dropped the trainee psychologist act. Her cheeks were flushed and her narrowed eyes dared him to keep justifying himself.
He sat back in his seat and let one second pass. Two. Three. The angrier someone got, the quieter he became. It helped on the footy field, and it helped now. As the seconds ticked past, Winona’s stare got less intense.
“We’re done,” she said in an acidic tone. “Delete my number.”
“Sure.” He stood. “Sorry it didn’t work out.”
“Get fucked.”
Patrick nodded as he stood and turned for the door. Whatever else, it was over, and he wouldn’t have to—
“Give up on Cheryl,” Winona called. “You’re invisible to her.”
It was a trap, but he still looked around. “What?”
“Some guys just don’t do it for girls. You’re that for Cheryl. No matter what you do, she’ll always see you as this doofy little brother. Have fun with that.”
* * *
Present Day
Patrick hadn’t been morning drunk since his under-eighteens footy trip, but he was now. He’d finished the first bottle of Chivas right after Cheryl left, then started on the second he’d stowed in his sports bag. The fact he’d packed it said he’d known it would end like this—alone in a shitty motel, the smell and taste of Cheryl everywhere.
In his defence, he had nowhere else to be. It wasn’t a training day, and he had the room until five. If you had to hole up while your whole life went to shit, Heavenly Stays was the place to do it. He lay on the bed where he’d broken Cheryl and drank and watched the fan spin. He had no ice to water down the whiskey, or even a glass to pour it into, but that didn’t matter. He chugged from the neck like it was Gatorade, grateful for the numbness it gave him. The way it made everything slow down.
He guessed his heart was broken, but it didn’t feel that way. It didn’t feel like anything.
Time went sideways. He put on music and then a podcast, but he didn’t hear a word. A few texts pinged over his speakers—not her, never her—and Mick from the Sharks called to touch base about him accepting the captaincy. He didn’t answer. He’d never ghosted anyone important before. Turned out it was pretty easy. Mick didn’t even get angry. Instead, he left a nice voicemail telling him to take his time. “You’re still our number one pick, Normal.”
“Bad boys win,” Patrick told the ceiling fan. “The more they chase you, the more you want to get chased by them… or something like that.”
He showered at some point. It flooded the laminated bathroom, soaking his jeans and t-shirt as they lay on the floor. He wrapped himself in a scratchy towel and lay back on the bed. Despite the whiskey, feelings were seeping back in like poison.
What had he been thinking? Treating Cheryl like that? The things he’d done. The things he’d said. He’d wanted to be as rough as Cheryl needed. To show her he could give her everything. But no matter how much of a cunt he was, she wanted more. It was like she had a sexual death wish. No matter how much he degraded her, denied her, or hurt her, Cheryl’s pretty eyes said ‘harder, harder, harder.’
So, he’d gone harder. He’d slapped her and insulted her and forced her to apologise for nothing. He’d mocked her nickname for him, mocked their friendship, and forced her to come until she was in tears. He’d met her on the lowest level of that deep, dark place, and as much as he was disgusted with himself… He’d liked it. Liked hurting her. Liked being the asshole who’d laughed in her face as she lost control of her body. It had been cathartic having the girl who’d fucked with his heart for years at his mercy. And that made it even worse.
He’d never been so turned on in his life and he had to live with that, along with the fact he’d lost his best friend, the girl of his dreams, and any chance they’d have sex, let alone a relationship. He’d given himself one night to show her what he had, and he’d blown it. If alcohol poisoning didn’t kill him, shame would.
She didn’t use their safeword, but as soon as the sun came up, she’d run a mile. She’d wanted to burn their friendship to the ground, and he’d helped her do it—filling her with that plug and fucking her with her dildo, and making her apologise for her past. She must fucking hate him.
His dick was aching, still hard enough to drive nails, but he refused to touch himself. It would be too fucking pathetic, masturbating after what he’d done.
It was four in the afternoon. A few Sharks had messaged, and his brother Ant and his dad had called. People were starting to notice he wasn’t online.
“And that’s why I’ll never be successfully murdered,” he told the fan.
He had a decision to make: stay here another night or go home. He should go home. But that meant sobering up, cleaning the bathroom, and finding dry clothes so the Uber driver didn’t get him banned from the app. Staying was as easy as calling reception and telling them to charge another night, then ordering in more whiskey.
He picked up his phone, and for a moment, he saw himself sitting in this dank motel for a week, rotting into the mattress like mould. Something cleared in his whiskey-soaked brain. He opened his inbox and messaged Willow.
