I drop into the chair by his side, and he stares ahead, intent on digging a hole in the wall. “Don’t you have better things to do, like practice to win the big game?”
“That doesn’t matter right now,” I grumble.
Amelie walks inside, and tension curls around the air. It’s suffocating.
She fusses around him and a muscle tics in his jaw. I see the biggest hurdle in their relationship playing before my eyes, and I can’t do a thing but watch the train speeding down the track right before it crashes.
“Mom says hi,” I offer, but the silence prevails.
After a few minutes of the tension-filled quiet, I stand up, sighing. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”
A heavy weight sits on my shoulders as I leave. Wanting to forget my sorrow, I make a stop at the grocery store on my way home. I buy a bottle of whiskey, pissing on all my discipline. But I need something to ease this damn pressure. Maybe numbing myself for a bit will smooth things out.
Splayed on the sofa, the game plays on a loop. I tip the bottle back and gulp down the amber liquid. When I place it down, it’s a quarter empty.
I already know my performance will be even worse tomorrow––hungover at practice, but I can’t find it in me to care.
Keys jingle in the door, and when Lilly enters, looking like my dream woman, I groan. Another thing I wish I could change is having her. But I can’t. I take another swig.
Her eyes widen as she reaches me. She raises a brow, eyeing the whiskey bottle as if it personally offended her. Fuck if it doesn’t put a smile on my rigid features.
She cares, struggling to decide how to proceed. I let the knowledge soothe me. A friend is there when you fuck up big time, but doesn’t berate you. It’s in the rules. Us being friends is the better option, even though I hate it. But like this, I can have her. Nothaving her would devastate me. The thought alone slams my heart into a corner of my battered chest.
“How bad is it?”
I take another gulp in reply and slam the bottle on the table, causing the liquid to ripple just like my insides.
Lilly takes a hard look at me and the bottle. Shaking her head as she walks toward me, she pushes the bottle out of reach. “Ian, I’m sorry for what happened to Levi, but I am worried about you.”
Leaning back, I shut my eyes for a moment as if wanting to blind myself to the ongoing ordeal. “No need. I’m fine.”
She sighs, studying my face. “Bullshit. You’re the most disciplined person I know, and you just drank a significant amount of whiskey. We’re friends, right? And friends tell each other stuff.”
I remain silent, not because I don’t want to answer her, but because I can’t make order of my thoughts.
She follows my line of vision, gasping as my pass plays on repeat.
“You think watching this over and over is helpful?” she screeches at the TV.
When silence meets her question, she mutters, “Masochist.”
“Oh, that I am,” I say ironically, voice thick with frustration.
Her hand moves to the remote, but I am faster. “No.”
“Fine, let’s see this entertaining pass repeatedly.” She makes herself comfortable next to me. “Oh look, there are two players open, but the defenders will tackle them almost immediately. And you knew that. Levi and you have a telepathic connection, and he’s the best wide receiver not on the team, but in the country. You did not fail your friend, you played like the quarterback. It was an accident.”
I pick at my cuticles. I know she’s right, but that doesn’t make me feel better.
“You’re suffering from PTSD, Ian.”
Reaching over to grab the bottle, I grip it and snark, “Is that your professional opinion?”
She yanks the bottle from my hand before I can even bring it to my mouth. “You don’t need this shit,” she says and marches into the kitchen, where she pours the contents into the sink and tosses the empty bottle in the trash, eyeing me intently. “Don’t push me.”
Her feistiness and putting me in my place does things to me I can’t even explain.
Returning, she takes my hands in hers. “That was a traumatic event. Dealing with it requires time. Even professional help.” She sighs, adding, “You’re being stubborn.”
