I glance toward Joss. I swear it’s like all my worst fears are bleeding right into reality, and there isn’t a single thing I can do to stop any of it.
*
@QweenPandora:
WTF just happened?
It’s like I blinked, then #KingMidas was taken down.
I’m not a total asshole, so I won’t kick a man while he’s down (literally), but… does anyone else think this, along with all their other drama, is a message from the Universe?
Maybe coming homewasn’tin the stars for the royal couple.
Maybe this is all one big cosmic sign that you should’ve just… stayed away.
Food for thought.
Later, peeps :)
—P
Chapter Eleven
West
The news.
Social Media.
Blogs.
The story is everywhere, which means I can’t escape it. Every time I turn on the TV or open my phone, some other media outlet is running the clip of me taking that hit in last week’s game. At this point, I’m not sure what’s a bigger source of pain.
My shoulder or my pride.
I’ve been telling myself to get the hell off ESPN for hours, but the closest I’ve gotten is muting it. I can’t turn away. It’s like watching a car crash. Only, in this instance, the wreck that’s unfolding is me.
My life.
I drop my head against the headboard, wincing because even that small motion is excruciating. I’m fucking miserable. My head’s all cluttered, and I haven’t shaved, put on real clothes, or slept in days. This room, thisbed,have become my prison.
I let out a breath, trying not to spiral again, but a voice catches my attention. My eyes flash back toward the TV, and a pained grunt leaves me as I sit straight again. I’ve got tunnelvision as I do my best to scramble to find the remote beneath the blanket.
“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” I grumble, cranking up the volume a few more notches.
I hone in on the face of the special guest who’s just popped up on the split screen. It’s Ira—the bloodsucking sports journalist trying to make a name for himself. And he’s chosen to do that by focusing all his attention onme.
“Well, since you asked… this guy’s a trainwreck,”is his answer when the host asks his opinion of me.“I’m going to keep it real, Omar. In Cypress Pointe, the last name Golden is a bit of a sore spot. Yes, most people still associate it with the triplets. People loved watching them play in high school, loved seeing them develop over the years, taking their game to the next level in college. And on paper, having them play for theEmperorsseems like a dream come true. But their father left a stain on our city like you’d never believe. And many people haven’t forgotten that. Myself included.”
“So, in your opinion, West Golden should forever bear the sins of his father?”
“That might be a bit extreme,”Ira says.“But what I am saying is that maybe it was in poor taste to come back. Think about it, we see posts of this guy everywhere, flaunting his money, buying the most expensive house in his neighborhood, speeding through the streets in his obnoxious truck. Meanwhile, the families of his father’s victims are still here, watching it all unfold as they continue to feel the sting of losing their loved ones. I’m not saying the guy shouldn’t play. I’m simply saying… take your game someplace else.”
The other host laughs.“Damn, Ira. You’ve really got it out for this guy. More than you have it out for his brothers, it seems.”
“Not necessarily. I’m focusing on West because his name’s been on everyone’s lips this past week, but… I don’t know… maybe you’re right. His California, hotshot energydoesgrate on my nerves a bit.”He pauses while he and the host have another laugh at my expense.“I mean, come on. The guyclearlythinks he’s God’s gift to football. And I gotta tell you, my heart goes out to Reed Lawson. I mean, in what world can a guy have as impressive a record as Lawson and hestillgets replaced. It almost feels like nepotism. Hell, with what we saw come to light about West and Coach Wells’ daughter last week, it damn-nearisnepotism.”
My jaw tenses when both Ira and the host belt another laugh.
