“Fuck off, Jack.”
He doesn’t.
He never does.
Jack huffs. “Can I hitch a ride?”
“Get an Uber.”
He closes the distance, a hair away from bumping my shoulder like we’re old friends. “We’re teammates. We help each other out.”
How can one person’s voice be so whiny? Better yet, how can one person be so insufferable? Why does he bother trying to be friends again when I spent years making it abundantly clear that ship has long sailed?
From the corner of my eye, I spot Calvin and Simon reach their car first. “Go with them.” I try to keep my voice even, nodding in their direction as I pop open the trunk of my car to throw my gear inside. “Walk. Bus. You could crawl there for all I care.”
“Come on, Leo, my?—”
Fuck it. “That wasn’t an opening for further discussion.Go. With. Them.They’re your teammates. They’ll help. I’m done doing anything for you.”
I’m a prickly asshole on the best of days, but when it comes to Jack, I’m a right fucking asshole both inside and outside of working hours. It’s a miracle I haven’t been immediately traded.
“Mom misses you, you know.”
I still.Mom. She always got her kicks out of Jack calling her that.
If she reallymissesme, she knows where to find me. But she won’t ever reach out. She already has a replacement for the son she birthed.
He tries to say more, but I’m in my car and locking the doors behind me before he can do more than leave his filthy fingerprints on my irksomely dirty car. Jack keeps trying to speak to me from the other side of my tinted windows, but I tune him out as I flick a text off to Mitchell.
Leo: Tell me you’ll be at Simon’s tonight.
Mitchell: Since he personally invited Sabrina and left two x’s in the message, there’s no way I’m missing it. I’m preparing his eulogy as we speak.
Leo: I’m going to kill him.
Mitchell: Get in line.
I take my time reversing out of my parking spot, saying a silent prayer that I accidentally drive over Jack’s feet—I don’t, much to my misfortune—then tear down the street to Simon’s penthouse.
If what I saw on my phone earlier is any indication, I have a couple hours to kill before I can arrive at my scheduledouting. Accruing brownie points in the meantime seems to be an appropriate alternative—especially when Coach reamed meagainlast week for not being ateam playerbecause I don’t spend time with my work colleagues outside of work.
Tonight’s performance didn’t exactly help my case either, but we won.
Coach and the rest of the team can be pissed off all they want; by the end of the game, they’re thanking me.
The apartment is on the outskirts of the city, but it doesn’t make finding a parking space any less tedious. The attendant in the lobby is too busy sprouting hushed instructions into the phone receiver to pay much attention to me beyond scanning me into the elevator. The faint remnants of cheap aftershave, perfume, and booze filter through my nose and into my lungs in the enclosed space, leaving a sickly, sticky coating at the back of my throat.
My phone weighs heavy in my pocket with the knowledge that she still hasn’t replied to me. The jury’s still out on whether I’m offended or pissed that the only person outside of my sister who I willingly speak to regularly has chosen to leave me on read.
Read.
Like I mean fucking nothing. Inconsequential. Something other than her priority.
It’s unacceptable.
I send off a message knowing I’ll get nowhere.
Leo: It’s in your best interest to reply.
