Page 118 of Hard to Score

But he didn’t give answers . . . just ultimatums.

He didn’t say a fucking word other than to point fingers at Brexton and the Kincades.

I guess, perpetuating the lie is more important than mending fences.

And how the fuck is that supposed to make me feel? That whatever the fuck he did was more important to him than me?

So I drank whiskey. So much whiskey, I lost count but the bottle is empty on its side on the floor by my foot.

And there was rage. A swipe of the kitchen counter and all the preparations for the celebration went flying to the floor. Dishes breaking, food flying.

Then there was knock after knock on the front door as my teammates came and then left probably wondering what the fuck was going on. Still texting to make sure everything is okay.

And now? Now I’m trying to understand the measure of me as a man. How gullible I was to be held under my father’s spell. How easily I’ve tried to please a man so fucking selfish that he chose a game over his family.

He did this. To us. To our family. To him.

It wasn’t Kenyon, and it sure as fuck wasn’t anyone else.

It was him and whatever weakness he caved to.

And even worse? I’m sitting here, drunk as fuck in the dark, wondering how I can feel sorry for him. I worry that tonight affected his health. I still want to know if he’s proud of me for the game I played today. I wonder if I’ve just lost my family.

What kind of man does that make me?

A pussy? Lacking character? Spineless?

I scrub a hand through my hair and rest my head on the back of the couch.

There’s shit I need to figure out, need to find answers to, before I can be worthy of a love like Brexton’s.

She deserves better than this. Than me. So much fucking better.

She deserves the white knight when I’m nothing but a Montague destined to be at odds with her and her family forever.

Figure your shit out, Bowman.

Sleep on it. Get your head straight. Then figure your shit out.

The answer is a simple one.

At least it should be.

I don’t know how long I sit and stare at the ceiling or how many times I replay tonight in my head, but when my phone buzzes yet again, I finally pick it up.

Text after text fills my screen. From my teammates wondering what the fuck happened tonight with the party.

From Brexton.

She’s worried.

So am I.

But I open her text and respond.

Me: I just need some time to sort through the shit in my head.

Brexton: Okay. I’m here if you need me.