My Rumple.
“I don't want to—”
“I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU WANT!” he screamed. I jumped back as his fist collided with the wall and left a gaping hole in the plaster. “No piece of pussy is going to ruin your chances, you hear me? This ends now! Call her now!”
With my heart pounding in my chest and the heat of rage climbing up my face, I took a single step forward and glared at him.
“No!” I yelled back.
My dad's face went blank, and when he spoke, he was far too calm.
“Come in here,” he said. “I want to show you something.”
He turned on his heel and went into the kitchen. I followed, reluctantly.
The kitchen table was littered with photographs.
Oh fuck.
I turned my head away immediately. My mind had already conjured up what those images might have entailed, and I didn't need the constant reminder of what had happened to her. Even though I knew it was too late to expunge my brain, I wasn't going to look any more.
“I'll fucking post them all over town,” he said, and he handed me the phone. “Call her. Now.”
Shakespeare said, “So quick bright things come to confusion.” Somehow, I couldn't have agreed more.
Now it was over.
CHAPTER 22
PENALTY
I rolled onto my side and wrapped my arms around my stomach. I would rather have taken a ball from a pro striker at ten feet away right to my gut than to have to relive that conversation again.
But I would relive it.
Over and over again.
Ring…
“Hey.”
“Hey, Thomas! What’s up?”
My Dad crossed his arms and stared at me. I tried to turn away from him a little, giving myself the lame illusion of privacy.
“Nothing. Just needed to talk to ya.” I was suddenly glad I was wearing my practice shirt with my number on it. The costume fit, at least. I took a deep breath, stood up straight, and squared my shoulders. “We’re done.”
“Done with what?”
Shit.
“Us, babe,” I told her. “You and me. Not working out. Tried this boyfriend shit, and this just isn’t working for me.”
Better this way…at least I hadn’t fucked her.
He wouldn’t hurt her if I did what he said. I glanced up at him, and he was smirking.
“Thomas…what do you mean?” Her voice was so soft, and I felt my gut wrench.
“It should be pretty fucking obvious,” I snapped at her.
“Is your dad there?” Again, her voice was so soft. “Is he making you do this?”
No…Rumple…please don’t go there.
“No, I’m just tired of playing this game,” I told her. “You’re red-carded. Thrown out. No longer interested. You get it?”
“But…Thomas…everything was fine—”
“Maybe you thought it was.” I forced my voice to stay light-hearted, cool, and callous. Yeah, it was all of those. “You do give a good hand job, but it’s just not worth my time anymore.”
You have to believe me…you aren’t safe around me anymore. You probably never were.
“Thomas, what the hell is wrong with you?” she finally yelled. “You aren’t making any sense!”
“It’s pretty simple,” I told her. “Get your own fucking ride to school, bitch.”
I hung up.
“That’s my boy.” Dad clasped me on the shoulder. “Someday you’ll understand why I do these things for you.”
I didn’t think I would ever really understand.
She tried to talk to me in the hallway at school Wednesday, but I turned and walked away from her. I didn’t go to the lunchroom at all—just went straight to the practice field with Paul and Clint. She came out and tried to interrupt our practice, but I told her to fuck off and headed into the locker room.
I changed the ringtone, shut off my phone, and deleted my IM account.
I managed to totally avoid her the rest of the day.
I pushed all thoughts of her from my mind and thought of nothing but my game. At night it was different because my mind kept replaying every time I saw her eyes meet mine in the hallway. I could see the sadness and the lack of understanding in them. I could see the questions on her face, but I couldn’t reply to them.
It was better this way—quick and hard.
She’d heal faster, and she was strong—so fucking strong. I knew she’d be okay. Better off, really. What could I actually offer her long-term?
Nothing, that’s what.
On Thursday, Jeremy tried to bring her up to me, and I told him to fuck off, too.
Kick, pass, run, catch, throw, punt.
It was all I allowed myself to think about.
Friday.
Mind in the game—nothing else.
I saw nothing but the ball and the players.
Still scoreless at the end of the second half, but that also meant I hadn’t fucked anything up. I knew they were out there—Wayne Messini and whoever might have accompanied him from Real Messini. They were watching me, not the strikers. I didn’t let it stress me.
Just me and the ball and the net.
Nothing else mattered.
Klosav scored at the end of the second half.
I win.
Ha!
Fuckers.
Coach Wagner yelled for me as I walked out of the shower, explaining that there was someone outside waiting for me with my dad. I acknowledged him and started getting my stuff together.
“Is it true?” Jeremy dropped down on the bench next to me.
“What?”
“That one of the Messini brothers is out there waiting to talk to you?”
“Oh…yeah.”
“Oh yeah?” Jeremy repeated. “Dude—that’s major!”
I nodded.
“Holy shit.”
“I better go,” I said as I stood up, buttoned up my jeans, and headed out. Dad was right by the exit.
“That was a damn fine game, son!” Dad beamed as I walked out of the locker room with my hair still wet. He was standing with a tall, pale-faced man and a young blonde woman dressed in a tight red shirt. I recognized him immediately.
“Thanks, Dad.”
“Wayne Messini, may I present my son, Thomas Malone—keeper prodigy.”
“It’s a pleasure, Thomas,” the pale, black-haired man said as he reached for my hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” I replied. “Hopefully, I did not disappoint.”
“Not at all—you have some very impressive moves!”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Thomas,” Wayne reached down and grabbed the blonde by the hand. She sauntered up beside him and licked her red lips as she looked at me. “This is Tiffany. She works with some of the players for Real Messini.”
“Hello,” I said. She reached out her hand and I took it briefly. She raised her eyebrows at me and obviously looked me up and down.
“I bet you’re hungry after all of that running around,” Dad said. “Let’s go have some dinner in town and talk a bit.”
I ate, but my stomach wasn’t too happy about it. Food wasn’t sitting well in general, but I wouldn’t let myself think about that, either. I hadn’t really had much to eat for a few days—worried about the game, I guessed. I ate too much, and my stomach rebelled. I excused myself and went to the men’s room.
When I stepped back out, Tiffany was there, waiting for me. I almost ran right into her.
“You really played an excellent game,” she hummed at me. She placed her hands on my shoulders and then ran them down my arms. She took a step closer to me and tilted her head to be close to mine. “Wayne’s impressed.”
“That’s good,” I said. I wanted to take a step back, but the door was right behind me.
“Very good,” she said. Her hands went back to my shoulders, and then she drew her fingers down my chest. “You are definitely going to be fun to play with.”
<
br /> Her nails scratched over my abdomen. I had to swallow hard to form any words.
“What do you do, exactly?” I asked.
“I keep the boys happy,” she responded with a smile. “In whatever way they like.”
Fuck me hard.
“Oh, really?” I stammered. My teen hormones were perking up and starting to take notice, but a flash of blue eyes in my head fought against them.
“You will make a fine, fine addition to the team.” Tiffany hummed into my ear as her hand slid down over the front of my jeans.
I moved my hands to her hips rather instinctively or maybe reflexively. I stroked slowly up her sides and looked down at the tightly wrapped tits in front of me. I could clearly see the outline of her nipples through her shirt.
Her tits were too big and probably fake, too. When I glanced up to her eyes, I saw they were bright green and just…wrong. Tiffany took another step closer, pressing her body to mine and pushing her hand firmly against my crotch.
Down, you little motherfucker.
I was going to have to play this off in some way that wouldn't give rise to any suspicions. I gave her my cockiest smile and a bit of a wink.
“The middle of a restaurant isn't the very best of places to get to know each other,” I told her. “It's good to know some of the…uh…benefits of the team, though.”
She giggled, and the sound made me want to retch.
We walked back to the table with her holding on to my arm.
They wanted me.
Dad was ecstatic.
I felt…numb.
Days turned into weeks.
I dropped AP Biology and the Shakespeare class. I had almost all the credits I needed to graduate, anyway.
I trained with the school team.
I flew to Seattle twice a week to train with the Sounders.
Real Messini sent a special trainer to me three times a week.
It was tiring, but at least at night I was usually too wiped out to think.
Nicole stopped trying to contact me, and that bothered me a lot. It was stupid because I was the one who had done all this to her. I watched her sometimes, and whenever I did, I could feel her hand in my hair and the heat of her body close to me as we slept.
I missed her.
Horribly.
National championships.
I was in the zone, not really thinking about much of anything as we walked onto the field to play some team from Minnesota. The temperature was perfect for a game—January in southern California was not too hot or cold. There was a nice breeze, too, which felt good, but I was trying to figure out how to compensate for punting.
The band played the national anthem, and the announcer started introducing all the players. Again, I wasn't really paying any attention until I heard one particular name.
Number seventeen.
Forward striker.
Dennis Johnson.
I zeroed in on the player—maybe five-nine, medium build, with kind of shaggy, eighties hair. I knew it was him. I just knew it.
I clenched my fists in my gloves, narrowed my eyes, and bounced up and down on the balls of my feet. I had complete focus but not necessarily on the ball.
I was going to hurt that motherfucker.
Bad.
Then the whistle blew, and the other team started with the ball. Back to the midfielder, then to the left wing. Klosav was right by my target.
Target.
That's what he was.
I stayed close to the goal as he moved up with Jeremy close by, shielding Dennis from me. I moved to the left to get a better view, and the ball crossed over. The other forward's header was right to my feet, and I tossed the ball back and forth with my toes as the defenders moved up the field, and Dennis continued closer to me—trying to put on some pressure.
I'll give him some fucking pressure.
Instead of picking up the ball when he neared, I kicked it off to Jeremy. Dennis turned his back to me at the same time the ref turned away as well. I stepped up a couple of yards and slammed my palm into his back.
He stumbled a little and glared back at me.
“What the fuck?” Dennis spun around and curled his lip at me.
“So sorry,” I snarked back.
He walked off.
The next time he was close, the ball was in the box and my hands were on it. I let my inertia carry me forward, dropped my shoulder, and nailed him in the chest.
“What's your problem?” he asked with narrowed eyes.
“You're a bastard motherfucker,” I said simply as I tossed the ball over to midfield. “And by the time this game is done, you'll be leaving on a stretcher.”
“Fuck you.”
Play continued.
Second half. We were up one to nothing with fifteen minutes left in regulation time. I needed another fucking goal from my offense and was screaming at them to score. I had slammed into Dennis at least a dozen times, but I was careful to keep my eye on the ref, and none of the fouls were called. Dennis was seriously pissed, and their coach started yelling to the ref to watch me. Tony subbed in for Clint, and a free throw got the ball into the other team's box. Tony slammed it home, but the goalie tipped it off to the side. Paul headed in the resulting corner kick.
Two to nothing.
Four minutes left, and they were getting desperate.
Jeremy stumbled, and Dennis ended up with the breakaway. He dribbled the ball up the side and then toward goal, and it was just the two of us in the box. I ran up, full speed. I didn't even look at the ball as he chipped it over my right shoulder; I just dropped my head and collided with him. Once he was on the ground and under me, I brought my arm up high, and slammed my elbow into his balls.
He started screaming.
I hit him again.
And again.
“That's what you get you stupid motherfucker!” I screamed at him. Jeremy grabbed me by the arms and hauled me off of him, but I wrenched one arm away, which gave me enough room and leverage to kick his shin.
I heard the crack.
More screaming.
Red card in my face.
All worth it.
Shakespeare probably wasn't speaking to me anymore, but if he did, he might have said “that can such sweet use make of what they hate.” Somehow, the sweetness of this hatred seemed worth the cost.
Now, I wondered what my suspension would be.
CHAPTER 23
SAVE
I didn’t wait in the locker rooms for anyone else. I didn’t even shower, just changed my clothes and left, walking back to the hotel. It was only about a mile from the fields, and I kind of doubted anyone was going to let me back on anytime soon.
Definitely worth it.
I almost wanted to call Nicole and tell her the motherfucker paid for what he did to her, but I didn’t. He didn’t even know the reason, but I didn’t care about that, either. I went to the hotel’s little convenience store and bought a pack of Camels before heading up to the room.
I went out on the balcony and lit up. I hadn’t had one since that evening sitting on the back porch of the Skyes’ house with Greg.
She was so mad at us.
I smiled a little and took a deep drag off the cigarette. It tasted like shit and reminded me of how I had told her I wouldn’t smoke anymore. I tossed it over the balcony rail after taking about three puffs and then started tapping my fingers rhythmically on the railing.
Everything in my body felt tense, like a tightly coiled spring being stretched too far apart, just waiting for someone to let go. I looked down over the edge at the traffic some ten stories below. I gripped the handrail, loosened my fingers, and then gripped it again.
I yanked the pack out of my pocket and flung it out over the street as hard as I could.
Think soccer. Only soccer.
I was probably in a shitload of trouble. Red card, suspension—yeah, that shit happens—but I broke his leg, and Dad didn’t have as much pull with the authorities here as he did i
n Oregon. He was going to be pissed.
With that thought, I heard the door to the room open.
“What the fuck was that?”
I didn’t turn around or look at him or anything. I didn’t see any point. I just stared out over the railing and watched the cars go by.
“You stupid idiot!” I heard Dad walk up behind me. “Do you have any idea how that looks? You’re lucky it wasn’t being televised! The Messini haven’t signed the contract yet, you know! You’re lucky I was there to do some triage and the kid’s leg wasn’t broken!”
“Not broken?” I tried not to sound disappointed. “I heard the crack…”
“You cracked his shin guard, asshole.”
“Oh.”
“You’re out of the rest of the tournament,” Dad told me, “but at least you aren’t getting arrested.”
I tried to find a reason to care but really couldn’t. I waited for his fists with the numbness of indifference, but he just kept yelling at me, and I just pretended to listen. He shoved me twice, but I just couldn’t bring myself to care. I deserved it all, and I wouldn’t take it back if I could. Eventually, he stopped and left, saying he was going out to eat, and I could fucking rot in here as far as he was concerned.
I walked into the bedroom half of the suite and dropped down on the bed, face first. I grabbed ahold of one of the pillows, pulled it under my head, and wrapped my arms around it. I closed my eyes, and memories of her scent floated around in my head.
My fingers itched and still felt tense even when I flexed them. When I opened my eyes, I noticed a little notepad with a pen next to it on the side table. I rolled over, grabbed them both, and started sketching.
It was just her face. She was looking at me with her eyes bright and excited. It was rough, but I only had the pen to work with, so I guessed it was as good as it was going to get. I pulled the little paper off the pad and brought it close as I rolled back onto the pillow.
“I miss you,” I said softly. I shook my head at how stupid I was—talking to a fucking piece of paper. After I folded it into a small square, I grabbed the pillow and pulled it under my head again. The paper stayed in my hand underneath, gripped tightly in my palm.
I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the pounding in my chest and the burning behind my eyes.