Page 86 of Fragile

“Morning,” I mumble, wandering over to the breakfast bar, piling my plate with everything on offer.

“Dude, your shirt is on backwards,” Seb calls out, just as I pick up an orange juice.

Glancing down at myself, I notice he’s right. “Fuck it, never mind.” I shrug.

“Is there a reason your late, and a reason you’re wearing your shirt the wrong way?” Seb asks, mischief lacing his words. And boy, oh boy, do I wish he didn’t ask me that. I can almost feel my cheeks heating, and I am not about to blurt out “oh yeah, your sister was moments away from fucking me in my dream” the morning of the semi-final championship game. I’m smarter than that, at least.

Instead, I brush it off. “Pfft, like you can talk. I could hear you and Indie allllllll night across the hall,” I lie to deflect any attention away from me.

The guys’ laughter erupts around us. “Oh, Seb, you’re not as big as Hudson’s monster cock, but I can ride him later,”Hudson jokes, putting on a high-pitched voice which earns him a slap from Seb.

“What the fuck, man?” Seb grumbles.

“I can imagine you getting all growly, really showing her thatcaptainside to you,” Hudson replies with zero filter.

“Firstly, how did this become a me thing?” He points to me. “He’s the one hooking up and not getting shit for it. Secondly, why the fuck are you so invested in my sex life, Huds?”

“Sex is amazing. I want to know that my friends are having great sex.”

“Weird, man,” I mutter through a mouthful of eggs.

“Really fucking weird,” Seb agrees.

After eating our body weight in breakfast, we head over to the stadium for warmups and a team meeting.

At the stadium, the field is dewy, glistening in the winter sun. The stands around us are empty now, but you can almost feel the energy that’ll fill them later. We hit the field, getting into our warmup routine. The sound of cleats on the turf, footballs smacking into hands, and coaches shouting instructions fill the air. Everyone’s shaking off the stiffness, getting focused, and building up the intensity for the game ahead.

One thorough warmup complete, we all head inside to clean up and get ready to review strategy. As soon as I’m dressed, I hear my phone ringing. My heart does a little leap in my chest because I hope it’s Quinn. Stepping outside of the locker room, making sure I’m not followed down the hall, I answer the phone. “You know, I missed you this morning. I think we need to make a rule that you always sleep in my bed the night before games.”

The line is silent. Not a cricket makes a sound until I pull the phone away from my ear to check who is calling and the name makes my fingers go cold.

“Dad,” I croak.

He clears his throat. “Well, it’s good to know where your priorities lie on game day, letting cleat chasers occupy your time.”

Fuuuuck.

Realization hits me like a slap to the face. In my haste to leave this morning, I forgot to block his number.

My mind races as I desperately search for something, anything, to say that’ll get me out of this. “We’re about to have a team meeting, Dad. I really have to go.”

“Don’t you fucking dare hang up on me,” he snaps, his voice so sharp and venomous that it’s like a punch to the gut. My throat tightens as I try to swallow, and I can practically hear that familiar vein on the side of his head throbbing through the phone. He sighs, long and irritated, a sound that makes my stomach churn. “I’d like to say I know why my son is ignoring me, blocking my calls and emails, but the truth is, he evidently has no fucking respect.

“No respect for what I’ve done. No respect for how much time and effort I’ve put into making sure your career doesn’t end in college. Instead, you’d rather fuck around, wasting your time on girls who’ll drop you the second they realize you’re not going pro. Ask me why, Miles. Ask me why that won’t happen.” His voice drips with anger, and I can feel myself shrinking inside, every part of me pulling back, trying to escape. But I know there’s no getting away from him.

“Why?” I whisper, barely able to keep my voice steady.

“Because you missed a fucking meeting I set up with an agent this morning,” he roars, and my shoulders slump under the weight of his words. “Not only are you playing like shit, but nowyou’re dragging my name, my reputation, through the fucking dirt. Do you have any idea how humiliating it was to explain to Taylor fucking Lawrence—one of the top agents in the business—that I had no clue where my own son was, or why he didn’t bother to show up at the coffee shop?”

Taylor Lawrence. Shit. I know that name. Coach mentioned him a few times. He’s a big deal. A really big deal.

“Dad, I’m—”

“Don’t fucking apologize.” He’s cutting me off before I can even get the words out. “It means nothing. Why the fuck didn’t you show up to the meeting? I emailed you the details. All you had to do was be there.”

My mouth goes dry, and for a moment, I’m completely paralyzed, my brain scrambling to find an excuse, a reason—anything that’ll make this right. But there’s nothing. Nothing except the truth I’m too scared to say out loud.

“You think this is a joke, Miles? You think you can just coast by, and everything will fall into place? You think you’ve got time to waste, pissing away opportunities like they’ll come around again? Newsflash: they won’t. And you’re sure as hell not getting any younger. Every mistake you make, every chance you blow, is another nail in the coffin of your so-called career. You’re fucking lucky you’ve got a dad who actually gives a damn, who’s been busting his ass to keep you on track. But maybe I’ve been wasting my time. Maybe you’re not cut out for this, after all.”

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