Page 163 of How to Lose at Love

I have to snap out of this.

But I don’t.

By the grace of God, we win the game, but that doesn’t earn me a free pass; I know I’m going to get my ass chewed out now or later or both. Coach is going to be pissed, the fans are even pissed-er, and I can’t imagine what my brother Duke is going to say when he gets around to calling.

He usually does.

As soon as the final whistle blows, I yank my helmet off, conscious of the fact that everyone is staring at me from the side, my coach’s face positively beet red.

Is that rage? Hard to tell—the man always looks mad.

I blow past him, grabbing a water bottle and spraying it on my head, in my hair, and in my mouth—my teammates avoiding me, thank God.

I don’t want to hear it.

Not from anyone.

Not my brothers, though Drake can’t seem to help himself, sidling up to me. He didn’t have any playing time today and has zero sweat on his brow, though he does look freezing cold.

“Hey. What the hell was that?”

“Subtle much?” He could at least pretend I didn’t just play the worst fucking game of my life.

“I’m just sayin’, I’ve never seen you like this.” He lingers at my side, stepping in line when I head toward the locker room, not caring to wait around for any of my buddies from the other team to walk over and chat, which is typically what we do.

My friend from high school plays for the university we just beat, but I’m in no mood for a chat. If Bobby Dean wants to hang, he’ll shoot me a message and we can connect later.

Now is not the time.

Drake tails me through the tunnel and to my cubby, and if he weren’t my brother, I’d tell him to piss off. But he’s coming home with me, and I’m stuck with his shadow for the rest of my life.

If the equipment staff hadn’t already come around and collected my helmet for cleaning, I would chuck it against my cubby. I yank my jersey over my head so they can come collect that, too, along with my pants.

Pads.

I tear through my backpack, digging for my cell that’s normally in the front pocket.

There are dozens of new messages—a good sign.

I breathe a sigh of relief when I tap open the message from Eli.

Got it, buddy—breaking news during halftime, should bring you out of the weeds.

Link attached.

I click on it. The familiar faces of three of college football’s leading commentators fill the screen, the halftime logo in the background, Howie Howard pressing a hand to his earpiece.

“Okay, folks, we’re going to interrupt our halftime report to go live with Stephan Copple at CZR, who first broke the Colter cheating scandal story.”

“Thanks, Howie,” Stephan Copple says, also pressing an earpiece with the tip of his finger and broadcasting from an entirely different studio at the gossip rag where he works. “When we first ran the story on Dallas Colter, star quarterback for Wisconsin, he was seen on the porch with someone who was notably not his girlfriend Ryann Winters, a junior classmate at Wisconsin. We didn’t have all the details of the story at the time, and we’re here with a retraction.”

Didn’t have all the details my ass. Fact is, they didn’t want to run with the truth because the fiction sells more advertising space and has people glued to technology.

Behind Stephan Copple, a video begins playing, one he describes on the off chance his viewers are fucking idiots, showing me climbing the steps to my front porch—the address blurred out—and Tiffany emerging from the shadows.

It’s obvious—at least to me—that we are not friendly. My hands are in my pockets and I look defensive, especially at the point where I start questioning why she’s waiting, not knowing she’s there waiting for me.

She’s gesturing but still not invading my personal space.

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