Page 12 of False Start

My dad is dead. He’s not alive. He passed.

Hell, I struggled to say them to myself.

I hadn’t lived at home for over three years when he died. We barely even talked, other than the occasional “hello” after I’d spent an hour on the phone with my mom or on my brief trips back home for a long weekend. I barely knew him, and at his wake, the only thing I remembered was the Cougar.

Also, I didn’t want to tell Trent he was dead because it’d change the conversation. Death made people uncomfortable. Rather than talking about my upcoming dumb, ill-advised rally, the conversation would pivot to my dad and funerals and grieving with a guy I didn’t even like.

“Anyway.” I shook my head as his mouth opened with some half-hearted apology for someone he didn’t even know. “I wanted to race his car, and I haven’t been on a vacation in ages.”

“I tried to convince her to just go to the beach. It was a no go,” Derek said with a laugh.

I would have loved a trip to the beach, but limited funds and vacation days meant I could only do one: rally across the country in some ill-advised way of putting my father’s memory to rest or go to the beach and spend another year avoiding the grief of losing a parent.

For once, I went with the “not avoiding my emotions” option.

Trent studied me, eyes narrowing and holding mine. Probably the first time he’d actuallyseenme. Well, seen me more than just a random person on his kickball team.

Derek yelled, and Trent’s attention shifted back to the game. The score flipped from zero-zero to one-zero. A ref pulled out a yellow card, and Trent stood, scooping up his beer to join Derek in front of the screen.

A frown pulled at my lips, confusion mixing with surprise.

For a moment, Trent seemed like an actual person.

FIVE

TRENT

Don’t answer it.

I bit my bottom lip, fixated on the lit-up phone and the name on the screen. Bouchard. The phone call could only mean one thing: a VIP table with our name on it. Okay, maybe two things, a trip somewhere fun. Or three, a cruise. A lot of things actually, but the upshot would be the same: trouble.

I liked Alexander Bouchard. He played for the Richland Renegades, the NHL team not far from Norwalk, and he loved a grand opening. Or a mid-sized opening. Or a late night of drinking and women and fun. Really, he loved anything exciting and loud.

I warred against myself, tossing the phone on the coffee table and sinking back onto my couch when I so desperately wanted to answer it. But a night with Bouchard practically guaranteed bad decisions with our faces plastered all over the Internet in the morning.

My phone buzzed on the coffee table.

Bouchard

Weekend trip to Vegas. You in?

I loved Las Vegas. I liked bright lights and gambling and drinking and gorgeous women in cocktail dresses.

I could use a weekend in Las Vegas, too. I’d practically turned into a choir boy in the last two weeks. Two endless weeks. Two weeks of yoga and kickball. Late night video game sessions and prepared meals. Strength training and drill work.

I almost felt like the season hadn’t ended. What would two days in Las Vegas hurt?

Fuck yeah.

My finger hovered over the “Send” button before I erased the message.

I’m staying out of trouble, man. Have fun without me.

He sent back a frown emoji. I groaned, covering my eyes with my arm and throwing my phone back on the coffee table before I could retract my earlier text.

The phone buzzed again, shattering my resolve. A second ask was the universe telling me that it was totally okay to go to Las Vegas, see a show, play craps, and get bottle service from a VIP table.

If Bouchard asked again, I’d go.

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