Page 58 of Tight End

Son of a bitch.

Trouble in Paradise or A Publicist Scam?

I don’t have to read every word. I get the gist pretty fast. Someone must have tailed Sam to the hotel yesterday because there’s a picture of him looking hella pissed off walking out after we fucked.

Now there’s speculation that the whole thing was a sham. That, or we just went through a massive break up.

“Get your shit together, Brixton,” Ben says, his words coming through loud and clear before I can even raise the phone back to my ear. “You’ve got a lot to figure out and make up for. I’ll handle the label, you handle your goddamn head.”

Click.

Great, so now I’m about to be fired by the guy I pay a shit ton of cash to.

I stuff my phone back into my pocket and clutch the sides of my head.

Right now, I’m conducting a runaway train around somepretty fucking dangerous curves. If I don’t pull myself together, I’m going to fly off the damn rails and crash.

Fucking hard.

After staring down at the water for a long minute, I pull out my phone again.

Because he’s right.

I may only have one more chance to save myself.

“Thanks,”I say and push open the door of the Honda Accord. If my Uber driver recognizes me or my name, he doesn’t let on. That’s fine by me since I’m trying to fly under the radar for as long as I can.

I asked Ben via text about Sam’s practice schedule. Turns out, the Oakland Saints practice until late afternoon during most of the week so I have time before Sam shows up to Play It Forward. I’m not ready to face him yet. I just hope Jase and Lucas aren’t here.

I don’t want to make this about me and the shitshow I’m starring in.

I want to make it about figuring out what the hell my purpose is gonna be.

Looking up at the brick face building, I square my shoulders and walk toward the entrance when I hear a man’s angry voice.

A shudder rumbles through me at the familiarity of his tone.

I turn my head to see a big, burly guy hustling a kid along next to him in my direction. The man’s face is a twisted mask of frustration and disgust. But it’s the kid’s face that makes me feel like I’ve just been punched in the gut.

His eyes are teary but hard. His lip quivers and his hands are balled into tight fists.

He’s trying not to cry.

I should just walk inside, but something makes me duck around a nearby column and wait.

“I can’t afford to get you music lessons,” the guy grumbles. “Jesus, all you do is drain my bank account. These guys will teach you how to throw a football. You want a future? Learn something useful.”

The kid just stares at the sidewalk and I realize it’s because he doesn’t want the guy I assume is his father to see it.

But instead of pulling open the door to go inside, the man just leaves the kid out front.

All by himself.

It’s not until the guy stalks around the corner and disappears out of sight that the kid finally lets go. He stands there, covering his face with his hands, slumped against the wall next to the door.

Oh, fuck, do I want to find that guy and knock his teeth down his throat.

I wait a second and adjust my sunglasses before stepping out from behind the column. Taking a few cautious steps toward him, I clear my throat.

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