Page 17 of Second Shot

Nothing.

Ryan: Hello? Tam?

He doesn’t respond, so I abruptly slide out of the booth and call him. Fuck him. We’re not in high school. He should talk to me like a man, not just blow me off with text after two fucking years together. The phone goes straight to voice mail. Gritting my teeth, I try again.

I’m standing on the edge of the dance floor, phone pressed to my ear, people bumping into me. I try him six more times, then give up. The punk obviously doesn’t have the guts to talk to me. Two fucking years together, and he ghosts me over text. I can’t fucking believe it. This has to be the shittiest night of my life.

My head is pounding from the booze. I’m in shock. Was that really the last time I’ll ever speak to Tam? I didn’t even get to hear his voice one last time. Even if we were probably doomed, I wasn’tready to let him go. My chest aches, and my eyes sting from how untethered I feel. I already felt so fucking alone, now I don’t have a single soul in the world who gives two shits about me. Even if Tam wasn’t here with me, I thought he had my back.

Even Tam knows he can do better than a piece of shit like me.

I make my way back to the booth, ignoring the curious stares from the guys. I don’t know my teammates well enough to tell them what I’m going through. I don’t want them knowing just how scared and alone I feel. I need to look strong in front of them. I can’t whine about my boyfriend dumping me like a pathetic loser.

I stiffen when Foster suddenly jabs his finger in my direction and slurs, “Caldwell, you were fucking amazing tonight. Don’t let anybody tell you different. That breakaway in the third? Nine out of ten times that goes in.”

I grimace. “Thanks man.” I’m embarrassed as they all stare at me. Is my face giving me away? Do they know my pride is in the toilet? Can they tell I’m an emotional wreck, and that I’m hanging on by a thread?

“Damn right,” Kincaid agrees, raising his glass. “Hell of a effort for your first game with us.”

Niko nods. “Amen. We played our hearts out, you included, Caldwell.”

I’m embarrassed at the sudden attention, but to be honest, the validation feels good. Really fucking good. It’s something I desperately needed after losing the game and being ruthlessly dumped by Tam. The praise warms my chest like a shot of whiskey, making me feel a little better. It’s a huge relief to know the team still respects me. They still want to play with me. But when I glance at Jacobs, wondering if he agrees with the other guys, he’s studying his whiskey again, offering nothing.

Seeing Jacobs’ pinched profile, my insecurities spring back to life. The praise from the other guys doesn’t feel as good now. Not when I know that shit Jacobs is blaming me for our loss. His silence is really beginning to piss me off. Where does he get off putting the entire loss on me? Like I’m not already doing that to myself? He has to pile on too? Can’t the guy throw me a fucking bone once in a while?

My frustration gets the best of me and without thinking it through, I blurt, “What do you think, Jacobs? About the breakaway?” Of course it’s dumb thing to do, putting him on the spot. I probably should have kept my big mouth shut. But between Tam breaking up with me and the alcohol I’ve consumed, I feel the need to poke at Jacobs.

He doesn’t look at me for a few moments, then he turns his head and meets my gaze. I hope he’ll say something supportive. I pray he’ll acknowledge that I played well, and that missing that goal was just bad luck. But I don’t see respect in his eyes. No, not at all. His blue eyes are challenging. Filled with malice as he shrugs and says, “Goalies can read desperation a mile away.”

The barb hits home causing heat to flood my face. He’s flat out saying I fucked up. Not because my luck was bad, but because I panicked. Anger curls in my gut as I meet Jacobs’ unflinching gaze. This guy doesn’t want me to succeed. He wants me to fail. He said he doesn’t have a problem with me, but that’s pure bullshit. He’s got a bug up his ass about me, and I have no idea why.

“Come on,” Marlowe says, sounding frustrated. “That’s not fair, Jacobs.”

Niko scowls. “Yeah, not cool, Jacobs.”

Jacobs looks innocent as he says, “What? We were counting down the seconds. We were all feeling pretty desperate, right? I mean, am I wrong?”

The guys mumble to themselves, and I grit my teeth. No, he’s not wrong. Obviously, we were all fucking scrambling as the seconds ticked down. We needed to score a goal or it was over for us. But I didn’t play poorly. I didn’t panic and throw the shot away. Luck just wasn’t on my sidewith that breakaway, and I know he knows that. Still, he’s managed to come off like he meant no harm. He threw me under the bus with a smile, looking like an blameless little angel.

Probably in an attempt to quell the tension at the table, Foster scoots out of the booth. “Let’s hit somewhere with better music. This place is starting to feel claustrophobic.”

The others nod agreeably and slide out of the booth. I’d rather take a cab back to the hotel, but don’t want to look like Jacobs snide comment got to me. Fuck him. I’ll stay out all night long if need be just to show the jerk I don’t give a fuck what he says or thinks.

We stumble out into the Vegas night and the chilled desert air cuts through the material of my suit. I should have brought a jacket on the trip, but I stupidly assumed Vegas might be warmer at night. Compared to Chicago in February it is warmer, but it’s still cold. The Strip stretches ahead of us like a neon river, promising escape from whatever’s eating at us individually and collectively.

The second bar is called Vertigo, and it lives up to its name, thirty floors up with floor-to-ceiling windows that make the city look like a circuit board spreading out into the darkness. The drinks are even stronger here, the music louder, the crowd younger. We claim a high-top table near the windows and watch drunk twenty-somethings dance while live steaming on social media.

“This is more like it,” Foster shouts over the bass, eyeing a group of girls near the bar who keep glancing in our direction. “Vegas energy. This is what we needed.”

Niko follows his gaze. He smiles and waves at the girls and they giggle. “Fuck yeah, lots of hot chicks in here. That red-head would warm my bed nicely tonight.”

He’s right. There are plenty of hot girls and guys in the bar, but I’m not looking to hook up. Sure, I could pick someone up, make boring small talk, and go back to their place for a mindless rage fuck. But I’m not feeling it. I’m in a foul mood after getting discarded by Tam, but I don’t feel right about taking that out on someone else. Also, mixed in with the anger and hurt is fear. Fear that I’m a shitty human being. I know I didn’t treat Tam as well as I could have. My needs always came first.

I want to push away my heartache, but the break up is eating at me. I feel powerless because there’s nothing I can do about it. Tam doesn’t want me anymore. He’s tired of trying. I want to forget Tam exists, but I can’t stop picturing him with his new guy. They’re probably fucking like rabbits. Maybe they’re laughing at me right this second. Tam’s probably telling the guy what aloser I am. Like that isn’t aggravating enough, I have to deal with Jacobs taking jabs at me too?

I’ll be lucky if I make it through the night without having words with Jacobs. I really, really don’t want bad blood with anyone on my team. I hate conflict. I just want to get along with everyone. I want everyone, including Jacobs, to like me. But the guy is getting under my skin. I don’t appreciate the silent treatment that alternates with little snide digs. I mean, the asshole gave me a fucking gash on my head tonight. I didn’t even yell at him or anything. You’d think he could be a little nicer to me.

Unfortunately, the change of scenery doesn’t change the mood. If anything, Jacobs seems even more withdrawn here, hunched over his drink like he’s protecting it from theft. When Kincaid tries to engage him in conversation, telling him he should check out the hot guys at the bar, he responds in monosyllables. When Niko shows him a funny video on his phone, Jacobs barely glances at the screen.

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