Page 15 of The Alternate Captain
I stare at the ceiling for the longest time before reaching for my phone and checking my messages again.
But something’s different this time. Not only do I have no new messages, but the entire conversation thread has disappeared. Shit.
At least I’m feeling something—devastation.
An ache forms in my chest, and it grows through my body. What the fuck did I do wrong? I rack my brain, trying to come up with something, anything.
Did I come on too strong? Flirt too much? Perhaps the age gap was a problem, after all. But, shit. There’s a stranger walking around this city who knows things about me. Things I’ve told no one else.
I guess this is more evidence of what a huge fucking failure I am.
Physical dating is one thing, but being rejected on an app after three months? That’s something fucking else. I thought we were hitting it off.
But just like that, the conversation has disappeared like it never fucking happened.
“Mike? Is that you?”I peer into the darkness from my makeshift bed on the sofa. Then, without warning, the light in the hallway breaks the darkness and I witness my brother face-planting the floor. “Oh, my... what the hell is going on?” I say, throwing the blanket off my legs and hurrying over.
“Fuck,” he groans, rolling onto his side. He pauses before collapsing onto his back.
“How much has he drunk?” I ask Hutch, but he just stares at me, eyes glassy and unfocused.
“Hiya, Kel. Did we wake you?” Mike says. I study the huge grin plastered across his face.
“Do I need to put you to bed?” I ask.
“No, I’ll be fine right here.”
Hutch’s face sinks into a frown and he lurches into action, stepping over my brother and practically falling into the bathroom. He aligns his head with the pan of the toilet, just in time for the contents of his stomach to make an appearance.
Shit. I didn’t sign up for this.
“Do you think you’re going to be sick too, Mike?” I ask. I offer him my hand, and he clasps my palm, pulling himself up into a sitting position. He shuffles himself to lean against the wall.
“No, I need a banana and a pint of water. Maybe two paracetamol, if you can find any.”
The classic attempt to avoid hangovers is hit-and-miss, but Dad always insisted on it.
I coax him to his feet and shuffle him into his bedroom, where I lay him down on his side, pull his shoes off, and drape his duvet over him. I draw the line there. There’s no way in hell I’m undressing him.
“I’ll be right back,” I say, slipping out of his bedroom and towards the kitchen. I don’t know what Mike and Hutch do in such a circumstance, but I go for the classic solution of emptying the washing-up bowl and grabbing a tea towel. There are a few bananas on the worktop, so I take one, along with a bottle of water and a blister pack of painkillers I find in the cupboard.
The moon illuminates Mike’s bedroom, which makes him appear even paler than he normally is, and there’s a bruise forming under his eye from tonight’s game. Setting the items down on the floor next to his bed, I check he’s breathing before backing away.
“Kel?”
“Yeah?”
“Kel. I need to tell you something,” Mike slurs. “Are you listening?”
“Yes, I’m right here,” I say.
“Kel, you understand I’m proud of you, right? You’ll be fucking brilliant tomorrow. I wish I could come and see it.” He ends the sentence with a ‘woo,’ and hiccups loudly.
“Uh, thanks.”
Christ, he must be drunk. He’s never, in my entire life, paid me a compliment. Nor has he ever seen me play outside of ourchildhood home, and even then, he used to complain about it. I turn to leave again, but Mike’s voice stops me in my tracks.
“Kel?”
