Page 21 of These Wicked Games
“Fuck you.”
“Broken record.” He shakes his head. “You say it so much it’s starting to lose its bite.” He’s close now, and I can smell whatever cologne he’s put on. It mingles with the sweat soaking the back of his shirt. He must have been dancing a while. The way his shirt clings to his muscular body is pissing me off. Everything about Andre pisses me off.
“Go fuck yourself.”
“You think about that a lot? Huh, Oli?” What the fuck is happening? My stomach tightens, along with my jeans. Fuck.What the fuck.Maybe I should have taken Destiny up on her offer. I need to find someone. Scratch this itch. Andre is fucking with my brain.
A car pulls up and I’ve never breathed a deeper breath of relief. “You disgust me.”
“Mmm.” Andre smirks. “Sure thing, Oli. You have a horrible fucking night.” He slides into the car and I have half a mind to punch the window. My fingers flex with the thought.
I gather some semblance of humanity as I wait for my own ride. Whatever this is needs to stop, but I know without a doubt that this bullshit, whatever it is between us, is just beginning.
six
Andre
"What the hell happened?”
My father barely looks up from his desk. How is he so unbothered? While I know he hates me, Oli is like a second kid to him. I don’t understand what happened. “He’s just stressed with his mother being sick.” He finally sets the papers down. My nose throbs still. The doctor set it but I know there’s going to be a wicked bump on it. “Sometimes people hide their demons.”
And sometimes they only show them to certain people.
“This doesn’t make sense. Oli would never—”
“Enough!” I flinch at the rise in his voice, and it’s this right here . . . I hate this. I hate how I’m an adult, I’m bigger than him and probably stronger, but he still scares me to death. “He’s off the team anyway.”
“You can’t do that. Heneeds this—”
He stands abruptly, nearly knocking his chair backwards. “I said enough! I am not having someone on this team who assaults his teammates over a failed drug test.” I almost laugh at the irony of that, but keep my mouth shut.
“There has to be something you can do. This doesn’t make sense.” Oli would never ever jeopardize his shot—his mother’s shot. I know how much he needs this, even if he’s too embarrassed to talk about needing the money. I’ve almost stolen from my father to help him, but my father keeps all my money safely away in his own bank account, and what little money I make goes straight in there. There’s no way he’d accept me taking a few grand out to help Oli.
Even though we don’t even need that much money. It makes me sick. I want to help him, but my father would beat me, and Oli wouldn’t accept it. I know he wouldn’t. “What’s done is done, Andre. If another team wants to sign him, let them. He won’t be playing for the Titans anymore.”
I want to scream. I want to argue. I want to punch something. In the back of my mind, though, I think about how angry Oli was. “Why did he blame me?”
My father sits back down, sighing heavily. “Because he’s mad at himself.” He starts typing away at his computer. “Sometimes people take their anger out on the ones closest to them. Oli has no one to blame but himself.”
Still, even as the irony of my father’s words punch me in the gut, it doesn’t feel right. Something is off and none of this makes sense.
Even so, does it matter? Oli hates me.
There’s nothing I cando to fix that.
I wake with a start. Rubbing my eyes, I can’t believe I passed out. Between the fight with my father last week, then staying with Vee and her spawn who think sleep for Uncle Andre is optional, and then the flight and the move . . .
I dropped the second I fell into bed after getting home from The Treasure House. I stare up at the cracked ceiling. This place is a fucking dump.
I’m going to need more cash soon, but that’s tomorrow Andre’s problem. When I left only I took out a couple of grand on my way to the airport. I’m sure he’s noticed by now. The only thing my father ever paid more attention to than me is his money.
I’m going to need a new bank account, though. My father can keep my millions, I don’t care. I’m too afraid to transfer it, or use my card to take money out and leave a paper trail. Not that he won’t find me. I know he will. It’s only a matter of time before he’s going to see me on TV and know I’ve been traded.
Maybe I’ll go out of town this weekend, and find a bank where I can withdraw a substantial amount of my money, then deposit it again back in town. I don’t care. I don’t care that this place barely fits both my ass cheeks inside it. I don’t care that it smells a bit musty, and that the paint has seen better centuries and may have an unspecified level of lead in it.
It’s mine. It’s all fucking mine.
I don’t have to come home after games and worry about getting beaten. I wonder how I’ll play now that the pressure is off. I don’t want to disappoint my teammates, and I’ve always been a great goalie, it’s just that I’ve always had this anxiety coat every game, my fear of fucking up never really letting me enjoy it. I guess instead,I’ll have to worry about a certain captain beating me up during the game.
