Page 62 of End Game
“I hate this,” he says, the edge missing from his tone.
“Hate what?”
“I hate that he’s made you feel like you’re on your own.”
“I rolled the dice and I came up short. I’m prepared to deal with that.”
“Me too.” He turns away from the bar and marches into the living room. Pausing at the couch, he bends and has a quiet discussion with Poppy.
I lean against the doorframe and watch them interact. The way she touches his face, the way he smiles softly at her, makes my heart tighten. I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever have that.
Finn stands and turns to me. “What’s your immediate plan?”
“I’m going to head to the cabin this afternoon. I need some quiet to sort this all out. I can work from there and just . . . breathe.”
“I’ll call Machlan and have him check on you.”
“I’ll be fine, Finn.”
“I’ll make sure of it. Call me when you make it.”
“All right.”
He kisses Poppy on the cheek and heads to the door.
“Where are you going?” I call out.
“I have some training to do. Call me when you get to the cabin.”
And just like that, he’s gone.
Branch
I’ve looked better.
My eyes are swollen, the locks of my hair stuck together from sweat, day-old hair gel, and wrestling with my pillow all night. I shouldn’t have drunk anything, let alone as much as I did. But I’ll cut myself some slack and realize I was a little overwhelmed.
Brushing my teeth, I spit out the toothpaste and rinse it down the drain. My mouth still tastes like puke. And regret.
I fucking hate this.
I’m a great wide receiver, which means I can make decisions on the fly. I have to be able to move with the ever-changing field conditions from play to play. Thinking ahead, anticipating calls and defenses are things I specialize at. How I’ve managed to take all those skills andnotuse them in my real life is astounding.
Looking in the mirror, I don’t like what I see, and it has nothing to do with the eyes or hair or the line running down my cheek from the seam on the couch cushion where I ended the night. It has everything to do with what’s beyond that and the panic that’s sitting there, mocking me, threatening to bust loose.
The doorbell rings. Maybe it’s my hangover, but it sure as hell sounds like it’s not just ringing, but blaring. I head down the hall and wince as it rings again. Then a third time.
“I’m fucking coming,” I shout, grabbing the deadbolt and snapping it . . . just before I look out the peephole. Finn must hear it click because he shoves the door open, almost knocking me into the wall.
I don’t ask why he’s here. He doesn’t bother to say hello. There’s no need for formalities.
I’m not scared of many men. Besides my father, I can’t really think of anyone. But Finn has me taking a step or two back and wondering how in the hell I’m going to diffuse this situation.
Then I realize I’m not.
I’m fucked.
“How long have you known?” he growls, his nostrils flaring as he looks down at me.
