Page 33 of Full Tilt
Oh, so you did do something wrong. Try apologizing again.
Me
We owe each other nothing.
Unknown Number
Wrong. She owes YOU nothing. You owe her an apology.
Me
I say this with the utmost kindness: fuck off, Darcy.
Unknown Number
You know, I really wanted to believe that you were different from the last name on the back of your jersey. My dad was a complete douchebag, too, but neither Jack nor I turned out to be a manipulative narcissist despite sharing his DNA. You aren’t any different from Alex though, are you? There isn’t a good bone in your body. What you need to ask yourself, Tommy, is, where is your dad now? Huh? I assume in some gutter somewhere, having burned every single bridge he ever had. I don’t know how you can follow in his footsteps with a clear conscience. I wanted to believe you were better than that because just like Jenna, I look for the good in people.
Cortisol tears through my body as I read Darcy’s message with trembling hands.
Throwing down my water bottle, I begin typing out an enraged response, explaining that I wouldn’t know where my dad is since he turned his back on me as a child and again when I was seventeen. My fingers hammer the keyboard as I set the record straight, telling this posh little British girl exactly why I carry the last name Schneider even though, deep down, I hate it with every part of me. That the alternative of wearing my mom’s last name feels just as painful, but at least this way, I can erase my dad altogether.
I don’t hit Send on the message. Instead, I stare down at the words, which feel more and more empty each time I convince myself that I’m nothing like the guy who rejected me.
Every bridge I’ve ever had has been burned, including the one I once had with my mom.
Accepting the truth about who I really am and the trajectory of my career is hard, but telling the world—or even Jenna’s best friend over a text—feels like an insurmountable challenge I will never overcome.
The world would laugh at me.
Poor little bad boy, all angry because he has daddy and mommy issues.
The more I consider how the public would react, if they even cared, the more bitterness and anger twist at my insides.
It feels like I’m backed into a corner with zero viable options other than to keep fighting and hold everyone who could ever make me feel something—only to inevitably tear me apart when they let me down—at arm’s length.
Detaching myself from people is what I do best. It’s what I’ve got inked over my heart.
It’s an approach that hasn’t failed me yet.
So, why is letting go of someone as toxic as Jenna Miller so fucking difficult? And why am I racing out of my apartment and grabbing my car keys so I can head over to her place right now?
None of this makes any sense.
I don’t need to hand-deliver any more leggings. We have no reason to speak to each other ever again. Being strangers who casually catch sight of each other in Lloyd’s after games is exactly what we should be. Jenna told me that I turn her into a person she doesn’t like and … same.
Curtis Freeman can attest to that.
Sawyer called me out on it.
I’m so far removed from the player I could be; I barely recognize my own game anymore—or at least not the one I played when I was a kid.
Trouble is, I’m so lost that I don’t know if I’ll ever find my way back, and the answers don’t lie in Jenna Miller’s apartment.
That I know for sure.
My hand hoversover the brass knocker set in the center of Jenna’s white front door.
I should’ve deleted her contact info right after I gave her the leggings, but that’s the least of my worries right now.
