Page 51 of Brushed and Buried
I took it. I took the scholarship to a smaller program, then worked my ass off to transfer up. I made it to the NFL through sheer stubborn determination and a refusal to let one painful moment define my entire life.
I dated cheerleaders, models, the kind of women who looked good in photos and never asked difficult questions. I built areputation as a dependable, clean-cut athlete, the kind of guy brands wanted to sponsor, teams wanted to build around.
Safe. Predictable. Straight.
“Vince!” Trevor’s voice cuts through the memory. “You’ve been out there for almost an hour.”
I look down at myself, my eyes a little blurry, unsure if it’s from the splashes of water or from something else entirely. With the pain in my chest, I feel it’s definitely not seawater. I climb off of the jet ski and join them.
“Sorry. Just thinking.”
Lance, Trevor and George are standing on the sand, three of them watching me with the kind of concerned expressions usually reserved for interventions.
I wade back to shore. “It’s complicated.”
Trevor tips his head, eyes narrowing like he’s weighing the word. “We’re not here to drag it out of you, mate. Just know we are here for you, yeah?”
I know I have good friends. I just don’t have the strength to relive the past and talk about it as if it didn’t happen this past week, and in the past ten years.
Who am I kidding? This could have happened in my previous life, and it would still trickle down to whatever present life I live in.
The sun is setting now, painting the water in shades of gold and orange. It’s beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache, because Adrian would have loved it. He would have found a wayto capture not just the colors but the feeling, the way the light seems to hold promise and endings in equal measure.
The worst part is knowing that somewhere in L.A., he’s probably sitting in his apartment, convinced that nothing’s changed, that I’m still the same coward who chose reputation over love, safety over truth.
And maybe he’s right. Maybe that’s exactly who I still am.
The thought follows me all the way back to my room, where I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at my hands, the same hands that threw that punch ten years ago, that pushed away the best thing that ever happened to me because I was too afraid to believe I deserved it.
18
Vince
The pool bar is too loud and bright, that kind of summer-perfect chaos that should blur the sharp edges inside me but never does.
Trevor is half-submerged in the shallow end with some girl, probably family, who has green nails and oversized sunglasses. A few more of their college friends showed up this morning, and everything shifted. More people, noise, and small talk. The wedding feels closer now, heavy in the air.
Lance and George are bickering under an umbrella about something, and whatever it is, Lance looks ready to straddle George and strangle him. I nurse a beer that went warm a while ago. My eyes keep drifting to the empty seat near the speakers, the one Adrian always claimed like it belonged to him. It looks wrong without him in it.
“You gonna brood like that all the time now?” Lance drops onto the stool beside me. “Because if you are, I can give you achecklist. Stare at the horizon. Punch a wall. Blast Bon Iver until housekeeping complains.”
“I can’t,” I mutter. “My Spotify’s stuck on ‘Don’t Mess With My Tempo.’”
Lance snorts. “Just call him already. I never knew this about you, Holloway. Seeing you like this? Let’s just say…what a revelation.”
I don’t answer.
A girl in a lavender sundress approaches, curves and glossed lips, maybe a cousin or a workmate. I have lost track. “You’re Trevor’s best man, right? Vince?”
I nod, polite but flat. She leans closer, twisting her braid over one shoulder.
“You don’t look like a corporate guy,” she says with a teasing smile. Then, her eyes widen. “Wait, you’re Vince Holloway. Tritons. Oh my god, it’s you!”
Before I can get a word out, Trevor appears, water-slick and grinning, towel slung around his neck. “Careful,” he tells her, winking. “This one comes with a storm warning.”
She laughs at Trevor’s warning, playfully rolling her eyes like she’s been caught red-handed. “Fair enough,” she says with a little shrug, braid sliding back over her shoulder. The pout she gives is more teasing than wounded, and then she slips away toward the others, blending easily back into theirlaughter.
“Thanks, man.”
