Page 3 of Blindsided

The problem with denying the couch offer is it’s my best choice. Finding a hotel room seems like the logical next step, but I have no desire to sit in a nondescript room by myself. That just sounds like the perfect recipe for an anxiety spiral.

Desmond’s apartment is out. Being around a large number of strange men makes my stomach hurt just thinking about it. My parents are still on their annual winter road trip, and even if I called them, it would take days for them to get back to the East Coast from Arizona.

Who does that leave?

An asinine idea pops into my head.

It’s totally crazy.

And yet, the longer I think about it, the more I can’t let it go. I pull up a travel site, deciding that if there isn’t a flight out tonight, I won’t go.

Except, there’s a plane leaving in two and a half hours.

Fuck it. I’m doing this.

CHAPTER2

Matthew

Scanning the packed bar, I attempt to find the rowdiest group. O’Malley’s isn’t huge by any stretch, but being one of the few bars in Westlake, it tends to get crowded quickly, especially on a Friday night.

A cheer sounds from the corner, where the dart boards hang on the wall. I laugh at the scene as I walk toward them. Even after playing a doubleheader to end our intramural soccer season, my teammates are still competing.

“Should’ve known you guys would be over here,” I say when I make it to the group. Only a few people from our team are here celebrating our win. The rest of them are likely at home, celebrating with their families instead.

“There he is!” Vincent shouts. His white teeth gleam against his dark skin as his mouth spreads into a grin. “About time you showed your ugly mug.”

I laugh as he pulls me in for a bro hug. “This ugly mug is the only reason we won our game today.” The championship game was more physical than any other game we’ve played this whole season. The other team’s forwards played aggressively, and they tested every skill I’ve earned as a goalie.

Normally, the co-ed league we play in is pretty chill, but every now and then, a team comes along that believes they’re the next MLS—Major League Soccer—team. I’ll never understand why some people take rec league sports so seriously. It’s supposed to be fun, not some high-stakes match your whole career depends upon.

“Then we better buy you a beer to keep you around.” Piper grins. She heads to the bar, and I bite my lip to keep from laughing at Vincent as he stares at her like a puppy dying to follow their human.

I shake my head at him and walk over to Wilson, who’s sitting at one of the high-top tables. His red flannel shirt and scraggly beard give him the lumberjack look that’s all the rage right now. The only difference is, he’s been dressing this way long before it was a fashion trend.

“Thanks for the assists today.” I hold my hand out for a bro hug, and he takes it with a clap of our palms.

“I wanted to punch that guy who kept trying to push Piper around,” he says.

“You and me both. At least the ref was on our side for this game.”

Wilson grunts out a laugh. “I thought Vincent really was going to take a swing at him.”

“Want to take bets on how long it takes him to go for her?” I smirk.

“No, the idiot wouldn’t know what to do with a girl like her if he tried.”

I throw my head back with a laugh. He’s not entirely wrong. Although, I’d never say that out loud.

Piper is very similar to my younger sister, Sara, who’s never had any issue keeping up with the boys. And in most instances, Sara has outmatched me and our three brothers without breaking a sweat. As the middle sibling surrounded by guys, she didn’t have much of a choice.

A minute later, Piper hands me and Wilson a beer with a wink before walking over to Vincent to finish their game of darts. A couple of our other team members are playing what looks to be a heated game of pool, so I stay by Wilson to watch.

“I’m surprised you’re not trying to butt into their game.” Wilson tips his head toward Piper and Vincent.

He’s right. I’d normally insert myself into the middle of whatever game the two of them have started. I shrug instead of attempting to explain how I’m feeling. “Just tired tonight. The doubleheader today took it out of me.”

At thirty-four, I’m feeling the effects of my age more and more. I’d love to pretend I’m still twenty-five and invincible, but more and more, I find myself having to acknowledge my limits. It fucking sucks.

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