Five things, p.9
Five Things, page 9
It was the day I saw him go from lost and unsure, to determined. He knew what he wanted from his life at that exact moment, and I knew that no matter what happened or where life took him, he’d achieve it. I envied him that.
Still to this day, six years later, I’m more lost than ever.
That’s why when I got a new phone, and my therapist talked about moments in life that made me want to get better—memories that made me happy, snapshots of a life lived to cling to when the darkness came over me—that was the only thing I thought of.
So instead of writing it down, I made it my pin, so every day I’d be reminded of the moment I saw someone figure out their future. I also etched it into my skin, but that’s something he’ll never know.
“You’re a closet football fan, huh?” Maisie shouts, her voice barely carrying over the screams of excitement echoing around us.
“What?”
“You’re reeling plays off under your breath,” she says, following my eyeline. “Before he does something, you mutter it to yourself, as if you’re telling him what to do next.”
“No, I’m not.” I snort, tucking my hands into the hem of my sweater to stop myself from picking at the skin.
“Yeah, you are.” She laughs, bumping my shoulder with hers. Twisting my neck, I find her gaze. Her face is flushed with excitement, and her eyes are wide as she watches the guys run around the field. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier? My brothers are going to fucking love you.”
“It’s not so much the game I’m a fan of. It’s more I’m a fan of him.”
“Maverick?”
I nod, my eyes finding him once more as he moves gracefully, the ball tucked under his arm before he sends it flying once more.
Touchdown.
He does a tiny jig, his hips swaying obnoxiously. Smug bastard. He always did put on a show out there.
“I’ve been watching him play since I was eight years old,” I tell her, never taking my eyes from him as he finds me in the crowd. Even with the helmet covering his face, I can feel the intensity of his stare burning into me. “He always had a ball in his hand, from the moment I met him. He was only nine, but there was so much talent in his body. Out there, on the field, he’s magnetic. It’s his own personal playground, and he’s the king of it. I could reel off every single one of his plays with ease, and his body tells me exactly which one he’s going for the moment before he makes it.”
“Can I ask you something and you not get defensive for two seconds?” My brows raise to my hairline, and I turn to her. She laughs softly, her nose wrinkling.
“I guess . . .”
“Why did you two never end up together?”
My brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s obvious there’s chemistry there and attraction,” she explains, leaning in closer so I can hear her as she keeps her voice low. “I know shit’s complicated now, but the way you talk about him, the way he looks at you, it’s not hard to see there’s something between the two of you.”
I sigh, closing my eyes. I’ve asked myself that same question a thousand times over. Why did I go to Sebastian and not him? Why did I never tell him he was my first crush? Why did I watch him discover girls and never once speak up when I wanted him to discover me?
“I don’t know that he ever felt that way about me, but even if he did, he never said a word. And I was too scared to. He was my best friend’s brother, and if I spoke up, what if everything went to shit? Maybe a part of me was hoping that when I met Sebastian, he’d have something to say, but he never did,” I answer, finding him once more when I open my eyes. “We were kids, you know. I was fourteen when I met Sebastian, Maverick was fifteen. Even if he had felt that way, who knows what it could have meant for us. And now?” I shrug, fresh waves of sorrow washing over me. “It’s way too late to ever find out.”
We’re some of the last to leave the bleachers, letting the eager crowd disperse into the parking lot before we make our way down the stairs and away from the field. Crowds aren’t always a safe space for me, the hustle and bustle of being too up close and personal can sometimes trigger an attack, but tonight, I made it through.
Tonight feels like a win, and I’ll take all of those that I can get.
The echoes of chants and cheers bounce through the air, the excitement a live entity as stragglers drink beer in the crowd, waiting for the team to exit the locker rooms.
The cheerleader’s stand to one side, chattering amongst themselves as we pass, and I recognize the blonde in the center, her uniform fitting her sculpted frame like a glove. It’s the same girl Maverick had under his arm the other day when he walked into the dorm party at Redders. She smiles brightly, tipping her head back as one of her teammates makes her laugh.
When a roar sounds from behind us, she takes off at a light jog, heading toward the commotion. For some stupid reason, my eyes follow her, watching as she launches into Maverick’s arm. He catches her with ease, whispering something into her ear as he swings her around before dropping her back to her feet.
The only thing missing from that exchange is a forehead kiss—otherwise it’s an exact replica of every game I ever went to of his . . . only it was me he’d direct that smile at. Me he’d lift into his arms and laugh as I congratulated him.
“Time to go,” I say to Maisie, grabbing her hand and pulling her to where my car is parked while I try to stem the nausea settling in my stomach.
It has nothing to do with Maverick holding another girl. Absolutely nothing. What he does and who he does it with is none of my business.
Sliding into the driver’s seat, I bring the engine to life, waiting for Maisie to clip her belt before reversing from the spot, though I don’t get far.
Slamming my breaks on, I slap my hands over the wheel, a harsh intake of breath as a body stands right by my car.
“What the fuck, Nashville?” I shout as I roll my window down. He saunters around the car, a smug smirk on his face as he leans against my door.
“You didn’t hear me calling you, so what was I meant to do?”
“Not try and get me to run you over, you maniac,” I snap, narrowing my eyes on him. Maisie chuckles beside me, earning herself a death glare as my head turns in her direction.
“What?” She shrugs, flicking her gaze to Nash. “I’m starting to like him. He’s effective, if nothing else.”
“Oh, baby, I’ll show you effective.”
“Is that supposed to be a pickup line?” I scoff, my glare bouncing between them like a Ping-Pong ball. I rub my temple, massaging the start of a headache. “Real smooth, dude. Now, can you stop eye-fucking my friend for a moment and tell me what you decided was so important to nearly get flattened for?”
“Huh?” he asks, never taking his eyes off Maisie. I whack him upside the head, bringing his attention to me on a wince.
“What do you want, Nash?”
“Oh, right.” He chuckles, running his palm through his damp hair. “You should come have a drink with us.”
“That would be a hard pass.” I start to reverse out again, stopping only when he flings the back door open and hops inside. “Seriously, dude. Go away.”
“I wanna hang out, like old times, Baby Bea.” He bats his eyelashes at me in the rearview mirror, softening his brown eyes until he looks positively pathetic.
“Yeah, that’s not going to work on me, Nashville,” I tell him, finally reversing out of the space and starting toward the main road. He wants to lock himself in my car, he can come along for the ride. “I grew immune to your puppy-dog eyes when I was twelve and you used them on me to convince me that putting a tarantula in Willow’s bed was the best idea ever.”
“Hey!” I flick my eyes to the mirror, and his shoulders shake as he laughs silently. “It was the best idea. It’s not my fault you two decided to have a sleepover that night and it ended up crawling over you because you forgot it was there. It was only meant to torture Willow.”
Shaking my head, I hold my breath, letting the emotions pass over me at the mention of my ex-best friend. Willow and I haven’t spoken in two years, and while I understand why, it doesn’t lessen the sting whenever I think of her.
“You know you have to drive me to the party now,” Nash chirps, propping his head over the center.
“Fine, I’ll take you to your stupid party, but we’re going to the grocery store first.”
“Fine by me,” he chirps, plugging the address he needs into Maisie’s phone so she can guide me when we’re done. “I love grocery stores. They’re my favorite places in the world.”
Shaking my head, I bite my tongue to stop the laughter from falling from my lips. No matter what situation you put Nash in, he always comes out swinging.
It takes us well over an hour to grab the essentials, and after a little while, I half expect Nash to grumble and complain, but he doesn’t. He just chatters while pushing the cart for us before handing over his card at the checkout.
“For your cab services,” he tells me when I try to nudge him out of the way, and really, who am I to complain about free snacks?
By the time my car is rolling into a quiet suburb, the smile on my face is wide and real and my laughter isn’t forced.
“This one?” Maisie asks when the GPS rings. Pulling up to an unsuspecting town house, I let my engine idle, pushing the stick into neutral. “Looks like no one’s home, dude.”
I shrug, turning to Nash. “Cab service done, out.”
“That’s not very nice, Beatrice,” he scolds, wagging his finger in my face before he unclips his belt and opens his door. “PS You still drive like an old lady.”
“I do not,” I grumble, glaring at him through the window as he saunters around, propping himself outside my door.
“Yes, you do, and just for that . . .” He leans over, grabbing my keys from the ignition before pulling away. “You now have to come hang with us.”
“Nash, come on. I’m not playing, give me my keys.”
He walks away backward, swinging the keyring around his finger and giving me a come-and-get-them look before he spins on his heel and disappears down a path that must lead to the back of the house.
“That motherfucker,” I groan, dropping my head against the wheel.
Maisie chuckles beside me, shrugging when I turn to her. “I mean, you can’t really fault him for his efforts. Like I said, effective.”
“Can you go get them for me?”
“No can do, friend.” She pushes her door open, wandering around and pulling mine open. “Come on. You’ve got to be stronger than this, Bea, or they’re just going to push you around.” The moment she says the words, she winces, as though knowing it’s the wrong choice of phrase. “Shit, I did—”
“It’s fine,” I tell her, unclipping my belt and sliding from my seat. “You’re right. Big girl panties on and all that jazz. Anyway, it doesn’t look like anyone is here, so super quick, in and out, right?”
“Right,” she echoes, though the guilt in her eyes doesn’t lessen.
“Honestly, Mais, it’s all right.” I slam my door shut, linking my arm through hers before following the direction Nash went. “I know you didn’t mean anything by it. Come on, let’s go find Nashville, get my keys and then we can gorge ourselves on popcorn and all the cheesy Christmas films.”
“Perfection,” she says, leaning in close. “By the way, why do you call him Nashville?”
A laugh bubbles past my lips at her question. “Because for the first two years of our friendship, Maverick convinced me that was his name. Told me his parents named him after the place. It wasn’t until I made him a cake for his eleventh birthday that he finally told me his name was just Nash. But it was too late for me, and the name stuck.”
“You really do have a lot of history with them, don’t you?”
“Yeah,” I answer softly, stalling for a second at the gate. “They’re in almost all my good memories from being eight years old.”
Maverick
Nash saunters into the yard, a smug smirk on his face as he drops down into the seat beside me. Harlow leans past me, an uncapped Bud Light in her hand that she passes over to Nash. Acoustic music plays softly from the speaker, moving with the light breeze that passes over the garden. This has become a tradition after our games.
Where most people expect us to head out to one of the many parties that always rage on the weekend, we prefer to chill out in Marcus’s—our wide receiver’s—garden, passing around beers and a couple joints as the high of our win wears off.
“What’s got you so chirpy?” Harlow asks Nash, who just chuckles and mumbles to himself. “Is he being weird right now?”
“He’s always weird,” I answer, tipping my beer to my lips. But she’s right. He’s super fucking happy, and as his eyes linger on me, mischief flickering through them, I know whatever’s got him chortling like a schoolboy will only piss me off.
I’m proven right moments later when the gate pushes open and two small bodies wander into the yard.
Maisie spots Nash instantly, shaking her head at him as she saunters over. Behind her, Beatrice is slower to find her footing, her eyes darting over the grass as she brings her thumb to her lips, refusing to glance up as she chews at the skin there.
Something settles in my stomach at her obvious discomfort, but I push it away, snatching the joint from Harlow’s fingers and pulling in a heavy drag.
At one time, Beatrice could command a room with her easy charm and zest for life, and those around her couldn’t help falling into her web . . . but now, she’s different.
Instead of finding a rhythm, she shuffles to Nash, holding her palm out while Maisie drops down into the seat next to Gray, slipping into his conversation with Beck.
“Keys. Now!” she demands, bringing all the attention to her.
Nash only leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. She glares at him, but it does nothing to discourage the laughter that bubbles past his lips. Finally, she turns to me, something swimming in her eyes I can’t read. “Can you please tell him to give me my keys since he’s always listened to you.”
Tilting my head, I bring my thumb up to my lip, a show of thought just for her. “You really should hand them over,” I say to Nash without taking my eyes from her face. “Beatrice really shouldn’t be around people, what’s to say she won’t fuck up your life next?”
A harsh intake of breath follows my words, the rest of the gang in the garden watching in rapt silence. If I expect her to run, or cry, I’m sorely disappointed when a wide grin tips her lips. “You know what, Nash. I think I’ll take you up on that drink.”
Nash rushes over to the other side of the garden, pumping his arms in excitement as he pulls up a chair for her to sit in before he grabs her a beer, which she tucks into her hands.
She settles in, but there’s still that same nervousness humming around her.
And why do I hate that she isn’t comfortable here, and why do I feel like shit for saying those words?
Chapter Twelve
Beatrice
“This is not what I had in mind when I said you had to grab your keys,” Maisie says, sliding into the seat beside me. I play with the beer can Nash handed me, my eyes moving over the garden.
“Honestly, I think I blacked out, and now I’m stuck here just to prove a point.”
“And what’s the point?”
“I don’t even know.” I laugh. “Something snapped when he said what he did. The thing is, he’s not even wrong. I did ruin his life for a minute. But instead of apologizing and walking away, I doubled down and now here we are.”
“Well, since you don’t owe him a single apology, I approve,” she tells me, something she regularly does, but I can’t seem to get my head around it. Clinking her bottle tip to rim of my can, she winks. “Honestly, it’ll do him some good to get his head out his ass for one night.”
“Would we be talking about His Highness?” I glance up at one of Maverick and Nash’s roommates, Gray, I want to say is his name, as he slides onto the ground in front of us, not caring about the pale-blue jeans he’s wearing as he sinks into the grass.
His brown eyes light up in excitement as he flicks his gaze between Maisie and me, and his dark skin glistens under the dimming sun when he folds his arms over his chest.
A small fire crackles in the center of the garden, heating an already hot night. “You’ve known him since you were kids, right? Anything juicy to tell us?”
“Err, nope,” I say, popping the P and keeping my gaze trained forward despite the way my body wants to turn, to look at Maverick while he talks to the pretty girl to his right. “Nash is your expert on all things Maverick Brady. They’ve been friends forever; I was just a tagalong from elementary.”
“My favorite tagalong,” Nash says, ruffling my hair as he takes the empty seat next to me. “And I’ve told you guys all the juicy shit there is to know about Maverick, which ironically is basically nothing. He’s boring as fuck.”
“That can’t be true,” Gray says, snapping his gaze to mine with a raised brow.
“Sorry to disappoint.” I shrug, a jovial laugh falling from me as he pouts.
Truthfully, there are so many stories I could tell about Maverick Brady. Like the time he lost a dare and had to streak through the neighborhood, or when he reversed his car into his neighbors’ drive and told his parents it was stolen, and someone must have brought it back—they didn’t buy his lies, which only made it even funnier as he kept digging himself into a hole.
Maybe even the time he played in the championship game on the high school football team, and one of the other players convinced him he had to pray to the football gods, offering them a raw chicken and some weird voodoo chant . . . which he did, much to my amusement, since it was only me he invited to witness that show.
But it doesn’t feel right to give those moments away.
They belong to us.
He glances over at me as if he can hear my thoughts. His eyes burn into mine as he halts his conversation with the girl—Harlow, as I’ve learned. There’s something different in his expression as he stares at me now, no anger or frustration, but it’s something I can’t read, and he looks away too quickly for me to even try.
