Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 109505 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109505 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
I drop onto the bench, leaning my head against the locker, and the second I do, all the pain comes back, and it’s got nothing to do with the bruises covering my body.
I can’t believe the fucked-up place I’ve put myself in.
No fucking duh a woman, a beautiful, kindhearted, strong as fuck woman with a beautiful, precious baby girl doesn’t want me. Why would she?
I’m a fuckup.
I don’t think, I act.
The last few days have been a perfect example of what a piece of shit I can be.
I can’t believe I hit the only person I’ve been able to seamlessly depend on, the one person who didn’t leave me when they were done with me, who didn’t chew me up and spit me out.
The one fucking person who has stood by me, picked me up when I fell and put me back on track when my wheels fucking broke.
He could hardly look me in the eye yesterday.
Again ... why the fuck would he?
I’m a fuckup.
He knows it, my parents know it.
Meyer must have realized it now, too.
With a heavy exhale, I close my eyes ... and lift the bottle to my lips.
q
It’s five to seven when I’m finally dragging my ass into the locker room as the team’s filing out.
“Uh-oh, golden boy’s late.” Some second-string punk spits, but when I turn to look at him, he’s already gone, so I push forward.
Echo’s finishing tying his shoes when I step inside.
“What up, man?” I mumble, my head fucking pounding.
“Fuck you, bro. You’re fuckin up.” He shoulder checks me on his way out, sending me stumbling a bit.
I drop onto the bench and kick my slides off, lazily tearing my sneakers from my locker and tugging them onto my feet.
Neo comes from the back, dropping onto the bench beside me with a sigh.
I scoff. “You too?”
“I’m still out of it, man.” He sets his shit down, tugging his hoodie over his head. “I fucked up, took some Molly, washed it down with liquor like a dumbass.”
“Damn, man, and I thought I was the jackass.”
“You were, but you weren’t alone.” He grins, but it falls off quickly.
Holding my breath, I manage to stand again and walk over to the dispenser for a quick cup of water.
“Aye, bring me one, yeah?”
Nodding, I fill up another and walk it over.
Neo opens up his palm and sitting inside them are two familiar blue pills. He sees me looking and scoffs. “Coach Reid to the rescue.”
A frown pulls at my brows. “Rehydrating?”
“More like flushes your system.” He tosses them in his mouth, downing the water, and climbs to his feet. “Two more tonight and I’ll be good.”
Unease slips over me. “What do you mean?”
“Remember how I tested dirty in preseason last year?” He pulls his joggers off over his shoes, his gym shorts already on underneath. “Coach said if I act a fool like that again, let him know and he’d do what he could, so I told him first thing this morning and he gave me these.” He turns to me, tossing his hat into the locker. “Didn’t want to, and he reamed my ass, but I can’t test dirty again, man.”
Neo slaps my shoulder, and if I weren’t in my head, I might wince from the shot the pitching machine got me with there, but all I can think of is the night after the Cal Poly game.
How I don’t remember drinking much and the pills he gave me the next day.
The same blue pills.
“Cruz, let’s go, or it’ll be even worse for us.”
Knowing he’s right, I follow him out and onto the practice field.
Like we could have figured, the team’s standing there, waiting for the last two fuckers to show before they’re allowed to start.
There is no one person’s fuckup.
You fuck up, you fuck your whole team, and Coach hits us hard.
He starts us off with short track runs, then base sprints, but when he feels we aren’t giving our all, we’re called to the fence and sent for a three mile, no man left behind, run around campus.
But he’s not done.
We get five seconds to breathe before he orders five laps around the field.
Two and a half in and I’m bent over a tin trash can, puking my guts out.
My body is slick with sweat and every fucking inch of me is sore.
I haven’t slept, I haven’t eaten, and haven’t shaved. I can hardly lift my fucking limbs, let alone stand on the heated turf and throw a damn ball.
“Nobody breaks off into position drills until laps are finished as a team.”
I glare at the fucking trash can, sticking my finger down my throat to force more liquor out, but I’m heaving up nothing. Tugging my shirt over my head, I wipe my face, my free hand falling to my hips as I try to catch my breath.