Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
When Megan stabs the stop recording button, she takes a big breath. “You two were great. The chemistry is just fantastic. That last bit was a chef’s kiss,” she says, then flies past the recording equipment around the desk. “Forgive me. I have to use the little girl’s room.” Before she can jet, she sets a hand on my shoulder and meets my eyes. Her expression goes somber. “I hope this is a better start to a season than last year.”
My throat tightens. “Me too.”
Then she darts off. Jason studies me quizzically as he puts down his headphones. Something seems to slide into place for him as if he’s been working on a puzzle and found the final piece.
“Good show,” I say, so I don’t have the chance to wallow in Megan’s sympathy, though I appreciate her acknowledgment. But I don’t want to dwell too long on how I felt last year at the start of the season.
Empty.
I stand and head to the door.
“Yeah, the show was good, Cafferty,” Jason says as he rises, but there’s an uncharacteristic weight to his voice.
I leave first, and he’s right behind me.
Once I set foot in the hallway, I spot a half dozen people at the elevator banks. I scan for a stairwell to avoid the wait—they’re faster, anyway—and spot one a few feet away. I tip my forehead to it. “I’m going to—”
“Me too.”
Is he following me? Did I say something wrong?
I push open the door to the stairs. The second it closes with a thunk, Jason says my name.
“Beck.” Full of concern. Intensity. “Got a minute?”
I stop at the first landing, my heart thudding, almost like it’s beating in my hands. He’s going to ask what happened. I’m going to tell him what I wanted to say last week. Now is the chance, so I take it.
I turn around and swallow a knot of emotion. “I—”
“I didn’t give you a chance last week,” Jason says. His voice wobbles like he’s terrified of what I’m going to say. He walks down to join me on the first landing. “And I’m sorry I didn’t listen. I know you were trying to explain, and I just barreled over you, thinking I knew what was going on with you, and that wasn’t cool.”
I close my eyes, images flickering before me of Griffin, him and me playing with our dogs when we were younger, then him taking me to games in high school when our parents left for Australia, then him teaching me how to cook, how to drive.
How to apply to college.
He taught me everything.
Including how to play my favorite game on earth.
It’s not a secret that my brother died. Megan knew. But you’d only know if you researched me online. Dug deep into stories from more than a year ago. Found the obit on the former college football player—Griffin Cafferty, survived by his parents and a younger brother.
I meet Jason’s guileless eyes and say what’s been on my mind for a year. “My brother was killed last year in a car crash. Two months before I met you. Two months before the season started.” I take a beat, needing air. It’s still hard to say. It still hurts.
But not like the day the police knocked on the door of the house I shared with Griffin in Los Angeles, asked if I was Beck Cafferty, and said, I’m sorry to inform you there’s been an accident.
“I wasn’t in a good place last year,” I add.
Jason steps back. His eyes widen with remorse and sorrow too. He drags a hand along his chin as if he’s processing the pain for himself, then sorting out what it has meant for me. “Beck,” he says, full of sadness. “I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what that’s like, but I’m truly sorry for your loss.”
“Me too. Every day.” I want to say more, but I need to get a handle on the storm of emotions brewing inside me. Most days, I don’t feel this much. Time has healed the biggest part of the wound. But now and then, the wound opens, and I hurt horribly all over again.
Jason’s quiet, patiently waiting as I take a few breaths.
On the last exhale, I look over his shoulder and up the steps.
This conversation requires what privacy I can get. I point to the next landing, then head down to it, Jason following.
I’m not due to meet Ian for ten more minutes. I make use of the time, even though my stomach is churning.
But the way I feel now pales compared to how I felt when my first pro game ended.
When I couldn’t make myself go to Jason’s house.
“That’s what I wanted to explain,” I say quietly, pushing past the hurt. That day, my feelings were too raw. Too unexpected, and I’ve been trying to tell him for a year. “When I was a Mercenary and we played your team, it was my first game starting. I looked into the stands, like I always do, and my brother wasn’t there. I knew that, of course. I didn’t think he’d come back from the dead to go to my game.”