I lay my head down on my folded arms on the table and struggle to get a grip, to stop the pull of anguish that wants to drag me under.
A few ticks later, I hear Eric behind me, although I don’t know when he came back into the kitchen. There’s no doubt he heard most of that. I rise up and look at him, watching as he pulls a bottle of Tito’s from the cabinet and pours himself a drink.
“Make me one,” I say, my voice hoarse.
He shoots me a look but fulfills my request and sets the glass in front of me. He takes a seat on the other side of the table, a frown deeply lining his brow.
“Thanks.” I take a sip, feeling the burn.
“Sugar and your dead girlfriend? What the hell?”
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. “She left.” That’s not the answer to his question, but fuck, I can’t think.
“She did, and…” He pauses. “And I’m just trying to wrap my head around all this. I’m your best friend, but you haven’t said a word about a resemblance.”
I slam back the rest of the vodka, the taste bitter. “When have you known me to talk about my feelings?”
He watches me. “You okay, man?”
No. “Yeah.” I rub my face briskly. “I…just need to…” I can’t even finish it before my chest is heaving and I’m up and pacing around the room.
She walked out so easily.
“You adore Sugar, right?” He sounds a little angry.
I march over to the counter and pour another drink, emptying the bottle. I turn the glass up, embracing the burn. “How much of this shit do we have?” I ask, tossing the empty bottle in the trash.
He snatches another bottle from the cabinet, another brand—not that I care—and puts it down in front of me. “Be careful with this stuff, man. You’re not a drinker and I’m not sure where you are right now.”
I look up at him, and he isn’t done talking.
“You need to do the right thing. Go after her and tell her—”
Anger fires inside me, itching to get out. I slap my hand against the table. “Funny how I’m your best friend but all your interest is in her.”
He exhales. “Dude, chill. You know Sugar and I are just friends.”
“Do I? You flirt with her constantly.” My jaw pops as we have a stare-off. I know I’m blowing up at him for no good reason, but I can’t seem to stop.
Everything is falling apart.
He gives me a nod, as if he’s come to a decision. “If you want to talk, I’ll be in my room.”
He grabs his glass, walks down the hall, and shuts the door.
Standing, I shove away from the table and kick the chair back until it clatters against the wood.
Screw him. He’s upset about the game. The entire team is. Every single player thinks I’ve lost my mojo. Pouring yet another drink, I think back to their rumblings on the bus on the way back, and I know I’m not the captain they deserve. I’m not going to lead HU to a national championship.
My fists clench as I recall the embarrassment of waking up in the locker room with a medic beside me. My heart checked out fine—of course—and I begged to go back out there, but Coach told me to cool my jets in the locker room and “check in with my shrink.” Those were his words. Stan Wilcox was nowhere to be found.
Cursing, I pick up the bottle and stalk out to the deck, slamming the back door behind me.
The air is bitter cold, the ground hard as I pace around, my feet shuffling, my mind trying to come to terms with a new reality.
I won’t ask her to come back. I can’t. I can’t. I can’t. Because if she says no…
I end up in the garage. I’m staring down at the table we made love on, and my heart clenches in my chest. I set the bottle down on the edge of a tool shelf behind me and pick up a hammer, turning it over in my hands. With one arm, I sweep everything off the table and swing the hammer at it, whacking at nothing. The tool reverberates in my grip, the sound of metal against wood sharp in my ears, but I don’t care. Over and over I work at it, rage eating at me, clawing, until