HABIT, page 5
“Nobody gets ahead by half-assing,” he always says.
He’s right.
I gather my things and get ready to hit the showers, eying my dad and Mr. Sullivan talking by the doorway while the rest of the team exits. My dad’s laughter isn’t genuine. I’ve heard him put on the polite and political act before.
As soon as Mr. Sullivan leaves, I hoist my bag up to my shoulder and head toward the exit. I’m stopped, though, by my father’s palm planted firmly on the center of my chest. My eyes flash to meet his, and if I wasn’t sick already, I most definitely am now. There are plenty of things my dad can say with only his eyes, but his complete and utter disappointment is the expression that stings the most. I don’t get hit with the squinted eyes and hard-lined mouth often, but when I do, I instantly revert to that feeling of being a fourth-grade troublemaker waiting for my dad to pick me up at the school front office. Back then, I got caught throwing wet paper towels up onto the ceiling of the boys’ bathroom. Now, I fear I’m being scolded for throwing away my future.
“What the fuck are you doing?” He doesn’t mince words. Probably for the best.
I swallow hard, my throat dry from throwing up an hour ago despite the gallon of water I’ve forced down.
My dad tucks his chin, almost as if he’s unable to look me in the eyes, and that act stings more than his words. His voice low, he grumbles out his frustration.
“You’re drunk. Or you were drunk. And that man and his son were waiting for me to arrive this morning. They are making a statement, and those actions are going to feed into every argument I have no doubt they will make when it comes time for me to start someone.”
“I’m the better quarterback,” I spit back. My dad’s gaze flashes up and the fire in his eyes scorches mine.
“That may very well be. But that’s not enough in a place like this.”
His jaw flexes as his brow lifts a tick to drill his point home. I hold his silent stare for a few long seconds finally swallowing down my pride.
“Yes, sir,” I say with a nod.
His hand falls from my chest and I nod to him once before moving through the door and into the locker room. I shove my things into my locker and strip my clothes into a sweat-soaked pile that I shove into the space left at the bottom. I grab a towel from the equipment room counter and sling it over my shoulder before taking my angry body into the shower room.
I tug the frosted glass door open and breathe in the steam from the dozens of stalls all pouring out searing hot water. It feels good, but too long in here and I’ll be passed out on the floor.
I head toward the back where a few open stalls remain, but before I get there, Toby steps around the wall of the next stall to walk right at me. Our eyes locked in this truly stupid game of chicken, my fists clenched at my sides with the growing temptation to punch him in the jaw. I don’t even know this dude, other than the few practices we’ve had and the team meeting he had with my dad in our apartment. I got a good sense of his cockiness then, and I am sympathetic to his feeling threatened. I didn’t come here to replace someone, but that is an unfortunate consequence.
Distance closing between us, we both shift our focus, no longer staring into each other’s eyes. I brace myself for him to call me more names as we pass. If that’s what he needs to do to feel better, I can let that fly. But he will never outwork me. There will be no repeats of today. Ever.
I hold my breath as our shoulders meet, mentally guarding myself for whatever insult is at the tip of his tongue. But when my feet are suddenly swept out from under me, I fly forward, feet scrambling to hold on to the slick tiled floor to no avail. My knees come down first—hard—followed by my palms, and eventually, my face. My nose stings from its quick introduction to the beehive pattern on the floor and my lip feels swollen from where my teeth bit into it.
“What the fuck!” I bark, twisting my naked body on the floor and looking up in time to catch Toby laughing at me over his shoulder while he walks away. I scramble to my feet, ready to rush him, but Cameron shoves a wadded-up towel into my chest, pushing me back a few steps.
“Don’t react to him. Don’t give him that,” he cautions, and though his face is close to mine, I look right through him, my eyes lasers on the back of Toby’s fucking head.
I breathe through gritted teeth until the door falls closed behind Toby, then blink my focus to Cameron’s serious gaze. His brows inch up as he pushes the towel into me once more, likely in an attempt to shake me out of my rage. I slap his hand away and grab the towel, which I realize is the one I lost during my fall. Our eyes meet once more before I huff out a breath and spin toward the back of the shower room and duck into the final stall on the right.
I twist the faucet and plant my hands firmly on the tiled wall, letting the spray sting my face. My mouth opens to take in the burn of the water, and I let it fill my cheeks several times before finally dropping my chin and letting the water blast the back of my neck.
My dad’s right. No more fucking around. Zero distractions. It’s football and class and nothing else.
Chapter 5
Morgan
Games.
That’s what James was playing at the party the other night. I recognized it. I’ve played them myself, and I indulged again. There’s nothing wrong with being young and having a good time, flirting with the cute boy, and maybe feeling sexy about it. But that high doesn’t last as long as it used to—the way it did before I learned intimately how cold and cruel and rare and precious life is. And how fast the wrong kind of attention can make you feel ugly and alone.
Anika and I both liked to play games. She was always willing to sneak into nearby college frat parties with me and indulge in the free beer and cute older guys. We were each other’s wing woman, complete with test strips for our drinks and safe words to make sure we always got out of the parties together. Only once did I decide to stay on my own. I was seventeen and the guy was an eighteen-year-old college freshman. He and I ended up dating for almost a month before I broke it off because the social media comments on every photo of the two of us together started to chip away at me. I swear half of the people following my accounts are simply there to hate on things.
If only those people could comment on the morally gray things my father has done.
Anika was the only person who knew my full truth. She’s the only person I trusted sharing about my late-night talks with Coach Wallace. She was glad I had someone to confide in other than her, someone who could do something if they had to. I ate dinner at his table many nights, the same table James and his family eat at now. It was me and Brennan Wallace’s two girls, who he let me babysit sometimes when he had to travel with the team for away games. I loved those girls; they were like little sisters to me. He was like a father.
Coach Wallace listened. And I knew he would never tell anyone unless I told him it was okay. And he never has. Still, after everything that happened to him because of holding my secrets, I don’t believe he’s told a soul.
Somehow, though, my father knew I had been confiding in him. Perhaps it’s his good business sense. Or maybe that’s simply how Christopher Bentley quells his paranoia—by wiping out all possible triggers. Whatever the motivation, my dad detected I may have been spilling what he considers family business to an outsider, and he made sure he knocked over all the chess pieces.
I should have stopped playing games a long time ago. And I should have known better when I played them with James. Games never go anywhere. They finish with a winner and a loser. And it’s pretty clear from where I sit, across the table from James, who has yet to say a word to me since the first party five days ago, that this time I am the loser.
“You’re staring,” Brooklyn whispers at my side.
I unclench my teeth from the straw of my smoothie and set my drink on the table.
“I know,” I admit.
I won’t pretend with Brooklyn. She knows me too well, even if she doesn’t know everything.
“Lily and James are not a thing. She promises. I promise. We’ve all gone over this, the three of us, in detail.” She’s trying to quell my jealous streak, but it’s too far gone.
“And James? Does he know they are not a thing?” I lift a brow as I meet her gaze.
Games.
“I don’t know James,” she says.
“That’s a get-out-of-jail-free card kind of answer. You can’t say that. It’s meaningless,” I retort. I grab my smoothie again and return to biting on the end of the straw. I don’t want any more of it, but I need something to do with my mouth, so I don’t say stuff I’ll regret. “Why do I even care?” I mumble around the straw.
“Because he’s nice and he’s really pretty to look at,” Brooklyn hums.
I sigh, then my lips close around the straw while I attempt to suck fruit juice through the mauled plastic.
Nice.
Nice guy.
Is that what this is about? Am I simply desperate to know what it’s like to date someone kind? To get attention from a good guy? To not be treated like an object, a sponsorship tool, a bargaining chip for my father’s company?
My phone buzzes against my thigh as everyone clears out from our lunch table, and I know it’s my mom before I look.
“You are coming with us tonight. We all need a trip to the mall,” Brooklyn says, hugging me in the middle of the lunch room.
“Fine,” I huff. “But I get to tell Lily what to buy.”
Brooklyn releases me from her embrace and smiles at me with her perfect red lips.
“Don’t gloat. I’m going,” I say, play-pushing her away.
She laughs, then skips off toward her class in her black heels that slap against the tiled floor like tap shoes. Part of me is looking forward to a trip to the mall with everyone. It sounds normal, and it’s been months since I’ve done something that felt that way. We promised to help Lily pick out new clothes for her magazine internship, and I do like to be in charge of a makeover. Besides, I can pick up a new outfit for breakfast tomorrow morning with my mom. I’m sure that’s what her message is about. I cradle my phone now that I’m finally alone and read while heading to my fourth hour class.
MOM: We’re booked at the bistro at 8 a.m. Please dress like a lady.
My eyes flutter at both the thought of waking up that early on a Saturday and my mom’s passive aggressive tone in text. She’s never been a fan of my style. My designer tastes don’t match hers, which consist of chunky yellow-gold jewelry and brightly colored pant suits. It doesn’t help that there are nearly forty years between the two of us. I’m often reminded by both of my parents what a “surprise” I was. What they mean by that is accident. My mom got pregnant with me at thirty-nine, and when she had the C-section delivery, my father was in Silicon Valley inking a tech investment deal—and discovering the seven-year-old son he had from an affair years before. Braden’s my half-brother, and he now has an executive title with the company. My father gave it to him the day he graduated from UCLA with straight Bs and a case of chlamydia from a hooker my dad bought for him for his recent birthday.
Executive Officer Braden Bentley is actually a nice guy, which is why I don’t hate him for being the chosen one. Besides, it’s easier to hold on to the grudge with my father. Especially when the only thing he thinks I’m good for is breakfast dates with the sons of potential business mergers.
I type a response to my mom.
ME: I’ll iron my best pant suit.
She knows I’m kidding, and I’m sure she’s rolling her eyes and calling me any number of names under her breath. But the fact is, I’ll be awake and ready for breakfast tomorrow, and I’ll wear something nice that will impress whomever it is my dad is saddling her with to meet me. She never said it in her previous texts, but I know it won’t be me and her dining alone. It never is. In our family, we don’t do things because we’re close and like each other. We do things because they’re strategic. And I am my father’s favorite chess piece.
I should be elated for Lily. She and Theo had a major breakthrough. Basically, they finally both quit pretending they weren’t mad for each other. Seeing them kiss was like watching the end of a really great rom-com. And Lily looked great in the clothes we picked out. She left with Theo twenty minutes ago, and I could tell by the way they playfully touched one another as they exited the mall that they were excited to have some alone time.
This is the kind of stuff I live for—real-life romance working out. But something has me stuck. That jealous pang in my gut still cuts into my diaphragm with the same sharpness as before, which means this feeling? It has nothing to do with Lily and James. It’s something more insidious. And I’m not quite certain what that is.
Brooklyn braved going into the sporting goods store with Cameron and James, and I’m supposed to be finding that perfect outfit for breakfast with my mom and whomever I’ll be entertaining for my dad tomorrow morning. I can’t seem to find the energy to shop, though, which for me is definitely a symptom of something being wrong. I know accumulating material things brings about a temporary high, but I have always loved it anyway. The luster over new things is simply gone. Maybe it’s not as exciting to shop when I’m not documenting it for the entire world to see on social media.
Or maybe my melancholy is directly tied to the two girls sitting across the mezzanine from me, their phones poised in such a way that it’s obvious they are capturing video of me. I’m sure they’re streaming that they’ve spotted me alone in a suburban mall. I also bet the comments are spectacularly insulting.
Awe, rich little loner.
This is what it’s like to lose the spotlight.
I never liked her.
I’m so over Morgan Bentley.
Loser.
Bitch.
“You know, this is the second straw you have mangled today.” The sound of James’s voice injects a small dose of adrenaline in my chest.
A brief smile tugs at my lips as I let go of my grip on the straw in my lemonade. I set the Styrofoam cup down and twist in my chair, expecting to see all three of my friends loaded down with shopping bags and ready to head back to Welles. It’s only James, though.
“You should see what these teeth can do to a pen cap,” I joke.
His mouth twists.
“That’s a gross habit, you know.”
She’s so gross.
I shrug and glance down at my now fidgeting hands.
“Yeah, you’re right.”
The food court is emptying out, the mall nearing closing time. The metal feet of a chair scrape across the floor as James pulls a seat from a different table and places it across from me. He leans forward, elbows on his knees and hands clasped, like a guidance counselor gearing up for a lecture.
“Why so glum? I thought shopping was sort of your thing?” He glances around us to the boutique storefronts.
“It was. Maybe it still is. I don’t know.” My mouth pulls in on one side, and on instinct I glance to the girls across the way, their phones still locked into position as they lean together and giggle. James follows my gaze then leans back, chuckling.
“You have fans,” he says.
“I have haters. Trust me.” I know the difference. Fans come over and ask to take photos or videos together. And nervous fans don’t video for that long; they get their photo and send a text to their friends, then move on. These are digital creators who are going to get a lot of play off of my image. Or more accurately, bashing my image.
James grows quiet, and after several seconds I shift my gaze from my teenage critics back to him. He holds his thumbnail between his teeth, head tilted to one side as he studies me. A smirk plays at his lips.
“What?” My brow pulls in and my arms rush with goose bumps under his stare. This feeling is better than the other one—feeling sad and pathetic. But I’m still off my game and nervous.
“I don’t know much about this social media shit other than the funny videos I pass around with my friends and highlights from college football games and stuff, but it seems to me . . .”
He leans forward just then and grabs the base of my chair, pulling it toward him so our knees touch. A nervous laugh leaps from my chest, my yelp loud enough that it fills the food court area and draws a few more eyes our way.
“You get to control the narrative here,” James finishes, lips drawn tight into a playful smile. “If they want to fill their feeds with videos of you, why not show them how great it is to be Morgan Bentley and not them?”
His eyes dazzle with his words, and the way he’s looking at me hits me dead center in my chest. His hand moves toward my face, his fingers hooking a lock of hair and sweeping it behind my ear. His gaze slips past me to the girls who are now at my back, and while I’m drunk on his attention, I’m also very aware we have an audience. Only I don’t care about them as much as I did a moment ago.
“Are they still looking?” I ask.
His smile grows deeper into his cheeks just before his tongue tastes the center of his lips. My focus is locked on his face, every nuance of his expression from the creases caused by his smile to the flutter of his dark lashes as his gaze tracks our audience.
“Oh, yeah.” His words come out with a hint of arrogance and pride, and as his attention moves back to my face, his tongue takes another pass at his now parted lips. Without my permission, my tongue does the same, my lips numb from the fantasy of him grabbing my head and drawing me toward him for a kiss.
“How far do you think we should take this?” That’s how my question comes out, but what I mean is how far are you willing to take this?
“You know what gets clicks and views more than I do. What do people want to see?” His head leans to the right as his hands flirt with the frayed denim tears on my knees.
“Well, that . . .” I nod down to where his palms are now flat on my thighs. “Is probably something that has my haters gossiping.”
