Page 23 of My Brother's Teammates

“Charlotte, did you hear me? We’re letting you go.”

The walls close in, the ringing only gets louder, and there’s a heavy weight pressing down on my chest.

I don’t respond right away, I can’t. Instead, I look around, giving my brain a second to process. His office is small, utilitarian, bland. There are calendars behind him on the wall and posters with pithy, insightful, and oh-so-very stereotypical teacher phrases about knowledge on the back of his door, but otherwise, it’s all just… monotonous. Which really isn’t so different from the man sitting across from me.

“G-go… where?” I hear the words coming out of my mouth, but I can’t seem to stop the stupidity from escaping my frozen body. “Where am I going?”

“You’re fired, Charlotte.” My boss, eh, former boss’s voice is hard, cold, and there isn’t an ounce of sympathy or empathy across his face. I thought he liked me, hell, I thought we were at least friendly. But this… Wow. This came out of left field.

I’ve never been late. Never. Someone always volunteers me to babysit after school detention, and not once did I complain about staying late. I’m responsible, my kids like me, and while I may not have loved coming here every damn day, I’m a good teacher. This has to be some kind of mistake. Right?

“Me?” I point my finger at my chest, but we’re the only two people in the room. The heavy silence I get in response tells me everything I need to know.

“Yes, Charlotte. You.”

The cool detachment of his voice, the glare that cuts straight through me, levels me. I don’t have words, I don’t have tears, I simply nod. After I left my coffee date with Harrison, I was doing all kinds of mental planning—finances, time, getting my ducks in a row so I can save up some much-needed coin to get myself out from living with the guys before my brother inadvertently finds out and kills his friends.

I also made a pinky promise that I had things under control, and dammit, I was going to do my damnedest to show him I did.

“We’re making some changes at the staff level, and unfortunately, we have to let some people go.”

I swallow hard. “Who else?” My voice cracks.

“I’m sorry?”

I clear my throat. “Who else is being let go?”

He shifts in his seat. “Just you.” He pauses. “At least so far.”

“I see.” What I really mean is that I see just how much money talks in this place. A couple weeks ago, one of the parents cornered me on my way out of school. She wasn’t thrilled that her precious little Perciville isn’t fluent in French at only six years old. It didn’t matter how much I apologized or assured her that her little angel’s education is my biggest priority, she was never satisfied.

I should’ve seen the writing on the wall when the school got a sizable donation a few days later from Perfect Perciville’s parents. But I suppose it was my naivety that had me thinking it was from the good of their hearts.

Fuckin’ hate French, too.

I nod again. There’s no point in arguing. He’s clearly been won over by the size of Perciville’s parent’s wallet, and nothing I say will make a difference. The kid’s name isn’t even Perciville. That’s his middle name, and they’re so perfectly fucking pretentious that it fits like a glove.

It takes me about fifteen minutes to clear out my classroom, shoving every goddamn thing I bought for my class into the box. It’s a shitty thing to punish my students for the principal being an epic prick, but they made us buy almost all of our supplies ourselves, and I’ll be damned if they’re keeping a dime.

On shaky legs, I head out to the parking lot, toss my box on the passenger seat, slide behind the wheel, and fall a-fucking-part. I’m homeless. Jobless. I’m a terrible sister. I’m fucking broke.

Heaving sobs wrack my body, as thick, hot tears course down my face, and I cry for what feels like hours. I let it all out—the breakup, the betrayal, landing straight at rock bottom and hitting every single jagged edge on the way down. By the time I pull myself together, my throat is raw.

It never rains, it pours.

These things happen for a reason.

God doesn’t give you more than you can handle.

I can hear Mom’s voice in my head as I stare at her number on the screen of my phone. Calling her at this moment won’t make me feel better. She’ll do her best to cheer me up but will inevitably tell me how much easier my life would be if I just moved back home. Which will make me even more frustrated and feel even more like shit.

They’ve never said it out loud, but I’m most definitely the fuck-up of the family, and at times like these, I feel it even more acutely than every other day ending in ‘y’.

I probably shouldn’t drive back to the boys’ apartment because I’m so upset, but I can’t stay in the school parking lot. Knowing my luck, Percy’s mom would see me crying into my steering wheel and I’d end up in prison for knocking her down, accidentally backing over her, and running over her a few more times for good measure.

By the time I get back to the apartment, I can barely breathe, and my tears are falling harder than before. Panic has seized my entire body, so much that I’m numb. I head up in the elevator on legs so shaky I’m not sure how they’re holding me, and when I stumble through the front door, I barely make it a few feet inside before they go out from under me.

Even curling up on the floor with my limbs so weak is difficult, but after a few long minutes of letting myself cry it out in the fetal position, I take a deep breath and open my eyes.

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