Page 149 of Jaded

I race out back into the staff parking lot.

“Dad—it’s Avery.” The words come out in a high-pitched, panicked tremble. “He won’t let me take him to a hospital.”

I wrench open the door to the Lexus. “Tell me where you are.”

Chapter 37

Olli

Today’stheday.Allthis work, all this publicity, all this chatter and speculation . . . Today. It all comes down to today.

Not that I’m gonna frame it like that in my head, as a BFD or anything. Or that I’m gonna sit at my kitchen counter and drink way more coffee than someone like me should ever evenconsiderconsuming.

I do it anyway.

I’m on my second cup of java, scrolling away on my phone because holyHerais there a lot of Ice Out social media exposure—well done Syd!—when my own face stares up at me from beneath my black Rays helmet.

My stomach thrusts violently against my ribs at the sight.

Scroll away, scroll away, my mind says, and I should, I know I should. Hearing the things people say about you, post all over social media, it’s never a good idea. Just knowing that crap exists, that it’s out there for anyone to see and believe, is enough to drive a person mad.

But when it’s there at my fingertips, how can I not look?

The Instagram caption snags me.Can questionable would-be star James save the Dingoes after falling so flat?

My fingers go white around my phone. I don’t recognize the account—some kind of sports reporter—but it’s a whole damned article. About me. About why I’m here.

Talent like James’s doesn’t come around much, but his blatant inconsistency makes it clear he’ll never be more than a minor-league has-been . . .

I pull a deep breath in through my nose. Exhale through my mouth. Like mom taught me. Like therapists have reinforced my whole life. Breathe. Let the thoughts go.

But I can’t.

James missed several games with the Rays before being traded to the down-and-out Dingoes. It’s only the latest in a long career of quick turnarounds and last-minute trades. . .

Breathe, Olli. Keep breathing. Stop reading. But, of course, I don’t. Would you stop reading, given an article detailing all your faults and shortcomings?

We’re drawn to the things that reflect the darkness inside of us.

Leading to questions about what’s so wrong with James that he can’t hold a position on a team longer than one season . . .

Bile burns the back of my throat.

Fuck you. Fuck you all. Fuck you for writing that. Fuck the four hundred and twenty-seven people who’ve commented. For judging what you don’t know. Fuck all these people who get involved with things that have nothing to do with them.

We’re all human. We all have dreams. We all make mistakes.

Some of us see them written out across the internet, in newspapers, everywhere we turn, so we start to believe them, the worst of them, the dark and terrible things people say. So we question our mistakes every night, in every dream, in every waking nightmare.

Fuck me for continuing to read.

James’s last game with the Rays ended with him benched after a shockingly sub-par performance and a subsequent barrage of missed practices . . .

No. No, I don’t need to read my worst moments illustrated through someone else’s eyes, filtered through their opinions, their bias, their impression. No. Screw that. No.

But the next words catch my attention.

The Dingoes have been rotating through a lineup of starry-eyed young hopefuls and washed-out has-beens like James. But this latest publicity ploy suggests they may be trying a last-ditch tactic for their salvation . . .

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