Page 21 of Jaded

“Yep.” Charlie slides lower into his chair. “Don’t remind me.”

“So, who’s gonna be your new captain?” Avery sets the guitar back onto the coffee table. “Devereaux?”

“Dunno,” says Charlie, and I have to agree. Nobody wants to stay in this town—on that team—long enough to take on the role.

Syd nudges my ankle with a socked foot. There are tiny teddy bears on her socks. She doesn’t speak, but I know what she’s saying.

“That ship’s sailed, Syd.” I shake my head. “Long before you were born.”

“I’m sure Coach already has another transfer lined up,” sighs Charlie. “Another young kid who’ll be in and out in a season.”

I wince, because he’s right. “Maybe.”

“He will.” Charlie’s head swivels back and forth against the headrest. “Could’ve been you, once, but you were so convinced you weren’t good enough—”

“I wasn’t—”

“Yeah, and you’re a pansy now.”

“Yep. I am. One who could definitely kick your ass.”

“Think you could kick mine?” Avery pipes up, grinning. “When was the last time you got in a real fight?”

I snort. “Is that even a serious question?”

“Yes.”

“Guitar isn't the only thing I'm better at.”

“Oh, my God,” Syd groans. “It’s like having two little brothers.”

“I’m an asshole,” I say, my tone flat and even. “That’s why nobody can fucking stand me.”

“Why do you think he doesn’t have a girlfriend?” Charlie asks in a mock whisper. “You already got one up on him.”

“Really, Charlie?” I aim a teasing glare in his direction. “You’re both gonna get yourselves kicked out of Chez Taylor—”

“Good thing I have Chez Original Taylor,” says Avery. “Brenda loves me.”

“I think you overestimate Brenda’s love,” I mutter, which is definitely a lie. If there’s anything Brenda loves, it’s broken kids. And I sort of suspect that, just as I’d burn the world down for Syd, Brenda just might do the same for Avery.

I wonder if he has any idea he’s got someone like that in his corner.

“You guys have to stop,” Syd groans. “I will run away if you don’t stop. Dad, play us a song.”

The guitar slides back into my hands, and who have I ever been to refuse a song? My fingers drift over the strings like coins tugged by a magnet, like waves crashing over a hard rocky shore. Rhythm melody, push and pull, the song escaping through my digits, leaking out from the crevasses of my soul for the world to witness.

“Now see, this is music,” Charlie murmurs, dark lashes fluttering against pale skin as he lets each wave of sound consume him. As he gives in to my siren’s call of song and sacrifice. “How do you do that?”

How do I indeed. I’ve always been good at music, because I give it everything, all of myself, leave nothing behind and hold nothing back—unlike hockey.

Music is an unleashing; it’s the one time my soul tastes the world in its truest form, laid bare, unseasoned. It’s the world whittled down to these notes, to this one solitary moment. No half measures, no reserves. Everything.

Except this time, with my fingers dancing and the notes woven around my soul, my mind wanders more than it usually does. Wanders back to darkness and ghosted breath, to warm fingers on warm cheeks. To mouths opening in sync, like my fingers on these strings, to another sort of song I played with all my heart.

I don’t even know his name, that boy at the bar, my new ghost.

But he lingers, just like a burn.

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