Page 3 of Draft Pick

“It’s fun,” I’d said in a small voice, feeling stupid for even suggesting it. “But we don’t have to go if you have something else in mind.”

“There’s that new comic book place on Vine we could check out,” he suggested as if he didn’t know that was the only option he’d accept for the evening. “We could get ice cream after.”

There’d been no point in reminding him that I was lactose-intolerant and a scoop of ice cream would create a digestive terrorist attack in my insides because he would’ve just pouted and made me feel worse, so I pasted a bright smile on my face with an enthusiastic, “Sure! Sounds fun!” but in hindsight, it’d been a terrible night.

One that’d ended with me sleeping on the sofa while he’d commandeered my bed as punishment for my “bad attitude.”

I can’t believe how long I enabled his bullshit,catering to his wants and needs. All that was missing was the “Official Doormat” t-shirt to commemorate my time in service.

I bit my lip as anticipation followed. “You think so? Are you sure? I don’t mind waiting…” but I was already standing and straightening my dress, so my ass cheeks didn’t make an unscheduled appearance.

“God no, get up there and warm up the crowd for us,” Lark said, agreeing with Darby. “Besides, you know Evie can’t hold a tune in a bucket. The longer we can put off that experience the better.”

“Hey!” Evie exclaimed with a scowl. “Says the woman who was born with two left feet.”

“Guilty,” Lark said with good humor. “My Irish roots have failed me when it comes to dancing but you’re tone-deaf.”

“Ha ha,” Evie said sourly with a flash of that sharp wit we loved her for. “I know what to do with my mouth and it has nothing to do with singing.”

God, I loved my salty bitches.

I shot Darby a look and mouthed, “Thank you,” before rising and hustling to the stage with perfect timing to slide into the next slot.

“You’re up,” the manager said, gesturing to the machine for me to select my music.

I knew exactly what I wanted to sing. It was my anthem, something that always made me feel like the kind of woman who had the power to break men with a look instead of the woman who ended up invisible. Punching in Lady Marmalade, the remix, I grabbed the microphone, gloriously blinded by the stage lights, which was exactly how I liked it. I could pretend I was singing in the privacy of my shower with only my cat appreciating the show instead of standing in front of strangers about to bare my soul through song.

Okay, maybe that was a little dramatic, but cut me some slack, it’d been a rough couple of months, and I needed this.

Tequila, don’t fail me now.

* * *

Ahh,hell, this was a karaoke bar?Fuck me.

But I’d just ordered my beer, and I wasn’t about to leave until I’d finished, which meant I was stuck listening to some poor schmuck murder an old classic because someone told them they could sing.

Newsflash: they never can.

I grimaced as the last part ofI will survivewarbled from the stage.My bleeding ears. The only saving grace was that no one I knew would ever be caught dead in a place like this, and I needed the space.

Sometimes it felt like I was surrounded, crushed by everyone who wanted my attention — my parents, my coach, the fans, and even friends — because I was the star quarterback of a D1 football team with a promising season ahead of me. Yeah, there was an expectation I’ll get picked up in the draft, but hell, my season hadn’t even started yet of my senior year, and for once, I’d like to not talk about football.

Not that my dad could understand that.

His words were stuck in my head on a loop, and I’d need a goddamn keg to drown out the sound of his voice, which was why I wasn’t going to waste a damn drop tonight, even if that meant listening to whatever noise was coming from the stage.

“Stop messing around, focus, Cason,” my dad had barked at me earlier that evening. A seemingly benign dinner invitation had turned into an interrogation. Two minutes in, and I was already itching to bail. “The draft is around the corner. Every spare minute you got, you need to be training, chasing that dream, son.”

Whose dream exactly was it? I couldn’t remember anymore. I used to actually like football. Now, it was a job.

“Honey, daddy just wants the best for you,” my mom reminded me, wine glass in hand, dinner untouched. My mother was a perfect beauty — perfectly preserved through the miracle of chemistry and the deft hand of her surgeon, but sometimes I worried she’d lost brain cells from too much anesthesia.

“Thanks mom,” I murmured, hiding my irritation. To my dad, I said, “Can we just drop it and enjoy dinner for once. Let me worry about my football career, you worry about your own.” I motioned to my younger twin brothers, Cade and Carson, hoping to steer the conversation to safer waters. “Got any big plans for the summer?”

Cade, the more exuberant twin, was excited to jump into the conversation, but before he could get a word out, our dad didn’t give anyone else the floor and barreled on as if I’d asked for more of his bullshit advice.

“Now’s not the time to get senior-itis,” he continued, stabbing his pointer finger in my direction. “I’ve got a consultation scheduled for you to meet with one of the top strength and conditioning coaches in the nation. He’s going to evaluate your current training schedule and determine if we need to make adjustments.”

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