Page 92 of The Midseason Fakeout

“I don’t want to see you hurt either,” Darrin grinds out through gritted teeth.

“If I don’t get to talk to her…” I force out, confusion and anger sweeping through me like a Molotov cocktail mix.

“Talk to your fake girlfriend,” Darrin spits out.

Shit.“She’s not fake anymore.”

“Maybe you’re lying to yourself. Maybe you’re just caught up in the moment.”

“Maybe I’m not good enough for her? Is that what you mean?” I scream, pushing him.

“I didn’t say that.”

Old insecurities bark like snapping dogs into my ear. All I have is football to remind me that I’m actually okay. That I actually deserve to be here. I thought Bailey could be that for me, too.

I run my hands through my hair, tugging at the ends. “I’m sorry we lied to you, I really am, but you don’t know what you’re talking about when it comes to Bailey and me.”

“I do, and that’s why I’m telling you to get lost. Forget about her. Focus on football, man. In a couple of years—”

“In a couple ofyears?” I roar.

“Aidan?”

That small, sweet voice.

I peer over Darrin’s shoulder to find Bailey staring at us from the hallway. The confused look on her face makes me glare at Darrin. “I want to see her. Now.”

“Darrin, it’s okay,” Bailey says, coming up behind him and placing a hand on his shoulder.

He turns his back on me. “You’re going to get hurt.”

“I’d rather feel pain than be empty.”

He stands up straighter. “You know what, you both can count me out when this explodes in your faces.”

He pushes his sister’s hand off him and stalks toward the stairs.

I watch him go, my anger dissipating to sympathy. When I finally lock gazes with Bails, something primal takes over. I clutch her cheeks with my palms and walk her backward. Her eyes widen with each step until I kick her bedroom door closed behind us. My brain keeps snagging on things to say to her. I want to ask her what that was about. I want to know why her brother is so mad at me, why does he think we’re better apart, but all I can do is kiss her.

I want to consume her. What I can’t say with words, I can say with the way my tongue holds her mouth hostage. If she breathes, she breathes in me. If she tastes, she tastes me. If she feels, I’m the one enveloping her.

She moans low in her throat. “Aidan, hell. Are you okay?”

Her lids flutter open as if she’s been drugged. The feeling is mutual. “Bails, I didn’t handle the cop and the river well. I fucked up. I’m sorry.”

“What do you mean? You saved me from embarrassment.”

“I mean afterward.” I take a deep breath. “I started to spiral, and when I start to go down, it’s like a freefall. The cop said he was friends with Coach, and if Coach found out, it would be bad for me. Warner doesn’t want troublemakers on their team. They’ve made that abundantly clear. They have a zero-tolerance policy.”

“So, he scared you?” she asks, reaching out to grip my elbows.

“Scared the shit out of me. I was thinking about losing football and losing you. It kept getting darker and darker and—”

“I can be that person you talk to when shit gets dark, Aidan,” she says, brows lifting.

But as soon as she says it, her face gets guarded. Strained.

The tension in the air shifts and tears gather in her eyes.

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