Page 16 of Faking the Pass
The game went into overtime, and it was late, almost midnight, by the time I got home.
The headlights of my father’s car lit up the front of my house as he circled the courtyard drive and stopped even with the front door.
All the windows were dark, of course. Though it had only been five days, it seemed like weeks since I’d been home.
Mom and Dad were great, and I loved spending time with them, but grown men weren’t meant to live with their parents.
When the game had ended tonight, Mom had tried once again to persuade me to stay at their house, insisting I still needed post-op support (in other words, babying), but I’d stuck to my plans.
Dad looked over at me. “You good? Need help getting inside?”
I reached across my body and opened the passenger side door with my left hand.
“Nah, I got it.”
He nodded, approving. “You’ll be fine. Had some injuries in my time, too. They heal.”
I started to respond with a joke, but then he added, “If Wilder can survive running the most dangerous missions in the military with his SEAL team, we can’t complain about a few bumps and scratches from playing a game.”
Just like that, any humor I’d felt about the situation evaporated.
As far as I recalled, I hadn’t complained—and I wouldn’t darecompare myself to my incomparable older brother.
“Right. Well, thanks for everything this week,” I said, getting out of the car. “And thanks for the ride.”
“You bet. We’ll call you tomorrow,” Dad said before I shut the door.
I watched for a few seconds as he drove away and rounded the bend out of sight.
Even if I had to wear the same fucking shirt for a week and go without showering, I’d figure out how to take care of myself and recover from this on my own.
Besides, I waswaytoo grumpy to be around other people right now, even my family.
What I needed was to be back in my own space where I could truly relax—and if I was being honest, to wallow in self pity for a minute.
It had hurt to watch my team play without me tonight.
The back-up quarterback, Austin, had done his best. I knew that, but it hadn’t been enough, and the team had lost.
I’d hoped Austin’s struggles might at least mean Dylan would get a chance to get into the game, but Coach Maddox had left the second-stringer in the whole time while my brother rode the bench as usual.
Which meant Dylan was probably as morose tonight as I was.
I reached for my phone to text him then remembered it had taken a tour of the toilet today, courtesy of my nephew.
I’d call Dylan tomorrow when I had service again. I was tired anyway.
A wave of peace and relief washed over me as I got the door unlocked and stepped inside.
The place wasn’t a mansion or anything, only about four thousand square feet with four bedrooms, but as it was just me living here, I didn’t need a house the size of a Walmart.
Of course, it wasn’t tiny, either, more like just right.
I’d chosen the house for its high ceilings and open floor plan, but most of all because of its location out on a rocky point along Atlantic Avenue.
The winding seaside drive had always been my favorite street in Eastport Bay.
With ten miles of rocky shoreline and spectacular ocean views, it was home to a large grassy park, several private beach clubs, and numerous waterfront mansions as well as a handful of more humble abodes like mine.
