Page 27 of Broken Play
"What does the winner receive? A free copy of next year's game?"
For the first time since I've been home, Witt laughs. "You're so fucking old. The prize is ten thousand dollars."
His answer blows me backward. "Are you serious?"
He nods.
"Was there an entry fee?"
"Nope, the sponsors pay the players."
A hum rattles in my throat. "Wow. Have you won money before? And are there in-person tourneys?"
"Yeah, but I don't play in-person, and I've won nearly a hundred thousand dollars."
This is the most he's said to me since I got here a month or so ago. "You're shitting me. You're in high school."
He just shrugs. Typical Witt.
"Noelle wants us to play flag football with her cheer and football friends. I'm pretty sure you'll kick their ass. How 'bout it?"
"Nah."
"Why?"
He clams up and mumbles, "You can."
I stand, thinking I'm going to go play, but something inside me tells me to sit my ass back down. "I'd rather watch this tourney. What do you think about Noelle's boyfriend?"
"He cheats on her. I hear her crying through the walls sometimes."
"He what? I'll kill him."
Witt lets out a short, harsh breath, edged with something like an accusation. "He's Greyson 2.0," he tosses out with a laugh, the kind of laugh that cuts me to the bone like I invented the cheating boyfriend playbook.
"I've never cheated. I've never had a true girlfriend since tenth grade; that way, no one gets hurt."
He runs his hand through his dark hair. "That's not what Sabrina says. Her cousin is Marley Southworth, and she says you cheated on her with a girl in a band. She never shuts up about it. It's like her claim to fame."
"Well, that's not true." Inside, I flip through an imaginary yearbook. I did go out with Marley a half-dozen times, but we were never exclusive. We didn't put a girlfriend/boyfriend label on the relationship. And the band girl is now the hot realtor who sold me the house. "I'm never leaving my house."
"Now I believe we're brothers," Witt says with no inflection in his voice as he sits back down with his back against the bed.
I've missed so much of his life—sixteen years, and I've barely been here for any of them. There's this weird ache in my chest, like regret and frustration all tangled together. I want to say something sharp, to deflect, but all I can do is stand there, arms crossed, feeling old and useless. Maybe he's right. Maybe, after all this time, now is when we finally figure out what being brothers even means.
I'm home with my family, and I can have it all. Sutton was right again.
FOURTEEN
SUTTON
The familiar scent of coffee and flowers drifts through the hall. My stepmother, Tammy, loves floral candle scents, but it smells like a funeral home in here. Before I call out, I hear Heath's voice filtering from the great room. "I've been clean for two months and you can't trust me to run the organization? But golden girl Sutton just waltzes in and gets the job? She's a tennis player for fuck's sake."
Bitterness and anger fuel his tone, and I admit it stings.
"We've been over this, Heath. You need to prove that you can stay clean. I can't have a drug addict running a multimillion-dollar company." I hover by the archway, peeking around the corner. My dad places his hand on Heath's shoulder to calm him down. Or at least I think that's what he's doing. "Son, stay clean and you'll get your chance," he assures Heath.
With my lips pressed into a thin line and my fingers wound tight around my leather tote strap, I take a breath and round the corner. My heels click against thehardwood floor, so there's no sense in pretending I didn't overhear their conversation.
