Page 57 of The Late Hit
Heading outside I pull my phone out and order an Uber. Closing the app, I check my notifications, hoping there’s a message from Brynn apologizing for being a no-show. But that’s the thing with hope, it always lets you down. There’s nothing from Brynn. Before I have a chance to put the phone away, my mom’s face lights up the screen with an incoming call.
Hitting the accept button, I answer. This night can’t get worse, might as well see what she wants.
“Quinton, honey?” my mom asks.
“Hey Ma, what’s up?” I ask, running my hands down my face and over my thighs.
“What? Can’t a mother call her son?”
Well of course, moms can call their sons. But it’d be nice to have a real conversation and speak to you when you’re not just calling to invite me to something. I think all of that, but I wouldn’t dare say it. This woman would have my ass if I actually said those things.
“Sorry, it’s been a long day,” I answer with an excuse.
She continues, her voice changing into an overly concerned parent.
“Baby, is Coach working you too hard? Just remember it’s all going to pay off when the NFL comes knocking.”
A deep sigh releases.
“Yeah, I know. Not to cut you off, but I’m calling it an early night. Did you need anything?”
“Can you come to dinner tomorrow night? Your dad and I would love to see you this week.”
“No, I can’t tomorrow night. We’ve got a mandatory study hall with the team. Can’t miss.”
“Studies come first, of course. How about Thursday? I think your brother will be able to come on Thursday too.” Her voice gets excited.
She loves having us all at home. Which I totally get. Someday when I have kids, I want them to be around my table. But the difference is going to be that I want them there because I love and support them, not because I want to use my twisted love to brainwash them into doing what I want.
“I’ll make it work. See ya Thursday,” I respond, even though dinner with my younger brother is the last thing I want to do.
We see each other enough. Hell, we play football together and live together. I don’t want to spend my free time with him too.
“Great, honey, see you Thursday at six,” she says as a goodbye.
Abigail Boyd doesn’t say goodbye. She hangs up whenever she deems the conversation over.
Pulling up my messages one last time, I fire off a text without even thinking.
Immediately, I feel regret for sending it, but, fuck it, I can’t take it back. The Uber car pulls up. After sliding in, I shut my door with more force than necessary. The driver eyes me, but no one speaks. Instead, I drop my head to the headrest and shut my eyes.
Wednesday couldn’t drag on longer if it tried.
I didn’t sleep for shit. My mind wouldn’t shut off, and my alarm went off way too damn early. My eyes were no sooner closed and then it was five a.m.
Weightlifting sucked. Normally, I love weightlifting. I love pushing my body to its limits, seeing how much weight my body can handle. It’s exhilarating. Not only do I push myself, but my music drowns out my thoughts. Only this morning, Coach wouldn’t let us listen to our music. He put on some motivational podcast. It motivated me to hurry the hell up, get my reps in, and get the hell out.
Practice sucked. My head was off, thanks to a shitty morning start. I’ve never had any issues shutting off the outside world before. But apparently, this whole “Brynn avoiding me” bullshit is getting to me. We haven’t talked since Sunday. She’s posted on her Instagram Stories, but will she return a damn text message? Nope. At least not to me. And Cody. The two of us sat together in the Union for breakfast. He said she’s ghosted him too. Coach was on my ass the whole practice for my shit performance. He threatened to bench me for Saturday’s game if I don’t get it together.
Will Davis sucked. No surprise there. I can’t even remember what he did, but his arrogance and locker-room trash talk are enough to make a nun swear. But did Coach threaten to bench his ass? Nope, just mine.
And mandatory studying sucks. All I want to do is get some extra sleep and call it a day. Hell, maybe head to Brynn’s to talk to her face-to-face and sort this shit out. But instead, I’m heading inside Liberty Library to sit here for a two-hour study session. It should be illegal to force people to attend study sessions, especially when said person doesn’t need it. Unlike most, I take my studying seriously. I’ve got shit to prove on and off the field.
Reaching the top of the fourth-floor steps, I do a quick glance across the floor. That’s when I see bright-blonde hair, pulled up in one of those big clips, oversized, round glasses that make her look so studious. And she’s chewing on the inside of her cheek. It’s a little tic she does that I feel straight to my groin.
Do I go over there? Or do I ignore her the way she’s ignoring me? The inner debate starts, but I quickly push that shit aside. It’s a no-brainer. That’s why in the next second, my feet are carrying me to her. Stopping right beside her desk, I watch her eyes pause from her reading and glance down to my feet. Her eyes slowly drag up my legs, raking across my stomach, before coming up to meet my eyes.
“Hey, Q,” she whispers.
