Page 103 of The Late Hit
I guess I haven’t changed like I thought I had. Same Brynn. Same selfish person. Same situation.
Sometime later I wake up, even though I don’t remember falling asleep. Darkness has settled over the city, much like it has me. My clothes are still on, but my shoes are off, and I’m lying on top of my covers. Dragging my arms behind me, I push up off my bed and sit up. I instantly regret the decision.
Shit, how much tequila did I drink?
One of my hands finds my forehead as I begin rubbing, the hangover already settling in. I drop my head forward, resting it against my palm while my arm rests against my bent knee. Reaching with my other hand, I search for my phone. It’s plugged in, charging, on my nightstand.
Oh, Cody Jacobs, you are the best.
The screen is way too bright, and my eyes squeeze shut immediately. Slowly, I force myself to open them as my pupils get used to the brightness. Thirty-seven text messages and twenty-two missed calls. Sighing, I place my phone back down on the table.
Right now, I’m forever grateful to the me from this morning who prepared my nightstand with all the post-drinking essentials. A water bottle, electrolyte packet, and migraine medicine sit on my nightstand. Little did I know that my hangover would be from drinking myself stupid instead of celebrating. I don’t even know if the team won or not. Hell, I don’t even know if my boyfriend is okay.
Groaning, I collapse backward, my head finding my pillow. Lifting my legs up, I reach down and drag the covers up over me before drifting off to sleep again.
Thesoundofbeepingwakes me. The scent of antiseptic consumes my nostrils.
Fuck me, my head hurts.
My eyes refuse to open, but I’m alert enough to know that I’m lying in a hospital bed after one of the worst hits I’ve ever received in my entire football career. The stupid dickhead knew what he was doing.
I know that my leap started way before he even thought about tackling me. I remember the impact, the awful cracking sound that the helmet-to-helmet collision made, and the pain. Oh god, the pain was instant. I thought my head was going to explode. But it didn’t. I’m alive. Even without opening my eyes, I know I’m alive. There’s no way Heaven would have the sound of beeping and this pungent stench. Clean or not, antiseptic should smell a helluva lot better than this.
Plus, I picture Heaven would welcome you with a moist towelette to clean off your past life. Maybe even some leis and a tropical drink. It’d be like arriving in Hawaii. Yeah, the afterlife would be like a tropical oasis. And this hard bed and this scratchy blanket are not it.
Voices pull me from my thoughts of Heaven. They’re hushed, but there’s a harsh tone to them.
“I told you, Howard,” I hear my mom say.
“I’m sure there’s a reason. Calm down,” Dad says, annoyance flashing through his words.
They sound close, but not next to me. Maybe by the doorway.
“Her reason is that her meal ticket got hurt and she bailed. I told him. I told you all that she’s just a gold-digging ho who wants our money.”
“Enough, Abigail. She’s from a wealthy family. She doesn't need Quinton to pay her bills.”
“Oh, please. Her family left her, so she’s clutching on to the first person who has shown her any promise of fortune. It’s been three days and she hasn’t shown up yet.”
I hear Dad sigh, but I don’t have the energy to open my eyes. “What’s your problem with her? She’s the first girl who has ever caught your son’s eyes for longer than a hook-up, and you have never given her the time of day. Instead, you’re spewing hatred every time you’re around her.”
Mom’s voice goes icy. A shiver erupts across my skin. It feels like we have just been transported to the Arctic.
“And why do you constantly defend her? You got eyes on her? She remind you of all the hoes lining the sidewalks, waiting for you to give them the okay to crawl into your bed? All the hoes who you slept with while I was home raising your boys. I gave up my career to be your wife and raise your kids, and what’d you give us? A roof over our heads was all the payment we got while you slept with every girl with a pulse,” she grits out.
Holy shit, holy shit. Mom just dropped some major truth bombs. Eyes, stay shut. I repeat, eyes stay shut.
“That was ten years ago, Abigail,” Dad bites out, his voice getting closer. “We worked through our shit, went to counseling, I gave it all up too.”
And then silence stretches through the room. A noise comes from beside me—magazine pages turning and Dad sighing.
Do I wake up now? Has it been enough time to act like I didn’t just hear all of that? I’ve been out for three days? And what does she mean “she hasn’t stopped by?” Is Brynn okay?
I need answers.
I will myself to open my eyes. They try to fight me at first, but slowly, they begin to flutter open. Once I open them, I blink a few more times, trying to get them adjusted to this bright light. Who puts lights as bright as the damn sun inside hospital rooms?
“P-pops,” I rasp out, my gaze finding him sitting in a chair next to my bed, thumbing through an issue ofSports Illustrated.
