22. Brixton

Chapter 22

Brixton

I told him he shouldn’t have come. I warned him to stay away from me.

But he didn’t listen.

Always has to be the fucking savior.

When I told him to leave yesterday, the look on his face shredded me. I thought for a second that he might actually deck me.

I definitely deserved it.

But he didn’t say a word. Oh, sure, his eyes spewed plenty, but his mouth stayed closed. He got dressed and took off without so much as a look back at me.

When that door slammed closed, it crushed my soul because I hadn’t ever felt that connected to another person in my life. And it scared the shit out of me.

I had no choice but to kick him out.

Call it self-preservation or whatever.

I pull the rim of my baseball cap down as far as it can go as I walk out of the hotel. I breathe in the crisp, salty air and walk across the road, my hands stuffed into my pockets, head down .

Afternoon sunlight breaks through the thick fluffy clouds above. I adjust my sunglasses as I drop onto a bench overlooking the water. I lean back and kick my sneakered feet out in front of me, then hook my heels around a low railing.

I let out a deep sigh and lean forward with my head in my hands.

By all accounts, Sam Hartley is the perfect fucking man. Everything about him screams stability and trustworthiness and loyalty, from his relationships to his family life. He’s dated guys seriously and doesn’t do flings or random hookups. Close with his parents and brother, focused on philanthropy, paid endorser of fitness and nutrition products that he actually uses, dedicated and hardworking superstar athlete.

So why the hell can’t he stay away? Is it because I’m a challenge to him? That I’m broken and he thinks he can fix me?

All of these questions have looped through my mind since he left my room yesterday. And I don’t have any answers, just suspicions. I tried to convince myself it was better to sever ties now, before he got bored with his new pet project.

Maybe a couple of years ago, it could have worked between us. I was happy, settled, excited for my next chapter. About to be an uncle and loving it. We had more in common back then and there was that spark…

But that was then.

It was a very different time.

And after everything crumbled, all of my demons exploded out of their cages and have haunted me ever since.

Allie was right. Davis cushioned the blow of my dad emotionally abandoning me.

Yeah, he lived in the same house but he wasn’t ever really there.

Not for me.

Davis was my caretaker and that was what I needed. His constant presence helped me rationalize my dad’s lack of attention and love. He blunted the pain and the rejection over the years. Once he was yanked from my life, there was nothing left to protect me from the reality. And as if dealing with my asshole father wasn’t enough, the betrayal I felt from Aiden and Dak was just one more harsh blow. It felt like I was being rejected all over again, and I bottled it up for two years until I just couldn’t hold back anymore. The fact that I felt used as a tool for generating cash by the label didn’t help, either.

I was a means to an end for all of them.

But not my dad, though.

He never gave a shit about my fame or money. He outright rejected me in my entirety and didn’t want a damn thing from me.

And I know…like I have for a long time…that he’s the biggest demon lurking in my past.

He caused me the greatest pain, and everyone else just piled on, making me feel like it was me against the world.

I didn’t need that lecture from Allie because I know exactly why I feel the way I do.

The problem is, I have no fucking idea what to do about it.

How do you accept being rejected by your own father for a bullshit reason that you had zero control over? Because that’s what any therapist would tell me I need to do in order to move on and have a happy life.

And I just can’t do that.

I remember how happy and excited Davis was when he found out Allie was pregnant. I knew he’d be the best father, no matter what. He’d have never rejected his kid in a million years, under any circumstances.

Because how the fuck could anyone reject a child for doing nothing more than being goddamn born?

I grit my teeth and kick the railing .

Getting close to people, letting them in…it makes me weak. And I’ve spent too much of my life feeling that way. I’m better off on my own, keeping people at arm’s length.

They can’t hurt me then.

Because I don’t think I can handle any more pain and rejection.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and squint at another text from Ben.

Call me. I’m tired of leaving you voicemails.

I lean my head back and stare up at the sky. He’s pissed. Hell, everyone’s pissed. I really dug myself a deep grave with that press conference. If I’m being honest, it was more than just me going off the rails. Deep down, I guess I created that shitstorm to see who might find their way to me afterward. To see if there was anything real in the pile of crap I left in my wake.

Two people showed up.

Lane and Sam.

Yeah, they both wanted to throttle me. But they still confronted me.

They still cared enough to make the attempt.

I stand up from the bench and walk over to the railing. I lean over as far as I can go, stretching my back out.

Can I ever be fixed?

I don’t know. I’ve suffered too much, there is way too much baggage for anyone to want to bother wading through.

It’s safer for me to be on my own, away from anyone who can make me feel like shit.

I’ve had enough of that over the years.

But I need to find a way to make myself better on my own .

Because wallowing in this emotional dumpster fire isn’t cutting it.

I clench my fingers into a tight fist and look back at my phone.

I want to be better. At the very least, I want to be “okay.”

So I stab Ben’s number into the keypad because acknowledging my agent is probably a good start.

“Ben, listen?—”

“No, you listen, Brixton.”

His voice is strained and I can tell he’s somewhere in public because he’s not yelling even though he wants to be.

“I signed you because you were on your way to becoming a force to be reckoned with. Supreme talent doesn’t come along often and I saw that in you. But since Davis died, you’ve been a fucking disaster, worse every goddamn day.” His voice drops. “I mean, the surfing at Half-Moon Bay? In that water? Are you fucking trying to self-destruct?”

I close my eyes and blow out a breath.

Jesus Christ, people don’t talk to me anymore. They just lecture.

And I can’t blame them.

“No,” I say.

“Well, it sure as hell doesn’t seem that way.” He lets out a frustrated sigh. “I want to help you, but if you don’t start cooperating, I’m done and you’ll be on your own. As it is, I’ve been doing serious damage control since you walked out of that hotel yesterday. You have a chance to do some good at Play It Forward, just like we talked about. I suggest that regardless of whatever the hell happened between you and Sam, that you make your way over there and find a way to give back.”

“Kind of hard since I’m not an athlete. What the heck can I offer those kids?”

“You don’t need to be an athlete. You know football and hockey. I’ve seen you yell at the television plenty on the tour bus. You can be a sports fan who just wants to help. They have lots of actual coaches there to teach. You’re there for a different reason, for support.”

Support. That’s a first for me.

My phone bleeps with an incoming text and my heart jumps into my throat because I want it to be from Sam.

“I just sent you something,” Ben says. “So you can see what I’ve been dealing with and why you need to pull your head out of your ass.”

I pull the phone from my ear, click the link, and pound the top of the railing with my free fist.

Son of a bitch.

Trouble in Paradise or A Publicist Scam?

I don’t have to read every word. I get the gist pretty fast. Someone must have tailed Sam to the hotel yesterday because there’s a picture of him looking hella pissed off walking out after we fucked.

Now there’s speculation that the whole thing was a sham. That, or we just went through a massive break up.

“Get your shit together, Brixton,” Ben says, his words coming through loud and clear before I can even raise the phone back to my ear. “You’ve got a lot to figure out and make up for. I’ll handle the label, you handle your goddamn head.”

Click.

Great, so now I’m about to be fired by the guy I pay a shit ton of cash to.

I stuff my phone back into my pocket and clutch the sides of my head.

Right now, I’m conducting a runaway train around some pretty fucking dangerous curves. If I don’t pull myself together, I’m going to fly off the damn rails and crash.

Fucking hard.

After staring down at the water for a long minute, I pull out my phone again.

Because he’s right.

I may only have one more chance to save myself.

“Thanks,” I say and push open the door of the Honda Accord. If my Uber driver recognizes me or my name, he doesn’t let on. That’s fine by me since I’m trying to fly under the radar for as long as I can.

I asked Ben via text about Sam’s practice schedule. Turns out, the Oakland Saints practice until late afternoon during most of the week so I have time before Sam shows up to Play It Forward. I’m not ready to face him yet. I just hope Jase and Lucas aren’t here.

I don’t want to make this about me and the shitshow I’m starring in.

I want to make it about figuring out what the hell my purpose is gonna be.

Looking up at the brick face building, I square my shoulders and walk toward the entrance when I hear a man’s angry voice.

A shudder rumbles through me at the familiarity of his tone.

I turn my head to see a big, burly guy hustling a kid along next to him in my direction. The man’s face is a twisted mask of frustration and disgust. But it’s the kid’s face that makes me feel like I’ve just been punched in the gut .

His eyes are teary but hard. His lip quivers and his hands are balled into tight fists.

He’s trying not to cry.

I should just walk inside, but something makes me duck around a nearby column and wait.

“I can’t afford to get you music lessons,” the guy grumbles. “Jesus, all you do is drain my bank account. These guys will teach you how to throw a football. You want a future? Learn something useful.”

The kid just stares at the sidewalk and I realize it’s because he doesn’t want the guy I assume is his father to see it.

But instead of pulling open the door to go inside, the man just leaves the kid out front.

All by himself.

It’s not until the guy stalks around the corner and disappears out of sight that the kid finally lets go. He stands there, covering his face with his hands, slumped against the wall next to the door.

Oh, fuck, do I want to find that guy and knock his teeth down his throat.

I wait a second and adjust my sunglasses before stepping out from behind the column. Taking a few cautious steps toward him, I clear my throat.

He looks up, startled, his eyes popping open wide.

I flash a smile at him. “You heading inside?”

He casts a glance toward the sign hanging over the door and slowly shakes his head. “Don’t know why I should bother. This place isn’t it for me, but my dad wants me to get a football scholarship or something.” His brows furrow and he points to himself. “Me. I mean, I can’t even catch a football. But he’s always on me to do stuff to help at home and he can’t afford a sitter now because he lost his job…” He looks back at me. “So I guess I have to. ”

“So what are you into if it isn’t sports?”

“Music,” he says, light flooding his eyes. I feel like I’m looking into a mirror ten years ago. He has the same glow, the same love that I had.

One I need to get back.

“You play at all?”

“I’ve got a guitar. It’s really old and the strings need to be replaced. My mom bought it for me before she died. She used to play and started to teach me but then she got too sick. I think it makes my dad sad to hear me play, so he found this place to give me something else to do.”

My gut twists. “I’m sorry about your mom. That’s really rough.”

“Yeah,” he says. “She died a couple of years ago. I really miss her.”

His eyes fill up again and shit, the kid looks like he needs a hug so badly.

But you can’t just go around hugging kids these days.

So I’m gonna try to do the next best thing.

I pull open the door and wave my hand out. The kid walks inside and looks around at the other kids in huddles. I guess these are all after-school camps for the local kids. Some older guys are working with each group of kids and I let out a relieved breath when I don’t see Jase or Lucas.

“Come on, let’s get you registered.” I smile. “What’s your name?”

“It’s James,” he says softly, alarm creeping into his expression. “But I really don’t think…these guys are huge. I can’t…I don’t know how to?—”

I clap a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry about it,” I say, leading him toward a desk in the center of the lobby. He’s stiff and clearly panicked but I think I can help.

A surge of something that actually feels good and right rushes over me, and I have the sudden and startling urge to tell Sam about it.

“Hey, I’m here to volunteer,” I say to a college-aged girl in an Oakland Saints jersey who’s sitting behind the desk. “And this is my friend, James.”

She smiles warmly at us. “We’re always anxious to have new volunteers and program attendees. Tell me, James. Have you played sports before? Is there any one in particular you’re interested in? We have coaches for baseball, soccer, football, and hockey.”

He sneaks a look up at me. “Um, not really.”

I pull off my sunglasses and the girl’s mouth drops open.

“Omigod,” she whispers.

James looks back at me and his jaw damn near hits the floor.

“Holy cow,” he says. “You’re…you’re…”

I grin. “Yeah. I’m him.”

The girl claps her hands together and jumps out of her chair. “I am such a huge fan. And it’s an honor to have you here with us, Mr. Scott. If there’s anything we can do to make you comfortable, please let me know.”

I shake my head. “I’m not here for my comfort. I’m just here to help.” Nodding my head aside, I ask, “Can I talk to you real quick for a second?”

She practically trips over her feet to get to me.

In a low voice, I tell her what I overheard outside. “Lemme work with this kid. I know music’s not your thing but I can fix that for him. There’s a music store not too far from here. Can you keep an eye on him until I get back?”

“Sure, but…and I don’t mean any disrespect, Mr. Scott, but what happens when you leave? He can’t keep coming here for lessons. We don’t have a music program. This is strictly sports. ”

I bring a hand to the back of my head. “I’ll worry about that later. Right now, the kid is hurting and this may make him feel closer to his mom. I wanna try to give that to him.”

“Ohhh, you are so sweet,” she gushes. “I always knew you were a good guy.”

She obviously hasn’t read any of the tabloid trash about me, though. I try to smile at that but the reality is, I’m questionable at best right now.

But I have a chance to do something good and I’m gonna take it.

“I’ll be back soon,” I say to her before heading back to James.

“Listen, buddy, this girl?—”

“Sofia,” she interjects with a bright smile.

“Sofia is gonna hang with you for a little while. I need to take care of something real quick but I’ll be back soon. Okay?”

He stares at me in awe and nods. “Yes.”

I turn to leave and the kids erupt into cheers when the door opens and Sam walks inside. His face lights up when he sees the hordes of kids surrounding him and gives high fives to them. The door opens again and the kids go nuts for the second time when a tall, muscular guy stops next to Sam.

He’s gorgeous with bright blue eyes, dark blond hair, and one dimple that winks at me when he smiles, as if to say, “Fuck you, Brixton. You missed your chance.”

And that dimple would be right because the guy with Sam is none other than his ex-boyfriend, NHL hockey player Jack Larson, star center for the New York Renegades.

I’d read that they broke up because their schedules were too crazy and long-distance wasn’t working out well for them.

But then I remember seeing another article recently, speculating that Larson might be relocating out West.

I don’t know what the hell I was going to do or say to Sam to fix things between us…or if he’d even have listened…but it doesn’t seem to matter now.

When Jack slips an arm around Sam’s waist and hugs him close, my vision floods with green, my pulse hammering a hole in my throat.

Karma is a real bitch.

I swallow hard, my stomach dropping into my Nikes when Sam’s dark eyes tangle with mine.

And it’s then that I know that I’m too fucking late.