Chapter 14

: Brandon

O nce I get to Wyoming , I find out very quickly why Jess isn’t responsive to my text messages. She lives literally in the middle of nowhere and gets no cell reception.

It’s nice to unplug, actually.

What’s nicer is seeing my sister happy and healthy. She’s an honest-to-God cowgirl. She repairs fences and herds cattle and sheep. She feeds and waters them and rides a horse and owns cowboy boots in an unironic way.

This is the best I’ve seen her since before the accident.

As we sit around a legit campfire, we talk about it for the first time in years.

“I let the accident define me for too long. It was a tragedy, but it happened to me. It isn’t me. It isn’t who I am.”

Her words hover in the air, floating away with the sparks and embers the fire spits out into the inky black night. I’ve heard encouraging words from her before. I’ve believed her before. I’m not going to be duped again.

“That’s great, Jess, but what happens the next time something bad happens? How are you going to deal with it?”

She shrugs, holding my gaze. That is something different. When she’s using, she avoids eye contact. Now her amber eyes are bright and clear. She couldn’t fake that. We’ll see how long it lasts.

We’re up at the ass-crack of dawn because it turns out ranchers really do get up with the sun. I make the drive back to Jackson Hole and return the truck I rented. Once again, I’m running late and barely make it before my flight takes off. I barely have time to doze off before we’re touching down in Denver where I change planes. I finally turn my phone back on.

Holy shit.

I’m viral.

That’s pretty cool.

Except all of ClikClak is speculating whether I’m involved with Andi Nichols.

Not if she were the last woman on Earth.

Not only is she not my type, but she’s also one of the most unfriendly human beings ever. It’s as if just standing in my presence taxes her. Whatever. I don’t know what I ever did to her to justify her attitude.

Lots of soccer players yell at refs. Other than being overly dramatic with injuries, it’s what we’re known for. I wasn’t going to back down simply because she has lady bits. If she wants to ref in the men’s league, then she needs to be prepared to accept how refs there get treated.

It wouldn’t be pro soccer without some dramatics. We’ve got to keep the people entertained somehow. Soccer simply doesn’t have the excitement that football does. Sure, it’s infinitely more athletic—you won’t see any pro soccer players with beer guts—but ninety minutes with only a few scoring occasions can make the crowd lose interest.

Plus, we’re just drama junkies.

I scroll through ClikClak some more while waiting for my next flight. It’s only then that I notice the text message from my dad.

Dad: CALL ME

I don’t know if he knows that it’s considered shouty caps, but it’s a moot point. Every communication we have is shouty caps, at least in the vibe if not the actual font.

“Hey, Dad, I just got your message. I’m on my way back from seeing Jess in Wy—”

“What are you thinking leaving mid-season like this? You should be training if you’re not playing.”

“It was three days. I went to see Jess to—”

“It didn’t look like you were going to see her. It looked like you were sneaking off with Andi Nichols. Do you know what this could do for your reputation, damaged as it already is?”

“I wasn’t sneaking off with her. Hell, I didn’t even know she was sitting next to me until I woke up.” Now that I think of it, how did she get into that seat?

Dad’s voice rises. “Jesus, Brandon, you sat with her? Are you a special kind of stupid or something? Maybe you’ve taken one too many soccer balls to the head.”

With that kind of support from my parent-slash-manager, who needs haters?

“I got on a plane. There was an empty seat next to me. I fell asleep. I woke up while the plane was hitting massive turbulence, forcing us to make an emergency landing. She was in the seat next to me. We had a brief stop at the smallest airport in the world, and then we got back on the plane and flew to Denver. I slept most of the way. That’s it. What do you want me to say?”

“Why don’t you ever think? If people think you’re in a relationship with her, people are going to think you’re a cheater. The Buzzards are this close to letting you go because of all your other problems. They let me know you’re on probation. And no matter how good I am at wheeling and dealing, I won’t be able to convince any team to take someone with an attitude issue who also cheats by sleeping with the officials.”

“So where should I mail your ‘Number One Fan’ merch to since you’re obviously the president of the Brandon Nix Fan Club?” Without waiting for an answer, I hang up.

My relationship with my dad is complicated. I wish I could say it wasn’t always like this, but it’s hard to remember a time when it wasn’t. Intense is a good word to describe him. Intense and unforgiving.

Those words would be perfect on his gravestone.

I’m sure people who know him now think that the accident that killed my mom changed my dad, but he was always an asshole. He’s just a bigger one now.

He doesn’t even like soccer. He never has.

But he certainly likes having a professional athlete for a son who makes a nice fat salary that he can collect a commission from. My dad’s not nearly as good at managing me as he thinks he is. If he were, I’d have some nice brand endorsement deals, like the one Callaghan Entay just landed.

Entay’s one lucky bastard. His life is perfect.

My life will never be that way. It wasn’t from the beginning. It doesn’t matter if I play by the rules and walk the straight and narrow. I’m always going to get the short end of the stick.

My dad’s the world’s biggest douchecanoe. My mom was killed in a car accident when I was 18. I don’t even like soccer that much. I just happen to be insanely good at it. I’m not bragging—it’s the truth. That’s a curse in and of itself. The world thinks you have to do it because you’re innately talented. No one would let me quit, even if I tried.

When I tried.

That’s when I got massively guilt-tripped into staying and playing. And now what? I’m 32 years old. I’m one of the best at what I do, but no one likes me. Who cares about that? I own that. I’m an asshole.

But to insinuate that I’m cheating and sleeping with a ref to do it, that’s just bullshit.

I’m a lot of things, but a cheater isn’t one of them.

And while part of me might be relieved at the idea of not being able to play soccer anymore, I have nothing else in my life. Without soccer, I’m nothing with no one. I may not like it, but I need soccer.

I can’t lose the only thing I have.