Chapter 5

: Brandon

T his is complete and utter bullshit.

My name is being dragged through the mud like I’m some sort of cretin. How I attacked that poor, helpless lady referee like a caveman. That I was seconds away from slinging her over my shoulder and carrying her off to bed.

As if.

I get it. I’m a hothead. I’m a loud-mouth asshole.

At least that’s what my father’s been telling me for as long as I can remember.

But there’s no way in hell I was hitting on a lady ref in the middle of the soccer game.

Especially not that one lady ref. The one who might have cost me my career.

Not to mention, I do just fine with the ladies. They flock to me. I can find a Nixen anywhere. I’m not desperate.

At least not about that. My career is another story.

I’m officially on probation with the Buzzards. One more misstep and I’m toast. Something about violating the Players’ Code of Conduct that was in my contract.

I should probably read it over to find out exactly what I can and can’t do. To do that, I’d have to call my agent, but I try to talk to him as little as possible.

My advice for up-and-coming athletes: don’t let your father be your agent. It seemed smart when Lionel Messi did it, but it hasn’t worked out so well for me.

Mostly because we don’t get along. Like, can’t be in the same room or be civil to each other. In my defense, he started it.

But I can’t end it, since he’s all I have left. So, I’ll do what I always do. I won’t think about it. It’s easier that way.

My phone dings with a text alert. I’m so relieved it’s not my dad—again—that I don’t think before I look at it.

Landon: Dude, you’re viral

Landon Stubbs is the bane of my existence. He’s a thorn in my side. He’s a pain in my ass.

But he’s a pretty decent midfielder, so I let some of it slide. He’s probably my best friend, if I was going to have one of those.

Me: Shut up

Landon: Have you seen all the coverage? You going toe to toe with Andi Nichols. She put you in your place.

Me: You’re a douchebag

Landon: Takes one to know one

After those words of encouragement, I do the only responsible thing and fall down the rabbit hole which is the internet.

The handball was still a bullshit call, but she didn’t do half bad on the rest of the game. Actually, she was pretty fair. She didn’t back down when I got in her face, which says something about her. If only she’d heard what Trevyon said to me, she’d probably have kicked him herself. But no, I’m the bad guy here.

I’m the guy who could get fired over this.

I’m half-tempted to text my sister, but she doesn’t need my problems too. Her life is enough of a train wreck without my baggage. Still, it’s been a few days since I’ve heard from her. That has me worried. My problems can wait. What if she’s not okay?

Me: Hey Jess, what’s up?

Then, I try not to panic when she doesn’t answer right away. For some people, it could mean they’re busy. They’re in the shower. Or at work. Or having sex. Doing something that shouldn’t be interrupted.

But when Jessica doesn’t answer, I worry that she’s on a bender somewhere. Passed out. Maybe overdosing in a restaurant bathroom in the bad part of town. And trust me, wherever she is, it’s the bad part of town.

In theory, she’s clean right now, but I’ve heard that line more times over the past dozen years than I can count. Because of that, her relapsing will be my fear every day until the day one of us gets put into the ground. And with her history, it could be any day now. Any phone call could be the one .

There’s nothing I can do from my house in Walpole, Massachusetts. Jessica, last I knew, was on a ranch in Wyoming or some bullshit like that. Finding herself while communing with nature. I think it was a scam to get cheap labor by billing it as a healing experience to help with recovery. It wouldn’t surprise me if it’s a cult or something, because that’d be just like my sister to accidentally join a cult.

I don’t care. She needs to stay out west. Far away from me and my teammates. To be fair, she hasn’t been to see me since I played for the Nevada Renegades and Trevyon Wallis-Smalls was my teammate.

Las Vegas and my sister do not mix. In fact, it was that visit that he was so eloquently referring to as he jabbed an elbow into my side. He’s lucky he only got a spike to the shin. I should have bashed his face in for what he said.

Doesn’t he know what happens in Vegas is supposed to stay in Vegas?

Of course, none of it was untrue. It was just uncalled for. It’s not cool to go after someone’s personal life like that. No one talks about my family like that and walks away. Sure, we’re the poster children for dysfunction, but that’s nobody’s business but ours.

And since I’m not allowed to pummel anyone’s face in—I’m fairly sure that’s a violation of my contract—I channel all my rage and frustration and fear the only way I know how.

Working out until I drop.

It only takes me 90 minutes to complete my 10-mile treadmill run. Not nearly long enough to take the edge off my nerves. Another hour or two lifting weights, and I’m finally spent enough for my brain to quiet down.

As I soak in my ice tub post workout, I can only imagine what I’d say if I was ever interviewed in Sports Illustrated and they ask about how I stay in such peak physical condition.

Well, you see, my family is super messed up, and I’m afraid I’m going to become an addict like my sister or the biggest prick in the world like my dad, so I work out instead.

I also enjoy other physical forms of working out, if you know what I mean, but that seems like too much effort. I have absolutely zero capacity to deal with a woman’s bullshit right now. And trust me, if there’s a woman, there will be bullshit.

By the time I’m done with my workout, I’m so physically exhausted I think about passing out rather than walking all the way upstairs to my bedroom. My small A-frame was meant to have a main-floor bedroom, but I converted it into a home gym. My room is now the loft space upstairs.

The house is ugly. The decor is dated and in desperate need of an overhaul. Even so, it feels lived-in and cozy, which hasn’t encouraged me to pick up my speed with the renovations. It was also super expensive for the half-acre lot it’s on. But it looks out onto a lake. Large sliding glass doors give a view from both levels of the house. That’s what makes it all worth it.

Plus, it’s secluded and off the beaten path for being in a pretty congested area of the country. I’m not sure any therapist would agree that solitude is my friend, but I think I’m doing just fine.

Except for the whole probation thing.

Speaking of my therapist, I shoot a text to Watson Ross to ask for an appointment, because I don’t actually have an outside therapist. Sure, Watson’s the team’s sports psychologist, but I’m sure I can talk through whatever’s bothering me and get it under control so I don’t go fully off the rails.

It’s not like I have to talk about my childhood or growing up or my sister or anything like that. I mean, I might have to get into my sister, if I’m talking about the game against the Terrors. It’ll be fine.

Actually, this will be good. Coach Janssen made our goalie, Callaghan Entay, go talk to Ross last winter when his shoulder was messed up. He got his shit straightened out, and he’s now over in Paris repping the US as goalie in the Global Games.

Lucky bastard.

I could have been there.

I was blackballed.

Everyone knows I’m one of the best forwards in the league. But no one wants to give me a chance. They all want their horse to get ahead in the race. I’m no one’s horse.

I’m a lone wolf.

Just how I like it.

No one wants to be around me anyway.

And that’s fine with me. Just let me play soccer and score goals and leave me alone.