I’m right there with you, little guys.
With a hefty sigh, I finish my entire serving of soggy wheats in complete silence, contemplating my life.
Then I hear it: the ringing of my phone. And I know exactly who it is without having to look at the Caller ID.
I immediately pick up, soldier through my nervous system trying to actively shut down my body, and I take a deep breath. “Ethan.”
“Hayes. I would say it’s a pleasure, but we both know that under these circumstances, it’s not.”
Ouch.
Embarrassment singes my cheeks as I stir the milk around in my bowl. Rip the Band-Aid off, Hayes. “Is now a bad time to tell you that I might’ve slept with Talavera’s daughter?”
“Excuse me?”
Put the Band-Aid back on.
“Press is already fucking abysmal,” he berates. “Do you know what would happen if the public found out you risked your team’s sponsorship? People already see you as an immature playboy who doesn’t know how to control his temper.”
My balls practically shrivel up at the bite in his tone.
“I know. Fuck,” I say, knotting my free hand in my hair, frustration crackling up each vertebra of my spine. “I think I can fix this. You just have to give me a chance.”
Ethan’s voice tinkles with laughter. “How? What brilliant plan have you concocted that’ll make the world fall back in love with you overnight?”
I don’t blame him for having doubts. This plan will either make or break me. And it sounds pretty ridiculous when I say it out loud.
My jaw pulses. “A fake relationship. I rebrand myself as the doting boyfriend. I put all my effort and time into building a relationship for the fans, and I stay away from getting into trouble. It’ll show I’ve grown up—that I’m not just some crazy party boy trying to relive his glory days.”
Ethan pauses, and it’s either because he’s actually considering my idea, or he’s putting me on mute so he can laugh his ass off.
After a painfully long few seconds, he speaks again. “That’s not the worst idea I’ve heard. Relationships are like catnip to the public. I don’t have any doubt that you’ll manage to pull in some good press if you focus on cultivating this fake relationship.”
Yes! Hayes: One. Press: Zero.
“That being said, however, this means no more partying, no more women, no more fighting. Do you think you can handle this? Change won’t happen overnight. It’ll take the public some getting used to you being in a relationship. You can’t just abandon the mission because you’re bored or you’re not seeing results right away.”
“I understand. I’m determined to see this through, Ethan. Not just for me, but for the team.”
I owe it to the guys. I owe it to myself. I’m twenty-three for crying out loud. I need to start acting like it.
“If you’re sure about this, then I’d get to work sooner than later,” he advises.
Hope cannons through me as I lug the strap of my hockey bag over my shoulder. “Don’t worry. This will be easy. Getting girls to fall in love with me is a subject I’m well-versed in.”
A PITY PARTY FOR ONE
AERIS
I hate September fourth. It doesn’t matter what year it is, what day it is, or where I am: September fourth will always be the day my brother committed suicide.
This is the seventh anniversary of his death. Seven years, and the pain is still as fresh as the day he left me.
I was the first one to find him. Roden promised to drive me over to my friend’s house so we could pregame before a party, but I couldn’t find him, and I panicked.
When me and my brother were little, we used to play upstairs in the attic. My mother and father would argue a lot, and the attic was a safe haven for us. We pretended we were wanderers exploring barren lands, using cardboard boxes as imaginary forts to protect ourselves from the evil ruler that was hell-bent on capturing us—who just so happened to have the same name as my dad.
Michael.
My dad isn’t a kind man. He isn’t capable of love. When I was little, the only reason he’d talk to me was to admonish me. It was like he felt constantly burdened by his children. Children he helped bring into this world. Roden was born mute, but my father was adamant there must be some way to fix him. Roden quickly became ostracized by his peers because of his disability, leading him to fall down a rabbit hole of depression.
My brother was trapped in that six-foot-deep hole, with only me trying to tug him up by a lifeline. In the end, I couldn’t. I wasn’t strong enough.
There was nobody to stand up to my father except me. My mother, Elaine, sacrificed her autonomy and her relationship with her own children to please my father. She cared for my brother, and it was obvious that when he became depressed, she wanted to help. But my father refused to get him the help he needed, and my mom obeyed him and stood idly by as her first-born withered into a shell of his former self.
Roden was older than me by two years, but I was always his protector. Always. Until the night I found him hanging from one of the rafter beams. He didn’t leave a note, and that was what broke me the most. I didn’t know how he was feeling in his last moments. I didn’t get to say goodbye.
I failed my brother. I wasn’t enough to make him stay in this world. I should’ve fought harder for him. It feels like I’ve spent my whole life fighting—fighting for my father’s love, fighting for my mother’s support. Eventually, it’s just easier to give up.
A mosaic of prismatic colors pedals past my vision, and my mind is as foggy as condensation on glass when I place my lips to the rim of my shot glass. I’ve already put away five drinks, and the night’s still young, so I’ll probably be here until the bartender kicks me out.
I kill my drink with a toss of my head, and it’s like a tumbleweed of fire rolling down my throat, warmth spidering to every part of my body. I cringe at the initial taste, but that doesn’t stop me from flagging down the bartender for another shot. I need to stop feeling. I need to stop thinking. Heat welts me from every direction, almost strong enough to cancel out the musty scent of body odor and alcohol wafting off the inebriated crowd.
I’m at a bar and lounge called Mickey’s that I frequent. The atmosphere is way too lively for my liking tonight, and I feel like I must be the only one here trying to drink themselves to an early grave.
“Maybe you should slow down,” a voice says from behind me. It’s thick, like crushed velvet, and it has a honeyed undertone to it. It’s nice, and it definitely belongs to a male.
But as pleasant as the voice is to listen to, the advice is unwelcome.
“Did you know it’s rude to stick your nose in other people’s business?” I ask, indignation swirling inside of my chest like a cinder.
There’s a shuffling noise to my side, and judging by the displaced air, the intruder is now sitting directly next to me.
“Did you know that binge drinking can result in alcohol poisoning?”
I down the rest of my glass despite his warning. “Maybe that’s the goal.”
“You want to spend the rest of the night getting your stomach pumped in the ER?”
I snort, feeling heat bloom up the back of my neck. “Sounds exciting.”