Stroker: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (33 page)

“I don’t want anything to do with you,” but she’s broken me, plump tears running down my face.

“God, don’t cry. He’s not worth it. My offer from before still stands, you know.”

“What offer?” I whimper.

“Stay. We’ll play. Like I said, you’re fucking sexy, even more so when you’re upset. You haven’t come until you’ve been with a woman.” She brings her hand up, licking at the span between her thumb and forefinger. “Jensen’s got a nice cock, but it’s no match for what I’m offering.”

“I’ve got to go.” I spin and start running for the door, smashing into Jensen’s coffee table and barely feeling the pain, stumbling to the door and rushing across the courtyard, anything to get away from
her
and
him
and this whole stupid mess.

The tears dry on my face as I run, my handbag slapping against my side.

How could you have been so stupid? You knew what he was.

The street, freedom, beckons. I just want to get home and forget all about this.

It’s complete night now, the lighting poor.

I come out the front gates of the apartment complex and start across the road, but I’m not thinking straight, even as the lights close in on me.

I don’t know why, but I freeze, don’t even manage to turn fully before I’m hit.

JENSEN

“You look good out there.”

It’s the first thing Josh has said to me in weeks. I nod, take it, pulling the laces on my boots a little harder than necessary.

Coach Andrews steps in, the assistant coach by his side somehow looking more worried than usual, not that they’ve got jack to complain about. We’re two spots from the top of the MLS ladder. Another couple of wins and that championship is a certainty.

Coach claps his hands together. “So, you all think you’re hot shit, don’t you?” When we remain silent, he questions, “Well?”

“Yes, Coach,” comes the patchy response.

He slams his hand against a locker. “This is precisely the fucking time when we’re not going to rest on our laurels. We’re like a shooting fucking star but you can bet your asses both Toronto and York can smell that cup. Are we going to give it to them, hand it over on a silver fucking platter?”

“No, Coach,” a little more firmly this time.

I said, “Are we going to give it them?!”

Assistant Coach Druitt takes a step back.

“No, Coach!” a little louder now.

Coach relaxes. He lives for this drill-sergeant shit. It’s embarrassing. “Good. Let’s get out there and give it everything.”

It’s hard for the mood to be anything but lively given our 5-0 over New England. Still, I remain focused.

“Collins!” Coach calls from the sidelines.

I jog over. “Yes, Coach.”

He points to Josh. “Your brother’s looking a little unsteady out there, son. You know anything about that?”

Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if Josh was a little hungover out there, maybe even drunk, but I’m not about to rat him out matter how much I want to. The drink could be a problem, but we need him right now. “He’s having a hard time at the moment.”

“You think I should pull him?”

“You’re asking
me
?”

“I must say, you yourself had me worried for a while there, but you’re back and you’re playing the kind of soccer I only see when I’m daydreaming. It’s Rio in a couple of months. You keep this up and you’ll be captain of goddamned Team USA. How does that sound?”

“Good, Coach.”

“Then start talking about Goofy over there.”

“Like I said, he’s dealing with a lot of personal stuff.”

“Girl trouble?”

“Something like that.”

Coach spits at the ground. I swear he only does it to make himself look tougher. What did the grass ever do to him? “I know you’re with his girl, son, and that’s fine, but if that’s the reason he looks like ass out there, you’ve got to fix it.”

“I don’t know if that’s fair, Coach.”

Speaking to any typical coach like this wouldn’t work so well, but I’ve learnt Andrews likes to be defied every once in a while. It buys his respect.

“Maybe you’re right, Collins, but if he keeps this shit up he’ll be warming the bench, you hear?”

“Yes, Coach.”

He slaps my ass. “Fuck off now. There’s a bunch of 4-3-3 rondos with your name on them.”

“My favorite.”

He blows me a kiss.
Asshole.

I head into the grid and get to work, but I’m thinking about Josh. I can’t seriously be expected to drag him back into line. He’s a fucking adult. He should have this shit under control. In many ways I want him to fail. I don’t know what it would prove, but it would sure as hell make me feel better for the shit he put Scarlet through.

I glance out to the midfield. Coach was right. He barely has control of the ball, transitions sloppy. The attackers will rape him dry. Maybe the bench is the best place for him at the moment.

The ball ricochets off my head.

One of our defenders, Jones, is laughing. “I thought you gave better than that, Collins. Suck his cock later. The sooner we get through this, the sooner we get to the bar.”

Or Scarlet.

I’m desperate to see her. Another day of blue balls and they’ll be sucked up into my body, a vagina opening up in their place.

I throw the ball back into the center of the grid, pointing at Jones and smiling. “How about you shut that ugly trap of yours and stop with the foreplay.”

*

I park in the vacant block next to Scarlet’s apartment complex, keen to see her and relax. It was a tough session today, tough but rewarding in that way only hard physical labor can be. For the first time in a long time I have my A-game back.

I thought Josh was heading out tonight. That’s what I overheard in the showers, which is why I’m surprised to see his Mustang parked outside her place.

I clench, telling myself to relax.
Just wait.

I find him at the bottom of the stairwell near the complex swimming pool a positively sickening shade of green. “Grabbing a coffee? I hear they do it better up in the Hills.”

He stops on the bottom step and turns, grinning. “Fancy seeing you here.”

I stand by the pool, make sure he’s not within striking distance. “We’re together. Why’s it so surprising? Question is, what are
you
doing here?”

He leans against the wall, crosses his arms. “We’re getting back together.”

“Bullshit.”

“Seriously.”

I start to walk towards the stairwell. “I’ll hear it from her, thanks.”

“She’s not there.”

“You’re lying.”

He gestures up to the apartment. “Be my guest, but I’m telling you.”

I point. “You’re fucking delusional, you know that?”

He sits on the bottom stair and pats the space beside him. “Sit.”

I remain standing.

“Come on, you pussy. I’m not going to do anything. Scout’s fucking honor.”

“We weren’t Scouts.”

“Just fucking sit, will you?”

I’m shaking my head as I do it, legs aching from the session. I sit beside him looking at the blue twilight above glancing off the pool’s surface. “Why are you here, really? Don’t bullshit me, Josh. You don’t think I can smell when you’re up to something? We’re fucking twins.”

“Look,” he says, bringing his hands together. Almost looks like he’s praying. “Things aren’t good, okay?”

“What do you mean ‘things aren’t good’? We’re shooting up the ladder, you’ve got your house, your car… You’ve got more money than we ever dreamed of. Remember when we were in Rosie? We would have killed for five bucks back then.”

“Fuckin’ A.”

We both smile at the thought of Rosie. We didn’t have much there, but we made do. Sometimes I miss that simple life.

Josh sniffs, nose twitching. “I don’t have any money, man.”

I laugh. “The fuck you don’t.”

“No, he says, serious, “I don’t.”

“Well, what the fuck happened to it? You can’t tell me that palace of yours was twenty-million.”

“I got in with some shady people, bro.”

“Who?”

“I don’t know, just fucking shady, okay?”

“And?”

“I did some shit.”

I’m struggling to bottle my anger up. “What the fuck are you talking about, Josh? You better start talking sense and quit with the fucking riddles or I’m gone.”

He throws his hands up. “Fuck, fine. Shit, okay? Drugs—cocaine, heroin, fucking speed, all of it, whatever I can get, stuff to level me out, help me play better—top-grade compound shit.”

“And the rest?”

“Poker.”

I stand, holding my head. “Jesus fucking Christ, Josh. You’re telling me you snorted away all your money and now you owe it to who? The fucking mob?”

“Maybe. I don’t know who they are.”

“But you were happy enough to let them take you for a ride, get you nice and jacked up before they scammed you out of your money. Pops taught us better than that.”

Josh stands, pointing back. “Fucking Pops. You think he was such a great father? Why the fuck did he leave then, without a fucking word. Fuck him.”

“You don’t mean that.”

“Yes, I do. This shit is genetic, fucking addiction. I blame him.”

I step in. “The only person you have to blame is yourself.”

He sits and breaks down, the façade dropping so fast I barely see it coming. He sobs into his hands. He looks up to me with desperate eyes. “I’m fucked, man. I’m completely fucked.”

I push the stuff about Scarlet aside, even though I want to get to the bottom of it.

I sit, shaking my head again that I’m actually going to help him.

Blood. He’s blood. It’s your
duty.

Maybe Josh is right. Was Pops really that great? He was strict, but I get that. We sure as hell needed a hard hand every now and then, but leaving us, leaving Mom high and dry?
That
was low.

I place my hand on Josh’s shoulder. “Look, I know some people. I can get you help, but it’s up to you. There won’t be a second chance. You pay these pricks, you ditch the shit, cold turkey, whatever it takes, but after that…”

“I don’t deserve it,” he says, great wracking sobs shaking his frame.

“You have fucked up. I’m really fucking mad at you, man, but you’re my brother. Let’s forget about what has happened and move on, work on getting you out of this mess.”

“I can’t get out.”

My gaze narrows. “You can and you will, but it’s going to require a lot of effort on your part. This isn’t like going up against Philly, those fucking pushovers. No, you’re going to work harder than you ever have in your life, but you
will
be back on your feet.”

Don’t do it,
says my head, screaming, but what choice do I have? Do I just ignore this, and then what? His blood will be on my hands. Mom would never forgive me.

But the respect I had for Josh is gone. There isn’t an ounce of it I can dig up to put this into some kind of positive perspective. Cheating on Scarlet was bad enough, barely forgivable, but drugs, after what we saw growing up? It doesn’t get much worse. Who knows who the fuck he owes money to, and how much? I can pay it, but what’s to stop them coming back for me, bleeding the both of us dry? I’ll help him, but I need time to think it all out.

“Are you listening to me, Josh?”

He nods. “Yes.”

“No,” I repeat, louder, “are you fucking listening to me?”

“Yes!” he shouts back.

I look around. There’s no one in sight—thank god. The last thing I need is another headline.
Might do you good this one.—

Still, I don’t want it. Things were just fucking fine until Josh showed up here today. I’m mad at him for a moment, consider getting the hell out of there, but I think of Scarlet. What would she make of this?

She’s too sweet, too good for either of us. What Josh did wouldn’t matter to her in the end. She’d ask, beg me to help him, and I’d do it. I
will
do it. She doesn’t have to know the details. I can keep it all on the DL, make the right calls and get him into rehab somewhere nice and sunny away from the press. Coach will understand. Well, maybe not, but there won’t a choice if he ever wants Josh back on the field again.

All those sponsors—Tag, Lonsdale—gone. It ain’t going to be an easy road back, but fuck, if Suarez did it…

“I need details,” I tell him, “starting with what you’re taking, right now.”

“Nothing.”

I take him by the shoulders and shake. “Fuck, Josh! What are you taking? Tell me or I walk.”

“Coke. Just coke.”

“Weed?”

“Yes.”

I can’t stop shaking my head. “At the house? Anywhere else?”

“The car.”

“Okay, that’s good. We’ll flush it, get rid of it all. Who knows about it? Anyone on the team?”

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Any girls?”

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

I tap his head. “Think. Did any of them take pictures, video? Can they prove it?”

“I was high as a fucking kite, man. I don’t know.”

“Think. Fucking think.”

“No, not that I remember.”

“Okay. It’s a start.”

I look around, check we aren’t being watched. His paranoia is catching. “When was the last time you used?”

“This morning.”

“You were high at training?”

He nods.

“Un-fucking-believable. No wonder you looked like an under-eighteen out there. Coach pulled me aside, you know, told me to get you back in order.”

“I wasn’t that bad.”

“You looked like you were doing a fucking sobriety test out there. If you don’t shape up, he’s going to bench you.”

He claws onto my shirt. “You can’t let that happen.”

“No,” I push back. “
You
can’t let that happen. What did I say? It’s up to you to fix this mess. I’m just here to help.”