Heartache and Hope (Heartache Duet #1)(3)

“Well, if you won’t take money, maybe come around later this week. I’ll grill some steaks for us.”

Trevor stops, his hand on the door, and turns to us, his grin from ear-to-ear. “Now that is an offer too good to refuse.”

He’s gone a second later, his footsteps heavy on the porch.

Dad waits for him to be out of earshot before stating, “Good kid.”

“Yeah.”

“Good beer, too.”

I clamp my lips together.

He laughs. “Come with me?”

“Where?”

He places the empty bottle on a box labeled Boy Spawn and heads out the door.

I follow as he leads me to a hunk of metal on four wheels.

“So…?” Dad asks, his eyes wide and waiting. It doesn’t take long for his face to switch from his usual overtired, overworked, over-the-every-day-struggles-of-life frown into a full-blown grin. All it took was a twitch of my lips, a semblance of a smile. ”Do you like it?”

He’s asking the wrong question, because honestly? Do I like it? No. The car’s a piece of shit. Way beyond its expiration. Beaten to death and then brought back to life only to be beaten again. Rust forms the majority of the two-door’s roof. Door handles have been replaced with what I assume are coat hangers. The rear windshield… well, there is no rear windshield. There’s just black plastic in its place, so… again… do I like it? Fuck no.

Do I appreciate it? Hell yes. “Dad, are you serious?” My grin matches his now. “You didn’t have to. I mean, you shouldn’t have. Things are hard enough with the move and—”

“Connor,” he cuts in, shushing me with one hand, while a finger of the other runs along the dirt of the car’s hood. “It’s my job to worry about what’s too hard and what isn’t.” His shoulders heave with his inhale as he focuses on the perfectly clean line he’s just created. When his gaze meets mine again, I can see the exhaustion in his eyes. He’s worn out. Done. He tries to cover it up with the same smile he’s kept on, but I can tell it’s waning. Slowly. Surely.

I inspect the car closer. Or at least pretend to. Because my mind is elsewhere, running on empty, doing a play-by-play of every possible scenario my future has waiting for me. And not even my entire future. Just tomorrow.

The first day of senior year is daunting for anyone, but the first day as the new guy in a new school full of rich kids who I’m sure can sniff a poor, scholarship kid from a mile away? Yeah, tomorrow’s going to suck. And showing up in this car? It’s going to be hell… but there’s no way I’m telling Dad that. Or anyone else. Because the truth is, I don’t have anyone else. It’s 598 miles from Tallahassee, Florida, to Shemeld, North Carolina. Physically. But for my so-called friends and teammates back there, I may as well have moved to Mars. The second rumors started to spread about my moving for a better chance at my dreams was the exact second the invites and phone calls stopped. In one breath I was the team hero, and in the next, I was getting a stream of Fuck you, Traitor text messages.

What a time to be alive.

I grip the makeshift handle and pull up, cringing at the sound of metal scraping metal.

“She’ll get better. Don’t think she’s been used in a while,” Dad says, kicking at the tire. The hubcap separates from the wheel and falls to the ground in a circular motion—around and around—and I watch it, feel the chuckle building in my chest. I clamp my lips shut and try to contain it because the last thing I want to do is offend him.

His laughter starts low from somewhere deep inside him, and a moment later, he’s in hysterics, a belly-rumble type sound that has me doing the same. “Goddamn, it’s a piece of shit,” he murmurs, trying to compose himself.

“It’s not,” I assure.

It is.

“At least this way, you’ll be sure to get to school and games on time. Besides, it’s all for the end game, right?”

I nod. The “end game” is what we call the plan for my future, and St. Luke’s Academy is the first step. My agent, Ross, suggested the move, and Dad and I agreed early on that whatever Ross says goes, and he says to “trust in the process.”

So… I trust in the process.

Ross had organized everything. All I had to do was show up, play ball, keep my grades up, and he’d make sure I’d get into a D1 college.

Four years.

Graduate.

NBA.

End game.

Ross—he’s not big on the four-year part of the plan, but Dad’s adamant on it and in a way, so am I. A pro-athlete can only maintain the physical demands for so long. Besides, one injury could end it all and then what?

I catch the keys Dad throws at my chest.

“You need to drive me back to my car.”

“What? You ain’t worried about ruining your street cred by being seen in this?” I joke.

“Boy,” he mocks, pulling open the passenger door. “Being seen with you ruined my street cred a long time ago.”





Chapter 2





Ava





The corridors of school are deserted, first period already in progress. Through thin walls and solid doors, teachers speak loudly, authoritative tones used to impart their knowledge and wisdom on the students in front of them.