Quarterback Sneak (Red Zone Rivals #3)(62)

Then, before she could cry, she vomited.

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Julep



I woke up in the middle of the night with the worst headache of my life.

I was in Holden’s bed.

At first, I panicked, heart thundering faster and faster as I tried to make out what time it was, to make out where I was. Everything was foggy and in slow motion, like being in a dream. But when the familiar scent of him washed over me, when I realized it was his NBU football t-shirt I wore and his pillow I had drooled on, I calmed a bit.

Then, I remembered.

And I panicked all over again.

I remembered waking up on what would have been my little sister’s twenty-first birthday, remembered putting a candle in one of the muffins I’d made the day before and singing a sad version of happy birthday before I blew it out and cried.

I remembered ditching my exam and calling in to work.

Calling in to life.

I remembered crawling into bed and staying there, ignoring every text and call that came through from Holden. I laid there all day, letting my memory torture me, almost savoring every minute that I reminded myself what a piece of scum I was.

And then, at some point, I started drinking.

Mary was at work. Dad had flown Mom in and, though he’d invited me to dinner with them, I knew he didn’t really mean it.

I knew she didn’t want me there — especially not today.

So, I stayed home, and I drank half a bottle of wine and stared at the texts from Holden. I was still staring at the phone when his text about the party came through.

After that, I drank another bottle and a half.

And when I got to the Pit, some kid had offered me a Xanax.

I’d popped one without thinking twice.

Relapsing was easy. It was almost too easy on a day like today. All the reasons I had for staying relatively sober, for sticking to a glass of wine and maybe a joint now and then flew out the window. I couldn’t remember why I didn’t get obliterated every night when my brain was beating on me like that. In fact, it seemed like the only thing to do.

I was weak. And now, as I sobered, I was ashamed.

My head was still foggy as I groaned and tried to sit up in bed, my mouth as dry as the desert. I needed water. I needed Advil.

A flash of Holden punching Kyle sparked through the haze, and my eyes shot open wide.

Oh, God.

I started breathing hard, covering my mouth as more and more of the fuzzy memory came back to me. I remembered Kyle finding me with the group of kids who had given me a Xanax, remembered him saying he wanted to show me his room. I remembered following him, knowing it was a bad idea, but having that same self-destructive who the fuck cares attitude that always found me on this day.

I remembered Holden bursting in.

I remembered not being able to speak, to move.

I remembered…

Wait, did I…

No, I didn’t… God, please, I didn’t, right?

I looked down at Holden’s t-shirt I wore and knew even without confirmation that I had.

I’d thrown up.

He’d helped me. He’d undressed me and cleaned me. I knew from my breath alone that he’d had me brush my teeth, probably had me drink water, too.

He’d found me alone in his teammate’s room, and instead of thinking the worst, instead of being pissed, instead of judging me… he’d helped me.

My chest burned, and I covered the spot where my heart ached against the bones trapping it in my body. It wanted out, and I didn’t blame it.

I wanted to tear it out and set it free, too.

Holden stirred, his hand blindly reaching out like he wanted to pull me into him. When he felt the bed and I wasn’t laying there, he sat up quickly, his hair mussed and eyes tired. He looked a little worried, but then he saw me, and a long exhale left his chest as if he was relieved I was still there.

“Hey, you okay?”

He started rubbing my back.

I’d been a monster — a drunk, drugged-up, disgusting monster, and here he was, consoling me, taking care of me, asking if I was okay. He’d been through his own tragedy, arguably worse than the one I faced, and yet he woke up and tackled every day like he was lucky to be alive.

He lived for the loved ones he’d lost.

I self-destructed for mine.

I looked at him like he was insane, like he was blind to not see me for who I really was.

He swallowed, shaking his head as if to tell me I was wrong before I could even speak the words out loud. “Come here.”

Then, he pulled me into his chest, and I broke.

I shattered, surrendering to every bit of the self-abuse I had stocked up and waiting to be released. I let it pour over me, taking every hit like I deserved every last one.

Because I did.

It was ugly, the way I sobbed as he held me, each breath sawing in and out of me with more and more effort. I kept wiping at my nose before it could drip onto his shirt, but he didn’t pull away, didn’t loosen his grip.

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, my throat raw.

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not.”

I pulled back, swiping at my face like it was the tears fault I’d been such a disaster. Holden lessened his hold only enough for me to sit up, but he still held me, his hands on where my legs were crossed under me. He smoothed his thumbs over my skin, watching me, waiting, but not rushing.