The Guy on the Left (The Underdogs, #2)(56)

My voice is pathetic when I find it. “Because at the time, I was a new teacher, and he was a student in another school.”

She turns to Troy. “You lied about being a student?”

Troy nods.

“So you could bed her?”

Biting his lips, Troy nods again. “I didn’t think—”

“Jesus, Troy. No, no, you didn’t think. And now I have a six-year-old baby who doesn’t know his grandmother. I didn’t raise you this way!”

“Mom, please stop. Please. I swear I was going to tell you.”

“You’ve had years to tell me.”

“I kept him away,” I admit freely feeling the shift of her hurt shaping into fury. “I’m just as much to blame.”

“And I will blame you,” she says curtly, “but right now, I’m dealing with my son.” She turns to him spewing anger and hurt. “How could you? How could you lie to me for so long? That baby is partly mine too, is he not? I raised his father.”

“Mom, I just met him three months ago.”

Her eyes bulge. “How so?”

“Me,” I say with lead in my voice. “That’s me.”

“You kept him away from his child for six years?”

Guilt riddles me as Troy tries to reason with her.

“Mom, look. We can’t erase what’s happened, but we’re all doing so well now. You of all people know how hard it is to raise a child. She was just protecting him.”

She glares at me. “No one needs protection from you, Troy. That’s unforgivable.” She takes a menacing step toward me. “And just who in the hell do you think you are?”

“His mother, Mrs. Jenner, but I feel ter—”

“Call me Pam, we’re family after all, right?” she snaps. “I can’t, I can’t believe this. Why?”

When neither Troy nor I speak, she breaks down. “I’ll never get that time back. You realize that, don’t you?” She looks between us as her tears fall rapidly. “I’ll never get that back,” she cries as Troy tries to pull her into his arms. “How could you?” She says, crumbling as she pushes him away and then looks to me. “How could you?” My tears fall along with hers as Troy finally pulls her in.

All I can do is watch her cry.




Troy



My mother drives away and I look over to where Clarissa stands on her porch, a cup of coffee in hand. It’s been one of the worst fucking hours of my life, and I’ve never seen Clarissa so upset. Enduring my mother’s wrath, she went back and forth between begging for forgiveness and defending her decisions. I hate myself, I resent her, I hate the whole fucked up situation. For the first time since I came into their lives, I feel like I need some distance. We stare at each other for long moments, both spent from hammering out our mistakes. I’m unsure of what she’s thinking as she looks at me and I have no idea where we stand, or if we have any footing at all.

I’ve just broken my mother’s heart and fractured her trust.

And maybe if I’d have come clean with Mom sooner, I’d have a place in my son’s life. Mom would have fought for me. That’s the one thing I can’t stop thinking about. I may have taken advantage that night. But did Clarissa take advantage of the fact that I was young and na?ve enough to go along with her selfish declaration that I didn’t get to be his father? Or was she so tainted by my lie that she genuinely believed I had no place in his world? I can feel the distance growing between us as she stands there with tears drying on her cheeks. It’s then I feel the wall resurrect between us. But this time, I’m not sure who’s constructing it, and instead of consoling her, I throw my sledgehammer down and walk away.





Troy



Dante, ball, work.

Priorities.

I exhale the rest as I grip the bar in my hands and push off.

Three games left.

With any luck, we’ll get to the playoffs and snag a bowl game.

I push off again, wrestling with the weight of my load.

Finish the season, get an invite to the NFL Combine, prove my worth, get drawn in the draft.

Priorities.

No more distractions. No more stalking, obsessing, daydreaming, or fucking pining.

I can’t handle any more indecision when it comes to Clarissa. Instead, I’ve pushed harder than ever, taken a full second off my dash time, and used the gym as my punching bag. I’m not sure what I want anymore, but I am an athlete, and that’s the only thing that’s getting me through.

Lance spots me as I do another set of reps.

“What’s good, man? How’s the BM situation?”

“Everything’s coming out smooth,” I grit out.

“I’m not asking about the integrity of your daily shit, Jenner.”

“Keep my count, man. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“That bad?” He lifts the bar as I finish my set.

I down the contents of my water bottle and wipe my mouth. “Too much water under the bridge.”

“She still giving you hell?”

No, she’s gone quiet, and I have nothing to say. We’re on opposite sides of the field, our son pulling us together on the fifty. My resentment is winning for the moment after each conversation with my mother.