Not My Match (The Game Changers, #2)(61)

I nod, and we move through the diner—only I get shuffled back by a crew of drunken guys, and Devon turns and moves back to me, edging himself through them with his shoulders. He stares down at me in the midst of them—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven—oh shit, we’re gonna hit a record. Then he clasps my hand, threading our fingers together.

“You’re with me,” he says softly. Or was it, “You with me?”

Either way . . . “Yeah.” I’m with you.

We hold hands and walk out the door.





Chapter 17

DEVON

“Do you have football camp tomorrow?” she asks as we walk back to the penthouse.

“Not on Sundays. Only day off.”

“Good. I’m not sleepy,” she announces.

“Me neither,” I say, and the truth is I’m not ready to go back to the penthouse, where we’ll be alone.

“Let’s go for a drive. Not Red, though; let’s give Cindy a chance to leave.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“You’re worried about your dad, and you haven’t been able to catch him during the day, so let’s do a drive-by. Check up on him. Maybe look for clues.”

“It’s your birthday, and you want to go see my dad?”

She tilts her chin up. “Yeah.”

“All right. Let’s go.” That was not what I meant to say. What if she sees where I came from and thinks differently about me? What if he’s there and trashed?

I kick those thoughts down as we hop in the Hummer and drive out of downtown and head to my dad’s neighborhood. She’s got the windows down, her hair blowing, belting out “Hollaback Girl” with the radio, and shit, I laugh. I don’t know how she does it, but everything about her is funny. Bemused, I realize she’s one of the best friends I have. In the space of just a few days, I’ve told her more than anyone else knows about me, besides Jack.

We sing the chorus together, my fingers tapping out the beat on the steering wheel as I whip into Dad’s driveway and kill the lights. We get out and meet at the front door.

“You have a key?”

Feeling nervous, I nod and fish it out of my pants. Before I open the door, I take a deep breath and look down at her. “His place . . . it’s messy.”

She nods, face composed in a careful expression.

We walk in, and I flick on the light—the one I changed the last time—and take in the open space. The den is empty, but I can tell he’s been here since the last time. More takeout containers litter the coffee table; an empty vodka bottle sits on the end table. Giselle heads to the kitchen, and I take the bedroom. It’s empty, the bed unmade, clothes on the floor. His closet looks bare, though, as if he’s packed a few things. Weird.

“Devon,” she calls from the kitchen, and I jog to her, fear inching up my spine.

She’s holding a piece of paper in her hand and thrusts it out to me. “It’s a letter for you. It was on the counter.”

“Oh.” I swallow thickly and take it, sitting down at the table, my eyes eating up the words.

Devon,

My son. Remember that time you scored your first touchdown in JV for the hometown team? Remember the first girl you brought home—the one you really liked? Or that moment when you walked across the stage to get your high school diploma? You do. You have those memories. I don’t. Not one. I don’t even know if I was there for that first touchdown. Maybe there’s a game I recall, but I can’t see your uniform in my head or that moment when you should have looked up in the stands to see if I was there.

I close my eyes and clench my fists, memories I don’t want jabbing at me like thorns. No, Dad, I looked, and you weren’t there. And I never brought one girl back. Never.

You’ve done so much for me—money, house, car, a job—things I tried to hang on to with everything I have, but I messed it up. I gave it a shot, tried AA, but I’m weak. So damn weak. Dotty is done with me, and I don’t blame her. She deserves better. I can’t hold a woman. You’ve watched them come and go, that look on your face, hope. God, hope is cruel.

I’ve done something bad. It hurts to even write the words down, but I can’t do it to your face. I can’t talk to you when you know that I owe people a lot of money, bookies, and not the legal ones.

Emotion rips at me, anger rising. My shoulders bunch as Giselle comes behind me, her hands moving over my neck and down to my arms. I shift and lean into her, my chest rising.

I have friends who are putting me up. You’re a good kid with a big heart, but leave me be. Please, don’t set this letter down and try to find me. I don’t want to be found, so please listen to me when I say stay put.

My breath hitches, a desolate emotion replacing the anger. He’s left me. He’s fucking left. I’d pay his bookies, I could get him in rehab if he’d just go, I’ll spend more time with him, I’ll make it right . . .

“I know,” Giselle whispers, and I realize I spoke aloud. She leans over me, running her hands through my hair—soft, easy strokes. “You love him.”

I’m sober as I write this. Woke up and promised myself I’d get the words down before the first drink kicks in. I want to say the right things to you, to make sure you know that these years in Nashville, the times we talked—I remember those moments, but when the end of the day is here, all I have is a thirst for the bottle. You’ve done more for me than a son should have. Just . . . don’t give me anything else. I’ll only hock it or drink it. I want to be better, but another side of me doesn’t. It’s a battle every single day.