Everything for You (Bergman Brothers #5)(4)

Axel’s a brilliant, successful artist. Ren’s a professional hockey player, an NHL darling. Ryder’s fast building an accessible wilderness-experience-and-outfitter-store empire. And Viggo’s so damn good at everything he tries, even if he doesn’t seem to stick with his interests very long, he could literally do anything he wanted.

Then there are my sisters. Freya, the eldest, a physical therapist who’s already managing her practice for God’s sake. She’s just barely in her thirties! And Ziggy, who’s always known what she wanted and singularly pursued it: soccer. She’s the beloved baby, the adored and wanted second daughter, the perfect bookend to our family.

Then there’s me. A hard worker. A diligent student athlete. Someone who got swept up in medicine because it was fascinating but most importantly because it was something Dad and I could always talk about. Someone who aced every test because that was the one thing I did that made Mom smile and hug me hard with relief that I wasn’t getting into trouble again or making mischief with Viggo.

Being on a pre-med track, getting good grades, I’ve derived pride and satisfaction from it. I’ve always liked doing well, knowing I’ve exceeded expectations, pleased the people who matter to me in doing so. If soccer weren’t the one place I felt freest, most joyful, most myself, I would like to be a compassionate, competent doctor. But soccer is my heart, and the opportunity I’ve wanted for so long is finally here, begging me to be brave, to give up these familiar, safe places of validation and straightforward reassurance, to take a risk and grab this opportunity with both hands.

“I think…” I lick my lips, which feel tingly, almost numb. “Med school was my backup plan.”

Viggo snorts. “Only you would have medical school as a backup plan.”

“Will they be proud of me?” I mumble.

His amusement dies away. He leans in, his hand slipping down the middle of my back. “Who?”

“Mom and Dad. All of you.”

“Ollie, of course. We’re already proud of you. If you did nothing but exist the rest of your life, we’d be proud of you. Because you’re ours and we love you.”

I hiccup a laugh. “Sure.”

Viggo frowns. “What’s ever made you doubt that?”

I shrug off his arm. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“Then tell me so I will.”

Drunkenly, I lean my elbows on my knees, burying my face. One elbow slips off. “I’m gonna do it. I’m gonna tell the Los Angeleeees Galaxy, yes.”

There’s a thick pause. “Maybe,” Viggo hazards, “this decision should wait for daylight. And sobriety.”

“Pff.” I wave a hand and lose my balance so badly, I nearly fall on my face. Viggo wrenches me back up. “Who needs sobriety?”

“You do, my brother. Now, c’mon, let’s get you to bed—”

“No way, José.” I stagger as I stand. Viggo wraps an arm around my waist, and I use his steadying influence to reach into my pocket for my phone. “Gonna get on my gmaaaaails and tell them my answer right now. ‘Yes, please, Galaxy! Signed, sincerely, yours truly, Oliver Abram Bergman.’”

“I’ll just take that.” Viggo plucks the phone from my hand. “You’re not emailing anyone right now.”

“Goodbyeeee, Bryce,” I sing as Viggo starts us toward the deck stairs, away from the party. He’s going to sneak me around the side of the house, in through the front door, so I don’t embarrass myself around the family, and in some dim, not-as-drunk part of my mind, I’m grateful for it. “Goodbyeeee, collegiate soccer,” I croon. “I was better than you anyway.”

A quiet laugh rumbles in his chest. “This is my favorite part of your drunkenness. You finally find your ego.”

“I am fast as a panther,” I sing to the sky. “And excellent at organic chemistry! And I have a great ass! Hear that, incorporeal celestial being, up there? Ooh, I think I see the Little Dipper. He’s my favorite.” I hiccup. “Oh dear. I think I’m very drunk. How did that happen?”

Viggo laughs again. “You had a lot of beer, Ollie. What did you expect?”

What did you expect? That sentence. It sends me hurtling back to earth from my stargazing as the world’s spinning worsens, memories blurring across time and space. That’s what Bryce said to me, when I walked into his place and caught him with someone on their knees, his dick down their throat, and asked what the hell was going on.

What did you expect?

As if we hadn’t been exclusively together for months. As if expecting my boyfriend to be faithful was an absurdity. As if I wasn’t worth his faithfulness. Or his remorse.

My stomach heaves. I groan, “Gonna puke.”

Viggo seems to have anticipated that, because he’s ushering me across the lawn, where the light doesn’t reach and there’s a row of hardy rhododendron bushes. Just as we round them, we both stop. My sister Freya’s bent over, doing exactly what I’m about to.

I open my mouth to ask if she’s okay, but vomit comes out instead.

Freya takes one look at me, then turns and pukes again.

“Okay.” Viggo lifts his hands, backing away. “I love you both. Deeply. But I—” He gags. “I do not have your medical-people iron stomachs. Be well. Call for help if you need it, but I’m sending in reinforcements if you do.”