Fade Out (The Morganville Vampires #7)(16)

My feelings are so conflicting I want to punch my locker.

I shouldn’t be thinking about this now. I should be enjoying the moment before it’s over. Maybe too soon.

I’m riding a high, having sent the ball right into Devon’s hands, spiraling beautifully through the air in a perfect arc, to win the game by a landslide. Moments like that don’t happen often. We’re nearly undefeated, and I play my ass off each and every game, running hard. Winning hard. But that moment was captured as if in slow motion.

Ball snapped to me. Two steps back. Arm cocked. Ball launched.

It was clear and impeccable. That single second when everything came together and I watched the ball sail through the air, then cradled in arms, before I was tackled. I don’t even remember the takedown, just the emotion welling inside. Knowing this is what I’m meant to do.

It’s the first time I’ve ever felt it.

I wonder if Arian saw the game. If she saw the pass. Not that I should care. I don’t need her approval, I remind myself. She’s not Alyssa.

Shoulder pats and congratulations are given to me in the locker room as the last of the team head out. I’m taking my time changing out, savoring this feeling, making it last as long as possible.

Before freshman year in college, I rode the bench. My father always pushed me to play sports, any sport, but he was a hardcore football fan. So I grew up with plenty of practice; backyard games, watching him and my brother toss the ball around. Sunday game day. My mom scurrying in the kitchen to feed the shouting guys in the living room. Pep talks and last minute drills before each tryout.

And I saw the hope crushed in his eyes each time I made backup.

By my senior year of high school, I hated the game. I loathed football. Though my father never openly voiced his disappointment, the silent avoidance hurt more than any scolding. I’d rather him yell and curse, like some of the dads I’d seen do to their sons, rather than bottle his regret.

So I told myself that when I went off to college, I wouldn’t even try out. I’d be on my own and away from my family and wouldn’t have the pressure to perform. I could finally focus on something…anything else—like my writing. Something that I’ve done in secret ever since middle school. Short stories. Plots for novels. But tell that to my dad? That I’d rather write a book than run a touchdown?

Yeah. Sure. That would’ve been the final crack in our fragile relationship.

That’s how much the man loved football.

But that was then. A lifetime ago. Before everything changed.

I slam my locker door, my mood dimming, turning black. It’s like I couldn’t just enjoy the moment; I had to dredge up the painful past. Like a masochist. Never allowing myself the joy of the game. It’s work. Always.

Except for today. For the first time in four years—hell, since my father first tossed me a pigskin—I felt like I was destined to play ball. And not just for him.

“You coming?” Gavin says, peeking his head around the cement blocked corner of the locker room. “We’re hitting Jack’s, bro.”

Celebration for our victory. “I’ll be right out.”

Stuffing my sullen thoughts down deep in my guts, I reach for the high I felt only moments before. Solid in my choice not to let anything ruin the rest of tonight.





* * *



Jack’s Bar Wench is a college dive bar in the heart of town. Sidewalks line the touristy beach town’s two-lane roads. Decorative glowing lampposts are planted before every building. Spiral metal benches cap each corner. The bar is attached to a chain of two-and three-story buildings, brick and wood combos, which litter either side of the main strip.

In truth, I love this town. Everything is within walking distance. It’s classic verses old. And Jack’s is a homage bar for college football. Our home. Even though I ride the guys pretty hard about not drinking or partying too hard during the season, it’s not a bad idea to throw back a beer and relax after a game. To celebrate.

I don’t dare let them drink off a defeat.

As Beck waves the waitress over, he cocks his chin and shouts, “A round for the boys, sweet tits!”

A grimace pulls at the corners of my mouth. I feel embarrassed on the waitress’s behalf, but she’s never once complained. Rather, she laughs, encouraging the attention from the players. It’s a sad truth that these guys own this town. Can pretty much do as they please—but for the most part, they don’t. Most of them want to go on to the big leagues, and know that the wrong shit going down now can prevent a career in the pros before it even starts.

My brother is living proof of that. A cautionary tale to all.

I glance around our table. “Make it last, brothers,” I say. “We’re packing it in early tonight.”

Devon groans. “You’re such a hard-ass.”

The guys chuckle, but I know it’s in good spirit. They get how important this season is. It’s our year—many of our last—to bring home the championship. We can’t afford to let one night of fun hinder our game.

Braxton won the bid for the playoff to be held here. That means the pressure is on for us to slaughter in the regular season—to impress the committee enough to secure our spot. I can almost feel the tension radiating off the guys sitting around me now, the thought hovering just above the celebratory atmosphere.