Page 28 of End Game

“You’re the best, Bare,” she says. A warm glow spreads through me.

“You’re just saying that because I ordered you food.”

“Yes.”

She reaches for the bottle of ketchup, and I hand it to her. The tips of her fingertips brush mine. Sparks fly down my spine, coalescing deep in my gut.

She liberally coats her fries in ketchup like a heathen. I pick up my burger and take a hearty bite. Even though we have a little more leeway on game days, a double bacon cheeseburger is definitely not part of the diet plan. Tomorrow it’s back to oatmeal, eggs, lean chicken, and protein shakes. For now, though… I take another bite.

“What do you have planned for tomorrow?”

I cringe. “Dinner with my parents.”

Her face falls. “Oh. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, I’m not too thrilled, either.”

As much as I’d like to invite her along for moral support, I know that it would only hurt her. My mother is cruel and my father apathetic at best and dismissive at worst, making him a real peach to be around. Neither of them are fans of Diana. They don’t like that she is middle class, that she’s half-Black, that she’s an athlete. Hell, they don’t like that my brother and I are athletes, either. They don’t like much of anything.

Nothing is ever good enough for the Zhangs. Nothing pleases them. They don’t care about my amazing performance on the football field or Dougie’s feats on the ice. They don’t even care when I get straight As in my accounting classes, because I go to a second-rate school in their eyes. Dougie went to Harvard—on a hockey scholarship, no less. He’s at Brown now, working on his MBA. He got the Ivy League memo I ignored in favor of a football coach I liked and a relatively decent public accounting program.

I want to take a year or two off before I go to business school. I want to work, get my feet wet in the field. There’s no doubt about it: I’m going into forensic accounting, just like everyone else in my family. I have no qualms about that.

I know it will be harder to go back to school after time away. I’ve heard the horror stories. But I need a break from… this. Studying all the time, trying to balance school and extracurriculars, having basically no life outside of the gym…

This is my last season of football ever. I don’t think I’ll join a pickup league—that’s not my scene. After this year, I’m done. So I’m going to enjoy it while it lasts, savor each and every moment, and then I’m going to move on.

Diana slurps on her milkshake. My half is already long gone.

“Feeling better?” I ask her.

She lifts a shoulder. “I guess. I wasn’t feeling bad.”

“Just drunk.”

She laughs. “Yeah. It hit me harder than I expected. I don’t think I drank enough water today.”

“We can fix that.” I make eye contact with the waitress, who heads our way. “Can we get some more water, please?”

“Sure thing, hon.” She disappears, returning with a pitcher of water. She refills both of our glasses and, after a moment, leaves the pitcher and the check with us. “Take your time, no rush.”

“Thanks.” I offer her a tight smile. It might be more like a grimace as I reach for my wallet. I don’t care about paying the bill, that’s not the issue. I’m fucking exhausted. I didn’t sleep well last night, worried about the game, and then I expended a fuck ton of energy on the field. My body is battered and bruised.

Still, if my options are spending time with Diana, or going back to my empty bed alone… I know what I’m choosing—every fucking time.

My parents are not what I would consider warm and fuzzy people. They’re more preoccupied with the family business and their reputation than in my actual life. Which usually suits me just fine.

The jitters set in once I get out of the car. My body needs to bleed off the pent-up adrenaline that built up over the course of the evening. It’s late, almost eleven o’clock at night.

As I walk through Athlete’s Village, my feet don’t take me home. Somehow I end up standing on the soccer team’s front porch, my heart in my throat. It’s late, and tomorrow is their first game: all the lights are off.

Pulling my phone out of my pocket, I dial the first number that comes up on my favorites list.

Diana answers on the second ring. “Barrett? It’s late.”

“Did I wake you up?”

“No. I was about to turn in, though.”