My Distraction
810 Words
XAVIER
I hate the silence of my house.
It's big for one person. Just too clean. Too still. The walls used to echo with my Mom's humming, soft laughter from the kitchen, the TV running in the background. Now all they echo is the tick of a wall clock and the quiet creak of floorboards beneath the steps.
I drop my gym bag by the stairs, peel off my jacket, and stand in the foyer like a stranger in my own home. My father won't be back tonight. Probably not tomorrow either. Business trips, meetings, charity events, excuses. The man hasn't looked me in the eye since the funeral.
Dinner is just leftovers, eaten alone at the kitchen counter. My phone buzzes now and then. Mostly the guys in the team group chat. Memes. Trash talk. Parker sending another video of Beatrice.
I don't open it.
I saw her face earlier. The way her shoulders hunched like she was bracing for a blow. The flash of betrayal in her eyes when I didn't say anything. I curse under my breath and toss the phone on the couch.
What the hell am I doing? It's supposed to be a dare. A stupid joke. Something to blow off. But the more I watch her, the less it feels like a game.
She isn't like the girls who throw themselves at me in the hallway, all perfume and fake lashes and whispers. Beatrice is raw, real. There is something in her eyes that feels like it mirrors something in mine.
But that is the problem. Real doesn't work in my world. Real got you hurt.
“Reel her in,” Parker had said earlier, laughing like it was a prank. "Don't get all soft, man."
I'm not soft. I know that. I couldn't be, not with a father who looks at me like I'd never be good enough, not with teammates who respect you for how many girls you bagged, not with the whole damn school watching me. So yeah, I play along.
But something about the way she flinched today-- I rub a hand down my face. She's getting under my skin. And the worst part? I don't know if I want her out.
I hear the front door slam, followed by the sound of shoes on marble. It's sharp. Measured. Heavy with judgement. My father is home.
It's almost 10 p.m. No warning, no text. He never just shows up, not since the funeral.
I stand at the top of the stairs, watching the man who used to call me champ walk into the kitchen like a stranger. My father's suit is still perfectly pressed. Cuff-links gleaming. His tie loosened just enough to pretend he's had a long day.
He pours himself a scotch without a word. "You aren't supposed to be back until Monday," I say. "I changed my mind." My father doesn't look up. "This place looks like a frat house. You having people over again?"
I shrug. "Maybe." "You think that's how you make it?" My father turns to face me now, glass in hand. "Football and parties? That charm of yours won't carry you forever."
My fist tightens. "My game is string. And coach said I'm up for captain next season." "And your GPA?" I stare at him. "Fine."
My father takes a slow sip, eyes narrowing. "You'll never be great if you stay like this. You're not special just because people like you." A bitter laugh slips out before I can stop it. "Good to know. Thanks for the pep talk."
"Don’t be a child."
The insult lands heavier than it should have. I can still remember being ten years old, catching a touchdown at a junior league game and looking to the bleachers, searching for approval. Back then, my dad had actually cheered.
That was before the accident. Before everything turned cold.
Now I don't bother trying. I just take the scotch bottle off the counter and walk back upstairs without another word.
I'm on the edge of the bed when my phone buzzes on the nightstand. It's Parker. He just sent another meme. Another round of Beatrice jokes. Her face was crudely edited onto a cartoon hippo. The guys were in hysterics.
"You gonna reel her in or what?"
"Yo, get her to that party Friday. Could be hilarious."
My thumb hovers over the reply box.
A moment of hesitation. And then--
“She should come.”
I hit send.
They lost it in the chat.
"Legend!"
"Omg yes. Can’t wait to see this."
"Warm up before the real girls show up."
I stare at the screen, their words bleeding together. I'm not sure if it was anger, boredom, or something worse crawling beneath my skin.
But I know one thing, I need to feel in control.
And Beatrice? She was the perfect distraction.
- Writer
