Chapter Eleven
908 Words
The following evening, Tyler doesn’t look at me when he walks in through the door. His duffel bag hangs gingerly on his shoulder, his hoodie is darkened with sweat at the collar, there’s dirt smeared along one of his sleeves, and his hair is flattened unevenly.
He looks exhausted.
“Hey,” I say carefully, the guilt from yesterday still lingering, but he says nothing. “How was practice?”
He doesn’t even glare like he usually would to signify what an inconvenience I am. He simply walks past me like I’m nothing but a piece of furniture. He did the same thing in school too.
During AP English, he sat at the far back of class, not interacting with anyone, not even Alex. Then, he volunteered before Ms. Teagues could even assign groups for the class discussion just so he wouldn’t be paired with me. At lunch, he didn’t seem interested when one of his teammates started goading me, hoping my misery would cheer their precious QB up.
Maybe I’m secretly a masochist because I wanted him to acknowledge me, even if it was just to poke fun at me.
Yup, the guilt is definitely eating me alive.
Tyler takes two steps at a time up the stairs, and I notice the hitch in his breath and the pauses he takes before successfully dragging himself out of sight.
“Is he mad?” Sophie asks, the glitter from our attempt to finish her project yesterday still clinging to her fingers.
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly.
When the loud sound of a door closing upstairs reaches us, Lucas pauses the eraser tower he’s arranging.
Sophie then leans closer to me, lowering her voice as if sharing a grave secret. “He hasn’t been sleeping.”
“What?” I glance at her. “How do you know?”
“I hear him walking around at night,” she says with certainty. “And this morning, he didn’t even eat breakfast.”
The wave of guilt that floods me almost renders me dizzy. I’d felt so justified when I said those words to him yesterday, but now they feel cruel.
“You’re not the only one struggling.”
“Dang it,” I mutter quietly. “Does he do that a lot?” I ask Sophie.
She shrugs. “Sometimes.”
Lucas knocks over his eraser tower by accident, then glares at the mess like he could command it back into formation. He looks so much like Tyler in that moment that it makes my heart tug.
“I’ll go check on him,” I announce, standing to my feet. “Which one is his room?”
Sophie perks up immediately. “The last door on the right.”
I climb the stairs tentatively, mostly because I’ve never been to this part of the house, and Tyler specifically warned me not to.
My heart kicks harder as I venture into the quiet hallway and stop in front of his door. I almost turn back, but I summon courage and knock.
A few seconds pass and I hear a muffled sound from inside. I bite my lip, staring at the door handle in contemplation. This is exactly what he told me not to do… but I’m here anyway, so I gently push the door open.
But Tyler isn’t there.
The light from the setting sun peeks in through the half-drawn curtains in the room, cutting across the dark blue walls. Tyler’s bed is unmade, and a textbook lies open on it with green highlighter bleeding through several pages.
I smile at the thought of him studying, another thing added to my list of “the real Tyler Brooks.”
Steam curls faintly from beneath the closed bathroom door, so I decide against stepping further into the room.
Quietly, I start to back away, but my leg hits something. “Ow,” I whisper-yell, my eyes immediately watering as I scan the area to find the cause of my current pain.
Tyler’s bag is half-unzipped on the floor near the foot of the door, and I see his blasted helmet in there. But something else peeks out from between a rolled-up jersey and a towel.
I don’t mean to stare, I really don’t, but the label on the white bottle catches my eye.
My stomach drops as I take one step closer, pick up the bottle, and read the label… painkillers.
A memory of his bruise flashes through my mind. How long has he been taking these? And how bad exactly is his injury? I trace the label, wondering if Coach knows about his injury. Surely Tyler wouldn’t be allowed to play if he knew.
The bathroom door opens, and I jump back like I’ve been caught stealing.
Tyler steps out with a towel slung low around his neck and… shirtless.
My eyes instantly land on his shoulder, and up close, the damage is even worse. The bruise on his shoulder has deepened into a violent mosaic of purple, black, and an angry yellow color around the edges.
Recalling the visceral reaction that he had to me almost touching him the last time, I force my hands to remain still at my sides.
He freezes when he sees me and his gaze automatically drops to the bag, then back to me. “What are you doing in my room?”
I open my mouth, and nothing comes out.
- Writer
