Fadeaway by E. Vickers (ebook smartphone TXT) 📗

oxys, Dr. Morris didn’t even make him come back in. All it took was a fax to green-light the refill to the pharmacy.

Jake knew you could get pills without a doctor. He promised himself he’d never buy from anyone, but once you’re looking for it, you notice the guys coming out of bathrooms with the shady expressions and their hands in their pockets a little too casually. You start to hear hints of who’s got something for sale.

It’s just that it’s so much safer knowing where the next one’s coming from.

That’s all.

No, that’s everything.

So maybe you find ways to let them know you’re interested.

After that, they find you.

“Three hours,” I tell Jake. “Those kids waited three hours for superstar Jake Foster, because you promised you’d be there.”

I came straight from the gym, where hundreds of kids in Junior Warriors T-shirts were heartbroken when their hero never showed.

“I’m sick,” he says, barely glancing away from the TV screen. “Can’t you tell?”

“Okay, well, if you’re sick, why didn’t you text me so I could let somebody know? So I could let those kids down easy instead of promising them you were on your way?”

“Why didn’t you tell them they had something much better? Superstar Daphne Sharp, who has as good a chance at a state championship but is actually passing all her classes. Who can actually afford to put gas in her car.”

I’m not taking the bait. This isn’t a pity party for the all-star. “It was your face on the posters, Jake. And those kids have been talking about your rim-wrecker dunk since last year.”

“Well, this year has been all about the knee wreckers, but I’m glad everybody’s making my injuries about them. That sounds about right. I can’t even do that dunk anymore. Tell the kids that. Tell them if they come down wrong on one rebound or have one little accident, they could ruin everything.”

I grab the trash can and start picking up fast-food wrappers and wadded-up tissues. “What is your problem, Jake? This isn’t you.”

Jake yanks an empty soda can from my hand before I can put it in the trash. “You know what, Daphne? This is me. I’ve spent my whole life trying to be the person everybody else wants me to be, and it’s exhausting. I’m done. This is who I am, and clearly it’s not good enough for you.”

“I didn’t say that.”

He looks at me, his face hard. “I’m saying it. I think maybe we should break up.”

The words take my breath away, like an elbow to the sternum. He stares at me a second longer, then turns his attention back to the TV.

I slam the trash can onto the coffee table and hit the power button on the remote. Even when the TV is off, he stares at it, his face as blank as the screen. Who the hell does he think he is, breaking up with me after I’ve spent the last six months nursing him through injuries and surgeries? After all the homework I’ve reminded him about and walked him through and, okay, even a couple of times let him copy? After all the crap I’ve put up with from my dad for dating him in the first place, after defending him for the last two years?

Stunned as I am, hurt as I am, my own words come back to me. This isn’t you.

I sit on the coffee table and grab him by the jaw, turning his face so he has to look me in the eyes, willing myself to be strong so I won’t fall apart. “I’m giving you one chance to take it back, Jake. Because you’re wrong. I know who you are.” I take a breath, drawing in memories from the feel of his skin against my fingertips.

“You’re the guy who has mowed Coach B’s lawn for the last six years and gets paid in raspberry lemonade. Who led the team in every category as a junior because he basically lived in the gym. Who let those kids literally stand on your shoulders so they could dunk.”

“Yeah, I was that guy,” he admits, and there’s something about the way he says it that cracks my heart open.

“You were, and you will be again. I don’t know what’s going on with you right now, but you’re still the guy I fell in love with. The guy that’s going to make me cheer for Arizona State next year, even though I grew up Arizona all the way.”

His jaw tightens, and I know I’m onto something. I keep pushing, hoping to snap him out of whatever this is.

“Do you think a Division I program will put up with a player who skips out on commitments? Because I can tell you right now, they won’t.”

“You’re right. Congratulations, Daphne. You’re always right.” The way he spits the words at me, I know I’ve missed something.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“I mean, they called this morning. Made some assistant do the dirty work. They wish me well, but my play has ‘lacked consistency’ this year, so they’ve decided to ‘go in another direction.’ ”

There’s a sudden sick feeling inside of me. I didn’t see this coming. They’re not wrong; Jake’s been inconsistent this year—on the court, at school, in life. But that just means there have been days when he’s been human mixed in with the days when he’s been brilliant.

I start to tell him this, but he cuts me off.

“It’s over, Daphne. I’m done.”

“It’s their loss,” I insist. “Can you imagine how many other schools will be lining up to sign you once they find out?”

“I mean, I’m done. We’re done. I think we should break up.”

The wave of sickness crests, and I sink to the couch. This can’t be happening. I think of my dad, try to be as strong as he was when my mom walked away, and I cover Jake’s hands with mine, knowing mine aren’t nearly big enough.

“I know you’re hurting,” I say, trying to steady the tremor