Fadeaway by E. Vickers (ebook smartphone TXT) 📗

the whole bottle is in his pocket as he opens the door, takes the sandwich, turns to go.

Coach B stops him, a firm hand on Jake’s arm. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Jake says, his fingers curled around the bottle so Coach won’t recognize the shape in his pocket.

Coach B nods once, winces at the pain as he lowers himself back into the chair. “I’ll be there, Jake. At the game, and after. I’ll always be there if you need me.”

Jake nods back. Closes his fingers tighter around the bottle. Hates himself.

And then he is gone.

I’m almost through the arena doors when I realize I left Daphne’s good-luck Gatorade bottle on the bus. The tournament hasn’t been going well for me—a dozen points and barely more rebounds across three games—so I’m not actually sure how much luck it’s given me. But she’ll notice if I don’t have it on the bench, and she means more to me than the outcome of any game. I turn and trudge back to the bus.

But as I stand at the door, out of sight, I hear Coach’s voice from inside.

“How are those knees? I saw you limping a little when you got out of your truck.”

“Nah, they’re good,” Jake says. “I’m ready to play.”

“You still got prescriptions for those things?”

“No. Not for a long time.”

There’s a pause. A shuffle of equipment. “You sure about that? I thought I saw you swallow something before you got out of your truck.”

“Just some aspirin.”

“Would you be willing to open your bag for me?”

I’m sure they’ll hear my heart beating in the silence that stretches between them.

Jake clears his throat. “I’d rather not, Coach.”

This is none of my business. I sneak along the side of the bus, then head straight to the locker room. Maybe I can come back for the Gatorade bottle later. I don’t say a thing as I dress for the game, but everybody’s pretty quiet. Focused. Or freaking out.

Jake dresses in silence too, then walks out without a word. I can’t stop myself from staring at the bag he left behind. Were there pills in there? Did Coach take them away?

It’s none of your business, I remind myself. It’s a little early, but I head to the training room to get my ankle taped so I won’t be tempted to look.

But it really is too early; none of the athletic trainers are here yet. A voice drifts from behind the divider, desperate and pleading.

“I’ve messed everything up.”

I’ve known Jake nearly all my life, and I’ve never heard him sound like this, talk like this. I’m not sure whether he’s on the phone or there’s somebody back there with him. “Not just with you,” he says, “but with everybody. I’ve tried so hard to fix it, but I can’t. It’s not like some surgery, where you take out the tumor. It’s in me everywhere. It is me.” He’s sobbing now, gasping. “I’m not even sure I can go out there.”

But before I can even wonder what he means, there’s another voice behind the divider.

“You can. I know you can. I believe in you, Jake. I always have.”

Daphne.

I hear the truth in her words, and I can’t blame her. I believe in Jake too. The only person I’ve ever believed in more than Jake is Daphne herself: the way she walks through the world with grace and grit, the way she beats me to the answers in calculus and somehow still makes me feel good about myself. The fact that there’s nobody I’d rather have talking my friend down from this ledge before the biggest game of our lives.

I’ve never said the words out loud, but I know in this moment that I love her.

And in the very next moment, I realize what it might mean that they’re here together, and I wonder: Do I even matter to her at all? The question cuts me across the chest, and I can’t move, can’t breathe.

“You should go,” Jake says, emotion still thick in his voice. “You should get out while you can.”

“I can’t,” she says, softer now. “I can’t walk away, Jake. I’m afraid I’m going to love you for the rest of my life.”

It’s quiet then, and I know I do not want to see what’s happening on the other side of the divider. But then I’m moving and breathing again, all at once, and I can’t stop myself from crossing the room silently, slowly, until I see their mouths pressed together and her fingers snaking through his hair. The slash of pain widens, leaving me sliced open, raw, gutted as I stumble back through the door.

Neither of them notices me at all.

The locker room is nearly deserted. Only one figure, hunched over Jake Foster’s bag.

“Find anything?” I ask, my voice dry and flat.

Coach startles, straightens. “Nope, he’s clean.” There’s a hint of disappointment in his voice.

But no. What kind of coach would want to catch his star player violating the rules right before the championship?

And what kind of captain would want that? Don’t be stupid, I tell myself. If Jake screws up right now, that hurts you too.

Too late.

“We get a little time on the floor,” Coach says. “Head on out there. You seen Jake?”

“Try the training room,” I say. Then I jog out to the arena, knowing Jake won’t be far behind.

The team and assistant coaches are scattered around center court, stretching and chatting and probably just waiting for the rest of us. I sit down next to Kolt, determined to act like a captain even if I want to punch the other captain in the face.

And in spite of how pissed and broken I am, I see the scene in front of me for exactly what it is: a bunch of teenagers who have sacrificed family and school and sleep, who have put their bodies through hell—all to get better at dropping a ball through a metal hoop ten feet in the air. Which would be ridiculous if we weren’t all doing