Hold Us Close (Keep Me Still) (5 page)

I
wake up Monday morning with a sickening realization in the pit of my stomach.

Today is the day Layla would be in California having surgery that could save her life if not for me.

Using all the strength I can muster, I push against the guilt as the weight of it hovers above my chest.

She’s still in bed beside me, beautifully naked and peaceful. She’s facing away from me. I lean over and kiss her on her cheek. Her temple. Her jaw.

“Good morning,” she mumbles, her voice still thick with sleep.

“Shh. Sleep, baby. I’ve got some phone calls to make then I’ll make you breakfast. Omelet okay?”

“More than okay,” she says, turning over to kiss me back.

I stroke a blonde strand of hair out of her eyes and she blinks up at me. “I love you, you know that? I’d do anything for you, Layla Flaherty.”
Even become the one thing I never wanted to be.

Her gaze widens with understanding and she nods.

Placing one more chaste kiss on her mouth, I sigh. Time to face the firing squad.

After I’ve pulled my jeans on, I head into the guest room and retrieve my phone. Eighteen missed calls. One number. One voicemail.

“I hope you’re happy,” Kate hisses into my ear. Thank God it’s just her recorded fury and not the real thing. Still, it raises my blood pressure. We’re about six or seven hours ahead of her. Apparently she spent her evening calling me. I don’t even want to think about the kind of messages she’s left for Layla.

“If anything happens to her, Landen, I swear to God, I’m holding you personally responsible.” Tension ripples across my shoulders and my chest constricts. She
should
hold me responsible. I am responsible. Closing my eyes, I picture what Layla’s life would’ve been like without me. She would still be in California, rooming with Corin probably. Graduating on time.

I can see her. Sunlight glinting off her beautiful hair, carrying an armful of books, smiling at something some asshole said. Walking to class with Corin. Happy. Alive.

If not for me, she’d be having surgery today that would give her the fair shot at the long, happy life she deserves.

After I’ve listened to her aunt’s angry words enough times to memorize them, I close my eyes and let the darkness come. Until it covers me. And then a small light flickers in my mind’s eye. I’m standing there. A small child holding my hand. In a cemetery. At a headstone.

I don’t know how to deal with the fury from a situation I caused. There’s no one to blame, no one to shout at, no fingers to point. It’s me. All me.

I dragged her into my life, pulled her into this hell she doesn’t deserve. I practically stalked her to college, telling myself she needed me. When the truth was, the truth
is,
I’m the broken one. I’m the one who needs her the most.

And the worst part? I’m hurting her, hurting us. And I need help. From the last person on Earth I ever want to speak to again. The one I swore I was done with.

I open my eyes and stare down at my phone.

His number is still in there. I deleted him from my life but never could bring myself to erase him from my phone. Bet the team shrink would have some overly analytical thoughts on that. My heart pounds as I scroll to his name.
Colonel
is all it says. The violent throbbing in my temples causes my vision to blur as I stare at it.

A buzzing in my hand startles me and I almost drop the damn thing on the floor.

Coach
, the screen tells me. My nerves rattle at the thought of what this might be about. Shit. Maybe I’m not just suspended—maybe I’m fired. I swallow hard and answer.

“Hey Coach,” I say, trying to speak over the fear that’s strangling me.

“O’Brien,” he answers. “We need to talk, son.” His voice is strained, weary. More guilt piles on top of the mountain that’s already smothering me.

“Yes, sir.”

“This a good time?”

No.
“Yes, sir. I’m suspended—I got nothing but time, right?” I try to force out a laugh but it sounds more like I’m choking than anything else.

“Yeah, about that. Look, O’Brien, I did some checking. I know about your arrest a few years ago and I know you’ve been in altercations that I probably don’t even want to know the details of. I accepted you to this club because a friend gave you a high recommendation. The same friend who mentioned he was cutting you loose because you lost your temper on a teammate.”

He pauses to clear his throat. I press my fingers into my eyes with my free hand. This is not good.

“You’re the best damn striker I’ve come across in my entire career. And maybe because of that, I’ve been too lenient. The club’s been lenient. But you have more red cards than the entire team combined, and frankly, I’m seeing a pattern of behavior that has apparently been going on for some time.”

I open my mouth to defend myself, but there’s really nothing I can say. Everything he’s said is true.

“You there?”

“Yes, sir. I’m here.”

He lets out an audible breath and I sit up straighter, bracing myself for what he’s about to say. I can already hear him firing me in my head.

“So I’ve met with the staff and we’ve been making some hard decisions. I know you’ve got a situation with your girlfriend and I don’t need to know the details. Truth is, there’s a dozen guys lined up right behind you, ready to take your spot.”

“Coach, please. I know I’m not—”

“I’m just going to cut to the chase. They want to let you go, O’Brien. We have enough to deal with without our first team striker being a liability. You hit a teammate at
practice.
I don’t even want to think about what might happen the next time a ref makes a call during a game you don’t agree with.”

I want to tell him that I would never do anything like that. But I’d be lying. Because when I lose my temper, I lose myself. I lose that voice in my head that reminds me I don’t want to be like
him
.

For as long as I can remember, soccer has been the only thing that has helped me to channel my rage. It’s been the outlet for all the pent-up emotion and aggression, not that it’s even been enough. And now it’s slipping away. What will I be like without it?

“Is there anything I can do?” Working hard to keep my voice even, I try to focus on my breathing. Uncurling my clenched fists, I glance around the room. There’s a lot of breakable shit in here and I’ve done enough damage already. “Or has the decision already been made?”

Standing, I walk out into the living room, thankful Layla’s still asleep.

“It’s like this, O’Brien. You’re a hell of an athlete. We don’t want to lose you, but if you spend your career sidelined by back-to-back suspensions, you’re no good to us anyways. You get what I’m saying?”

You’re no good.

You’re worthless.

I can’t even hear my own voice over the Colonel’s. I think I mumble out yet another “Yes, sir,” but I can’t be sure.

“So here’s my proposition. Take some time off. We’ll extend the indefinite suspension to January. Get some help and a letter from a doctor saying you’ve attended an anger management program. How’s that sound?”

“Do I really have any other choice?”

“Life is full of choices, O’Brien. You want this? Come back in January a new man. That’s the only way I can keep you on. Otherwise, you should just walk away.”

My jaw clenches and I breathe through my nose.

“Understood. I’ll clear my gear out this weekend.” My finger hovers above the disconnect button.

“Son? For what it’s worth, I hope you get it together. Whatever’s eating you up inside, the club could get you some help. Say the word and I’ll make the calls.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll keep that in mind.”

We hang up, and I step into the bedroom. Layla’s back on her side, her hands folded underneath her face. The sun lights her up like the angel she is. My eyes roam over her naked, slender arms and shoulders. I know exactly how good her skin feels under my hands. How I feel inside of her. She looks so fragile. Breakable.

She’s fine china, and I’m the bull.

Her aunt’s words mingle with Coach’s in my head.
I’m holding you personally responsible. Life is full of choices. Walk away.

Casting one last longing glance at the goddess sleeping peacefully in our bed, I step out onto the balcony.

I need to know why I’m like this so I can figure out how to stop.

And there’s only one person who can answer that for me.

He picks up on the third ring. “Hello?”

“Colonel?”

“Landen.” He doesn’t even sound surprised. My name isn’t a question.

“Yeah,” I say shortly. “We need to talk.”

I wait for the “The fuck we do,” “Go to hell,” or “I don’t have time for your sissy bullshit,” but it doesn’t come.

A deep sigh passes from wherever he is, half a world away, to my ear. “I’ve been expecting your call,” he says evenly.

He has?

“You have?” I haven’t spoken to this man in three years. His voice still sends a shiver down my spine. He terrified me, angered me, and made me feel dead inside. Residual tinges of those emotions swirl inside of me.

“Surprised it took this long actually.”

Blissful numbness covers me as I speak. Thank fuck. “Yeah. Well, to be honest, I never planned to speak to you again if I could help it.”

“That right? Makes sense I guess.”

I pull in damp, humid air and try to put some type of priority rank on the crazed parade of thoughts trampling through my head. “I have some questions. I need answers. Think you can give me that?”

“Landen, listen. A lot has happened since—”

“You know what, I don’t give two shits about what you’re about to say. If you’ve got excuses or whatever, save your breath. I don’t want or need them.”

“Son, I understand that you’re angry. I deserve it.”

My blood pressure ramps up right along with my pulse. It’s a wonder I don’t drop dead of a fucking heart attack right now. “Don’t fucking
son
me. Don’t apologize or even
think
about spouting some bullshit about how or why or try and tell me what either of us deserves.”

Somehow, over the sound of blood rushing in my ears, I hear him clear his throat again. “Okay. You said you had questions. Say whatever you need to.”

Condescending prick. I pull the phone from my ear for a second and close my eyes. Taking deep breaths until my vision clears, I remind myself why I have to do this.
Layla. Our child. My job.
My family’s life pretty much depends on me getting my shit together. Doesn’t mean I have to be cordial.

“Listen to me. Do not think for one goddamn second that I
need
anything from you. I don’t. Truth is, I want some answers for why…” Dammit. Stupid lump in my throat makes it hard to talk.

“I know. I know you don’t. You’ve done well for yourself despite…me. I owe you answers, son—er, Landen. Ask away.”

He’s placating me with this passive aggressive tone that makes me want to murder him with my bare hands. This is why I need him to tell me. Because I can’t keep turning into him every time I get upset.

I suck in another lungful of air and fire my questions at him. “Why? Just tell me why you hated me so much. Why everything I did, everything I said, everything I was, made you so fucking angry all the time.”

I hate how weak my voice sounds. Red rage looms on the horizon. I hold it off as long as I can.

“I didn’t hate you,” he says quietly. “I hated what you represented. What you reminded me of.”

His words confuse me. I don’t know what I expected to hear, but that wasn’t it. “I was a fucking kid. What the hell could I have possibly
represented
?”

Another deep sigh from his end. “It’s been a tough few years for me. Your girlfriend’s aunt almost had me decommissioned. Things with your mother are finally—”

“What the hell are you talking about? I don’t give a damn how hard the past few years have been for you.” I have no idea what he’s talking about with Layla’s aunt, but I can’t bring myself to ask. I don’t want to know about his life. “Please tell me you’re not looking for my sympathy. My whole life was hard because of you.”

“Your mother is just now speaking to me again. If I tell you this…if I tell you the truth, a truth that isn’t mine to tell, she might never forgive me.”

Screw this. He wasn’t worried about her forgiving him for the way he treated me my entire life. But now it’s suddenly of monumental consequence. “Whatever. You know what? Never mind. I should’ve known better than to expect anything from you.” Tears of rage well in my eyes, and I’m just about to hang up or pitch my phone off the balcony when he speaks up.

“Landen, wait. You’re right. I can’t erase the past, but this…this I can do.”

“Do what?”

“Tell you the truth.”

I don’t say anything because I’m pretty sure it’s just going to be bullshit. But I wait for whatever it is, everything inside of me boiling to the surface as I do.

“The truth is,” he begins, pausing just enough to piss me off further. “The truth is you aren’t my son.”