out as I fell to my knees under the silent judgment of the moon. And I hung my head. It felt like my soul was sleeping, and I had no earthly idea what would wake it up again.
CHAPTER TWO
Holden
The next morning dawned clear and fresh, the faint glimmer of yellow sunshine on the horizon. I'd managed several hours of sleep and felt a certain newness, standing at the railing of the deck with a mug of coffee, watching the pale light of morning chase the night shadows away. If only I could hold on to this feeling long enough to grasp my own new beginning. If not here, then where? Not on the field, a football clasped in my hands, thousands of fans cheering my name; not between the thighs of some vacant-eyed beauty; not even among so-called friends in my own home—always having to wonder what they really wanted from me, inevitably finding out it was something other than friendship. If not here, maybe nowhere. Maybe nowhere at all.
By mid-afternoon, the craving set in again, the beast hungering for a fix. I paced the deck, trying to convince myself to resist, knowing that in the end I wouldn't. Knowing I couldn't come up with a good enough reason. I was pathetic, I knew. How many people would switch places with me in a heartbeat? How many people would roll their eyes and play the world's smallest violin on their fingers as they wiped fake tears out of their eyes for the poor, rich sport’s star who had everything and threw it all away out of stupidity? Or entitlement. Or both. Even I couldn't figure out exactly why. When I tried, my head started pounding, and I couldn't form a clear thought. If I could figure it out, maybe I'd have a fighting chance to change it. Or maybe I'd still be a weak fuck who knew what I needed to do but wasn’t strong enough to try.
Because, frankly, it took a whole lot of available life comforts—not having to spend one second worrying about the basics—to sustain this level of self-pity. And I was lacking for nothing in that regard.
Not to mention that my fame insulated me from consequences others might face. "Yes-men" surrounded me—people who would rather make me happy than risk being ejected from my life and lose the status my friendship or business relationship provided. Once upon a time I thought it'd made me lucky. Now . . .
I stood in the kitchen for a while fingering the bag of pills like the plastic was a beloved's skin. Finally, with a sound of disgust, I tossed it down on the counter and went to look for some liquor. Maybe a couple shots would take the edge off. I'd never had a problem with alcohol—or rather, I'd never felt like I couldn't stop drinking if I really wanted to. Although I'd definitely done some stupid shit while under the influence, namely driving down Sunset Boulevard with two swimsuit models squealing out my sunroof and ultimately earning myself a well-deserved DUI.
Brandon had probably requested the place be free of liquor, but after rooting around in the very back corner of the pantry, I found a bottle of Johnnie Walker, still in the box, a bow affixed to the front—obviously a gift Brandon had forgotten about. Whoever cleared the place hadn't found it. It wasn't lost on me that the victory I felt at the find was probably at least a little bit tragic. I tossed back a shot anyway, grimacing as the liquid burned down my throat, resisting the urge to retch. I took a deep breath and did another, closing my eyes as warmth spread through my veins. But by six that night it wasn't enough and I gave in to my lover's call, downing several painkillers with a sip of Scotch and soda, the welcome numbness of the drugs and liquor cocktail flowing through my system.
I stumbled out onto the deck and fired up the grill, holding my glass up to the sky in cheers to the magnificence of the sunset, the sky awash in vivid swirls of pink and gold. "Impressive show. Good work."
As the steak began to sizzle, I stared out at the trees beyond, lost in my own scattered,
CHAPTER TWO
Holden
The next morning dawned clear and fresh, the faint glimmer of yellow sunshine on the horizon. I'd managed several hours of sleep and felt a certain newness, standing at the railing of the deck with a mug of coffee, watching the pale light of morning chase the night shadows away. If only I could hold on to this feeling long enough to grasp my own new beginning. If not here, then where? Not on the field, a football clasped in my hands, thousands of fans cheering my name; not between the thighs of some vacant-eyed beauty; not even among so-called friends in my own home—always having to wonder what they really wanted from me, inevitably finding out it was something other than friendship. If not here, maybe nowhere. Maybe nowhere at all.
By mid-afternoon, the craving set in again, the beast hungering for a fix. I paced the deck, trying to convince myself to resist, knowing that in the end I wouldn't. Knowing I couldn't come up with a good enough reason. I was pathetic, I knew. How many people would switch places with me in a heartbeat? How many people would roll their eyes and play the world's smallest violin on their fingers as they wiped fake tears out of their eyes for the poor, rich sport’s star who had everything and threw it all away out of stupidity? Or entitlement. Or both. Even I couldn't figure out exactly why. When I tried, my head started pounding, and I couldn't form a clear thought. If I could figure it out, maybe I'd have a fighting chance to change it. Or maybe I'd still be a weak fuck who knew what I needed to do but wasn’t strong enough to try.
Because, frankly, it took a whole lot of available life comforts—not having to spend one second worrying about the basics—to sustain this level of self-pity. And I was lacking for nothing in that regard.
Not to mention that my fame insulated me from consequences others might face. "Yes-men" surrounded me—people who would rather make me happy than risk being ejected from my life and lose the status my friendship or business relationship provided. Once upon a time I thought it'd made me lucky. Now . . .
I stood in the kitchen for a while fingering the bag of pills like the plastic was a beloved's skin. Finally, with a sound of disgust, I tossed it down on the counter and went to look for some liquor. Maybe a couple shots would take the edge off. I'd never had a problem with alcohol—or rather, I'd never felt like I couldn't stop drinking if I really wanted to. Although I'd definitely done some stupid shit while under the influence, namely driving down Sunset Boulevard with two swimsuit models squealing out my sunroof and ultimately earning myself a well-deserved DUI.
Brandon had probably requested the place be free of liquor, but after rooting around in the very back corner of the pantry, I found a bottle of Johnnie Walker, still in the box, a bow affixed to the front—obviously a gift Brandon had forgotten about. Whoever cleared the place hadn't found it. It wasn't lost on me that the victory I felt at the find was probably at least a little bit tragic. I tossed back a shot anyway, grimacing as the liquid burned down my throat, resisting the urge to retch. I took a deep breath and did another, closing my eyes as warmth spread through my veins. But by six that night it wasn't enough and I gave in to my lover's call, downing several painkillers with a sip of Scotch and soda, the welcome numbness of the drugs and liquor cocktail flowing through my system.
I stumbled out onto the deck and fired up the grill, holding my glass up to the sky in cheers to the magnificence of the sunset, the sky awash in vivid swirls of pink and gold. "Impressive show. Good work."
As the steak began to sizzle, I stared out at the trees beyond, lost in my own scattered,
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