Nineteen, p.1
Nineteen, page 1
nineteen
by Tracey Ward
nineteen
By Tracey Ward
Text Copyright © 2020 Tracey Ward
All Rights Reserved
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the author, except as used in book review.
This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, events or incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to places or incidents is purely coincidental.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
I’m kind of a douchebag.
Not always, but often enough that if there was a box on a questionnaire asking about my nationality and it gave me the option to list ‘some douche’ in my bloodline, I’d check it. Decisively.
I never knew my dad. Some very smart people would probably have a lot to say about the correlation between my missing father figure and how badly I suck as a person, but I don’t know those people and I don’t want to hear it. Once they got started pulling the layers back, it’d never end. Next, they’d be on me about how often I masturbate. My inability to hold down a relationship longer than three months. Or the fact that I talk to my dick when I’m stressed.
Even I’ve gotta admit that one’s weird. I started when I was a kid, before I became a teenager and that relationship got complicated, but it never stopped because life doesn’t get less stressful as you grow up. It only gets worse.
Dick’s been with me through everything. All of my firsts, from the first grandparent to go to the grave to the first girl to go to bed with me. He’s the only one who knows how scared I was both times. That one of the best moments of my life and one of the worst felt horrifyingly similar.
But he didn’t judge.
No one understands me like Dick does.
“I fuckin’ hate you,” I mutter at him. He just lays there, limp and useless as a sprinkler in the rain. I’m not even asking that much of him. Just to pee – that’s all. Easy, right? Basic bodily function. Should be a piece of cake.
Not for this asshole.
I sigh, letting my forehead rest against the cool white tile behind the urinal. “What’s your problem, huh? You can’t be feelin’ shy. We’re the only ones in here.”
He doesn’t answer.
“Did I drink too much? Is that it?”
My brain swims in Bacardi and Coke, trying to remember how many drinks I had. It wasn’t that many. Three, tops. I was drunker than this when I stole my stepdad’s tractor in the middle of the night, drove it through fields and fences down to the Circle K, and bought myself a Pepsi and a Snickers. I stopped twice to pee on that trip. Once to pull out my Epi when I remembered I was allergic to peanuts.
What I’m saying is, it can’t be the alcohol holding us up today. It doesn’t make sense.
“So what the hell is it?” I demand.
I get nothing from my appendage.
Silence and sadness, that’s it.
“Fine. Forget it.” I stuff him back in my pants rougher than I should considering we’re both gonna pay for the abuse. “We’ll try again later when you’re not in such a mood.”
I take my time washing my hands at the sink. I can hear the noise of the club on the other side of the door, and I’m not all that eager to get back out there. I like Vegas but I don’t love this crowd. It’s a lot of bros. A lot of douches with a much thicker bloodline than mine.
It was almost too easy for the guys to convince me to drive down to Vegas with them for March Madness. It’ll be fun – that’s all they said and I was sold. I think someone said the word ‘girls’ in there somewhere, but that may have been implied. Whatever. I’m here now and so are the girls. So are about fifty thousand other college guys my age drinking their weight in Pabst and chasing every long pair of legs that walks by. It makes me feel douchier than I am by association.
I should have gone home to South Carolina to see my family.
I should have stayed in Oregon to taste life away from the football team for a couple of days.
I should have done a lot of things, but that’s the problem with me. My hindsight is twenty/twenty. My foresight is legally blind in all fifty states.
As I’m reaching for the door to leave, it flies open in front of me. I crack my knuckles on it hard.
“Shit!” I yell, shaking out my hand.
Music pours in through the open doorway. A waft of booze and sweat hits me hard. And something else. Something tropical. Sweet. Exotic flowers and spiced vanilla.
It’s the girl standing in front of me, eyes open wide in surprise as she stares up at me. Pink lips slightly open and glistening. Her eyes are so green and golden, they remind me of a field at sunset.
“My hand,” I say on instinct.
“My foot,” she replies.
“What?”
She smiles, giggles like I said something funny, and rushes past me into the room.
I watch her disappear into one of the stalls.
The door to the bathroom swings shut, blocking out the noise.
I’m alone with her. With this stranger in the Men’s’ room.
“I, uh—” I begin.
“I know,” she says immediately. “I’m not supposed to be here. And in like two minutes, we can both pretend I never was.”
“Lucky for you, I’m great at pretending.”
“Really?”
“Sure. When I was a kid, I played this really fun game where I pretended we weren’t poor. That was a good one.”
“I love that game!” she gushes.
“You played it too?”
“Every Saturday.”
“Nice.”
“Did you play the one,” she asks excitedly, “where all of your siblings are driving you insane so you pretend that they died in a fire?”
I click my tongue sadly. “Nope. Only child.”
“Bummer. It’s a good one.”
“I did get to play the one where I was really lonely and made up friends to fill the massive void in my life.”
“I’m not familiar with that one.”
“It’s a classic,” I tell her.
“Did our childhoods suck?”
“I think a little, yeah. Probably.”
“But not completely,” she clarifies.
“No, not completely. I think as long as you get out without being molested, you’re doing okay.”
“That’s a hell of a benchmark.”
“It was fucked up to say it,” I agree. “‘Cause what if you were molested? Now I brought it up—”
“Twice.”
“—and got you thinking about it, and on top of that I told you that your childhood was shit if it happened. That sucks.”
I suck.
“I’ve never been molested so you’re in the clear,” she assures me. The toilet flushes loudly. “But maybe don’t bring it up with the next girl who comes in here.”
“That’s good advice. Thanks.”
The latch on her stall clicks loose. She steps out.
She’s gorgeous.
More beautiful than I realized when she came in. She’s brown hair, brown skin, big green eyes and full, pouty lips. She’s medium height standing on long legs riding up inside shorts so short they’re almost underwear. Her breasts swell inside a white shirt that makes me nervous to look at. I’m worried some dick out in the bar will spill water on it on purpose.
She smiles at me; straight white teeth and sunshine in her eyes. “You’re hot,” she comments.
“So are you.”
I watch her walk to the sink, leaning over slightly to get her hands wet. Her ass in those shorts is amazing. She knows it too. She knows I’m looking and she doesn’t mind. She’s checking me out in the mirror as she rubs white suds over her hands.
“Are you waiting for me?” she asks.
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re in a Men’s’ room in Vegas. It doesn’t seem safe.”
“Are you safe?”
“From you or for you?”
She smiles, her eyes raking me over. “Take your shirt off.”
“Why?” I laugh.
“Because I want to see.”
“Are you taking yours off?”
“If you want me to.”
“Yeah. I do.”
The girl whose name I don’t know pulls her shirt up over her head.
I’ve never loved anything more than I love Vegas in that moment.
Her long, shining hair gets caught in the neck of her shirt. It cascades over her shoulders as it falls free, over her breasts cupped by a soft pink bra that covers next to nothing, but just enough to make me thirsty for more. Her stomach isn’t perfectly flat. It bows a little at her belly and I want to wrap my arms around her from behind to feel the soft curve of it in my palm.
Everything about her makes me itch to touch her.
She looks at me with raised eyebrows, expectant and impatient.
I grin, tugging the back of my shirt up over my head at the neck. It dangles from my hand as I let her look me over, evaluating me.
She shakes her head faintly. “Fuck you,” she whispers.
“Is that where this is going?”
“Body like that, you’re definitely an athlete. What do you play?”
“Football.”
“What school?”
“Oregon.”
“OSU or U of O?”
“You couldn’t pay me to play for Oregon State.”
Her eyes narrow, her smile going crooked and coy. “What position?”
“Running back.”
“Are you good?”
“I’m the best they’ve got.”
It’s not a lie. It is a brag, but one I’ve earned.
“Why didn’t I see you play this year?” she asks suspiciously.
“You don’t follow the Ducks.”
“I follow everyone. You were benched?”
“Red Shirt.”
“Medical or freshman?”
“Freshman.”
“Aw,” she coos like she just found an abandoned kitten. “You’re just a baby, Red Shirt.”
“You’re not much older.”
“I’m a year older. I’m everything older.” She glances around, grabbing a plastic pineapple air freshener off the shelf and a Sharpie out of her back pocket. “I’m giving you my number.”
“Why is it going on a pineapple?”
“You’ve been drinking.”
“Not that much.”
“Enough to make me nervous that you’ll lose a slip of paper, and I don’t want you to lose my number.”
“Put it in my phone.”
She tosses me her shirt to free up both hands.
I catch it and a whiff of her scent – islands in the sun and sweet sugar.
“If I put it in your phone, I’m just a name in your phone,” she explains as she scribbles. “You’ll forget the way I look and the way you feel right now by the time you use it.”
“That’s impossible. I’m calling you tomorrow.”
“No, you’re not. You’re not allowed to use it this year.”
She caps the marker, tossing the pineapple to me. I catch it easily, reluctantly throwing her shirt back to her.
“You call me when you’re legit,” she explains, tugging her shirt over her head. “When you’re starting. Not before.”
“I can’t call you until I’m a starter?”
“No.”
“That’s messed up.”
“Take it or leave it.”
I roll the pineapple in my hand. Her tight, neat script is bold in black against the yellow plastic. Her number and her name.
Brooklyn.
I wrap my fingers around it and the image of her with her top off. The smell of her shirt. The gold of her flawless skin.
“I’ll take it,” I agree.
She smiles. “I’ll see you around, Red Shirt.”
“Hey, wait!”
Brooklyn pauses with the door half open, one foot already on the other side. The club pulses expectantly behind her. “What?”
“Your number has an Oregon area code. Where do you go to school?”
“I’ll give you a hint. It’s not U of O.”
My heart drops. “Oh shit,” I whisper. “You go to Oregon State.”
Our rivals. Our Civil War at the end of every year.
“Are you still going to call me?” she asks.
“Even though you’re a Beaver?”
“Yeah.”
I grin, shoving the pineapple in my pocket. “Couldn’t pay me not to.”
Brooklyn smiles, leaving as quickly as she came in. In a blur that my brain can’t process fast enough. I’m alone in the room again; just me and Dick trying to understand what the hell just happened.
We got a number! he cries excitedly.
We can’t use it for months.
Call it now!
You’re not listening.
Let’s fuck her! Dick screams.
She’s not even in the room anymore.
I wanna fuck her.
You stupid bastard.
CHAPTER TWO
SCOUTING REPORT
SHAY, BUTLER MASON - Running Back
6’2” - 207lbs
Class 5A All-State
Class 5A First Team All-State
Densely built with a powerful, muscled upper half. One of the more explosive pass rushers in class with impressive combine testing numbers to back up that claim. Special athletic traits. Has the frame and strength to run with power and through arm tackles. Dangerous in the open field. Runs with good lean and pad level.
DRAFT PROJECTION: First Round
I got that report my senior year of high school. I was barely seventeen and I was looking at an inbox full of recruitment letters, a celebrity in a small town in South Carolina.
Can you imagine what an unbearable shit that report made me?
My mama can. She saw it start, and you better believe she put a stop to it real quick. I broke curfew by an hour and lost my car. I didn’t answer her call because I was at a party, and when I went to use my phone the next morning, it was nothing but a brick. No service. She cut me off in the middle of the night.
Mama Shay don’t play.
“You need to check yourself,” she warned me over pancakes that morning. “I didn’t spend nine months in misery to bring yet another selfish son of a bitch into this world. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“There are plenty out there and I’ve made it my mission in life to make sure you’re not one of them. I don’t care how fast you can run a ball down a field or how many girls are shoving their panties in your backpack—”
“How did you know—”
“I have eyes, don’t I, Butler?” She looked at me hard, her face slowly softening. “I don’t care how everyone else sees you or treats you. You’re not a god. You’re my son and you’re a good man. Remember that.”
She put her hand on mine. It was warm and soft – the same hand that had held mine as I learned to walk, that fed me, nursed me back to health, slapped me across the face the first and last time I swore at her. The hand that raised me. Molded me.
Not a single part of me ever wanted to let my Mama down.
Still, I knew that eventually I would because as much as I loved her, I was still my father’s son. Whoever he was.
That conversation in the kitchen was just over a year ago. I was living at home in Rock Hill, a big fish in a pond that felt smaller every day. Sometimes, I wish I could go back. I liked the notoriety. I liked the accolades and fame. I didn’t understand how easy everything was then. I couldn’t. Not until it got hard.
College was an awakening. I thought my coaches were hard on me in high school making me practice at six before classes started, but I had no idea what ‘hard’ was until I met Coach Curry. I’d never known true pain. Not until he put me through my paces.
I’ll never be the same again. Physically or mentally.
Football is an endurance game. You have to be able to go ten rounds, swinging the entire time. A lot of guys can’t handle it mentally. Not for the full four hours. If you’re down on the scoreboard or you missed a catch three plays ago – that will mess with you. It will make you tired in ways you can’t imagine, and suddenly you’re not losing the game. You’re throwing it. The loss is on you and you’ll never forgive yourself for quitting when the chips were down but you can’t help it. You don’t even know you’re doing it, not until you watch the tapes later and you see yourself slacking. That’s when the self-loathing kicks in. Now you’re starting the next game in the hole because you already know you’re a quitter and oh shit, I missed my route! We’re losing because of me! I was never any good to start with!!! MY FUTURE IS FUCKED!!!
That’s how most of my first year felt. I was sure I wasn’t cut out for any of this. Every time Coach wanted to talk to me, I panicked that I was getting booted. My scholarship would be pulled. The NFL was slipping out of reach. I poured over game tapes, practice films, my old videos from high school that Mama filmed on her phone as she jumped up and down, praying to Jesus that I didn’t get hurt. I don’t think she knew she was doing it, but there it is on the recordings. Desperate and anxious in a way I can feel in my gut whenever I look at her in the stands.
