Out of Bounds Read online

  “I think so.” She sets down her wine glass. “Hopefully nothing dire with happen.”

  I know what she’s thinking about. Two months ago, someone found our mother passed out in an alley. According to the biopsy, she hadn’t been sexually assaulted. She went to rehab for two months. Which is good. I’m always glad when she checks herself in. But it’s become a cycle. Over the past year, she’s relapsed three times. I love my mother, but I also resent her for not being able to control her actions. Which makes me feel like shit, because I know she’s sick. Alcoholism is a disease.

  Squeezing my sister’s arm, I say, “If you need help, you can always call Casey.”

  Surprisingly, she doesn’t scoff at the suggestion. “I know.” And I wonder if she sees Casey the way I do: loud, obnoxious, yes. But also unfailingly loyal. That’s why he’s one of my closest friends, even if I want to stab him half the time. Most people do, I think.

  “What are you going to do?” she asks. “About Logan, I mean.”

  I have no idea. But I’m dreading the reunion, because I have a feeling I’m not going to like the outcome.

  Chapter 2

  Logan

  I’m on mile four with one mile remaining. My feet pound steadily against the pavement, my muscles warm, hands in loose fists as I take the final lap around my neighborhood. Spring in Indiana is pretty damn nice. It still has the lingering coolness from winter, yet it lacks the insufferable humidity that descends come summer. It’s overcast though, unsurprisingly. I’m ready for some sun.

  Winter was especially brutal. I’m pretty sure I saw the sun for all of three seconds before the clouds cloaked it. Definitely a contributor to my glum mood of late. Half-frozen snow still blankets the ground after the sky decided to dump one last load on us a few weeks back. It’s mid-May, but you never know. At least the sidewalks are cleared.

  Five miles a day, seven days a week. The pro soccer world accepts nothing less than peak physical condition. In the fall and winter, I run seven miles a day, but on the off-season I like to give my body a break, as it needs the rest. Off-season training also consists of weight lifting three days a week. Leg days. Arm days. Ab and back days. You wouldn’t know it by looking at me, since I’m so lanky, but my body is nothing but pure muscle. Any fat I eat is quickly burned away.

  It’s now officially off-season. College ended a few weeks ago, and while I still use the Indiana University soccer fields for drills and warm-ups, I’m no longer a part of the Hoosiers. I’ve closed this huge chapter of my life, and I don’t know what will come next. My four years at IU were some of the best I ever had.

  Well, maybe not the first year, but the last three years were nothing short of amazing.

  After hammering out the final mile, I head back to the apartment I share with my friend and former teammate, Greg. I call him Greg the Leg. This guy can kick a soccer ball nearly two field lengths. I’m not kidding. It’s no wonder recruiters were banging down his door. He’s off to Arsenal come September, lucky bastard. As for me, I’ll be starting with LA Galaxy. Center forward. Doesn’t hurt that my left foot is equally as strong as my right.

  Inside, the place is quiet. It’s small, cluttered. The downstairs has the living room, kitchen, and half-bath. Upstairs are the two bedrooms and full bath. Greg is probably at his girlfriend Teresa’s house. A sweet girl, and too damn good for him. And he knows it. That’s why he treats her like a queen.

  Speaking of girlfriends.

  As I head to the kitchen to make myself a protein shake, I grab my phone from the counter and check my messages. I never take it with me when I run, wanting the separation and a chance to clear my head. Greg, who’s deeply attached to his phone, would probably keel over at the thought of no music or podcasts. My footsteps are my drums, my pulse the rhythm.

  Unsurprisingly, there are three missed calls, all from my girlfriend. I sigh. My mistake was not letting Jasmine know that I was going for a run. Not that my girlfriend needs to know what I’m doing 24/7, but... yeah. I’m not going to like what she has to say to me. Which is probably a lot. I know I’m making things worse by putting off the call, not responding to her as soon as possible, but I want to drink my shake in peace. It’s not that much to ask.

  After making my shake, I head into the living room, plop onto the couch, and turn on the television. A game’s on. Good. That can distract me while I put out this fire.

  I dial her number. She picks up on the first ring, as if she was waiting for me to call her back. I wouldn’t put it past her. “Hey, baby,” I say cheerfully, even as I brace myself.

  “Logan.” There’s disapproval in her voice.

  That’s all she says. My name. She’s telling me so much with a single word, mainly that I’m in the dog house. I scrub a hand over my face, fighting back a groan. It would be one thing if I had actually done something wrong. You know, like kicking a puppy or plotting murder. But choosing to leave my phone while going for a run? Ridiculous.

  “I called an hour ago and you didn’t pick up. I called multiple times. Where were you?”

  I bite back a sigh. Jasmine’s a nice girl. We’ve been together for about four months now, after meeting at a bar, of all places. But her constant nagging and clinginess is starting to wear on me. “Out for a run. You know I don’t take my phone with me when I go.”

  “You didn’t tell me you were going for a run.”

  And I don’t have to.

  That would get me nowhere though, so I say, “Must have slipped my mind.”

  “What if it was an emergency? What if I was being kidnapped and the only person I could call to save me couldn’t because it was too much of an inconvenience for him to carry his phone?” She exhales a sharp breath. “My kidnapping on your hands. How would you like that?”

  And here we go.

  “Jasmine.” My tone is firm, but not unkind. I don’t want to be an asshole, though I have to say, she’s asking for it. “If I choose not to take my phone with me, you can’t do anything about that. I’m not changing my mind over this, and I’m not changing my actions so that it’s less of an inconvenience for you.” Fuck that. Honestly, I shouldn’t have to change anything about myself. But I’m starting to realize that I’ve changed parts of myself to please her, and I don’t like it. It sounds terrible, but my life used to be so much easier without Jasmine in it.

  “When you love someone, you’re supposed to change for them,” she snaps back. “It’s called sacrifice. That’s what you’re supposed to do in relationships.”

  That makes me see red. “No. When you love someone, you accept them. You should never expect anyone to change, because most people don’t. We’re two different people with two different identities. We need to maintain independence. Spending all of our waking hours with one another isn’t good.” Even though that’s what Jasmine wants, what I’ve begun to cave about.

  She huffs. I can imagine her pacing in her room. “So what you’re saying is you don’t want to change for me. Which means you don’t love me.”

  My spine snaps straight, as if someone hit me with a taser. Whoa. There are so many things wrong with that statement that I don’t even know where to begin.

  First: Jasmine and I have never talked about love. Never mentioned the L-word. And I was quite satisfied with that.

  Second: This is emotional manipulation and gaslighting. Not okay.

  Third: I’m sure there’s another reason, but I just can’t think of it at the moment.

  I’m about to reply with something waspish and hurtful, something I’ll probably end up regretting, when Jasmine sighs into the phone. “Fine, all right. I’m sorry.” It doesn’t sound like she is though. Something I’ve noticed about Jasmine is that when the conversation isn’t going her way, she makes it go her way. “Anyway, I wanted to let you know I’m coming over now.”

  I pinch the bridge of my nose while grinding my teeth togeth
er. Another toxic comment burns the tip of my tongue. She’s making decisions for me. Another no from me. I struggle with my growing temper. Not that I don’t like spending time with my girlfriend, but she was here all day yesterday and the day before, and I need some space. “Jasmine—”

  “I have pizza.”

  That stops me. Pizza? My stomach grumbles. Fuck, I forgot she knows my weaknesses. Yeah, I could eat a slice or four.

  From my silence, she knows she has me in the bag. “Be over in ten,” she croons. The call ends.

  Groaning, I toss my phone onto the table. It’s not that I don’t care for Jasmine—I do. But there’s an expiration date on our relationship and she knew that from the beginning. I think she thought to sway me somehow, so I’d stay here while she finished her last year of college. Not going to happen. My life in Indiana was always temporary. My future was always with the pro soccer world.

  My phone buzzes with a text. I’m partially afraid it’s Jasmine again, but I decide to check anyway. It’s Greg.

  The players are up on Academy Paris.

  That’s right. They said they’d be posting the participants by the end of the week.

  Learning Greg would be attending the academy with me was a bonus. We’d tried out for years and never made it. I guess the stars aligned this time. I’ve traveled a fair bit in college, but never to France. Who doesn’t love bread and cheese? I know it’s going to be a banging time.

  Quickly, before Jasmine arrives, I grab my laptop from my bedroom and take it into the living room, firing it up. I head to the website and log in. Academy Paris is six weeks of intensive soccer training—drills, games, coachings. It’s one of the most prestigious programs for up-and-coming professionals, and only twenty-five players are accepted every summer. Did I mention that everyone who’s accepted gets a free ride? Because you really can’t beat that. All inclusive. You stay at the dormitories at the Université Paris-Dauphine and use their athletic facilities for the summer. But the best part is that since flights are so cheap in Europe, you can use the weekends—free from soccer obligations—to explore more of Europe. And eat more food.

  I begin to scroll through the names when I hear a knock on the front door. “It’s me,” says Jasmine. As if it would be anyone else.

  I start to get up when my eyes catch on one of the thumbnails, and I quickly do a double take. That face looks so familiar to me, but it’s too small to distinguish.

  “Logan! It’s cold out here.”

  My attention goes to the player’s information. Austin Rhodes.

  The name is like a punch to the sternum.

  “Logan!” The word is shrill as creaking ice. Any minute she’ll start kicking down the door. “I know you’re in there. I have pizza, remember?”

  I’m just dazed enough that I set aside the laptop and open the door. Jasmine sweeps past me, setting the pizza box on the table. Then she smiles, as if I had done nothing wrong and she was never mad at me to begin with. “Hi, handsome.” Going onto her toes, she presses a kiss to my mouth as my hands automatically curve around her waist.

  “Hey, baby.” I smile and stroke the swell of her hips, but my thoughts are distracted, still on that name: Austin Rhodes.

  Former best friend.

  I’m not surprised to learn he got accepted into the academy. In high school, he was unstoppable in the goal. A natural, but never arrogant about it. He must be a force of nature now, with four years of collegiate soccer under his belt.

  Despite my best interests, I followed Logan’s collegiate career the first two years of college. A part of me was still hurt over his abandonment. I think following his soccer career made me feel close to him again. It was something we shared despite distance. Watching his career unfold was the only way I knew how to connect to him, since he wouldn’t respond to my texts or calls.

  Jasmine tilts her head back and, without any form of subtlety, says, “I wanted to talk to you about the phone thing.”

  Shaking Austin from my head, I focus on my girlfriend as she continues, “I was worried about you. You need to remember to take your phone when you go running.”

  I don’t know whether to laugh or roll my eyes or both. It’s a never-ending battle with her over something that isn’t even important, in the grand scheme of things. “Jasmine, I’ve told you this over and over. Soccer is my life. You can’t expect me to be on call all hours of the day. When I’m training or conditioning, I can’t be available to you. I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it is.”

  “You know I can get any guy I want, right? Any of them would be happy to be with me.”

  It’s a low blow. I know that. I mean, look at her. Jasmine is a serious knock out. Curves in all the right places. Beautiful red-blonde hair and freckles dusted across a nose that is too cute for words. A spitfire personality to match. But ever since graduation, she’s been nagging me about spending more time with her—even though that’s basically all I do—and I can’t give her what she needs. She’s looking for a guy who will drop everything to be with her, and there are guys out there who’d do that in a heartbeat. But that’s not me.

  “If you don’t think this is going to work,” I say honestly, “maybe it’s best if we take a break. I’m leaving for the summer anyway.”

  “But you said you’d be back in July.”

  “Yeah, but only to pack up my stuff. I’m moving, remember?”

  “Oh. Right.” Her gaze drops to the ground. Her voice is quiet. “What’s going to happen, then?”

  I swallow my sigh. I don’t want to have this conversation right now. Honestly, I’m kind of wishing I hadn’t been swayed by pizza. Damn you, pizza. I’d rather be on my computer reading up about the guy who broke my trust in friendship, who in less than a week I’m going to face, and I don’t know what I’m going to do about it. I thought time had dulled my anger, thought I had forgiven him and moved on from the betrayal, but it all comes rushing back. That burning in my chest. The rage and spite. I seriously doubt Austin forgot who I am. We were inseparable our senior year.

  Squeezing her shoulders gently, I say, “We both knew this wasn’t going to last forever. You deserve a guy who will give you the attention you need.”

  “Don’t say that.” Her eyes are wet, and color rushes to her face as she snaps out in panic. “You know we’re good together.”

  Sure we are. Great sex. Fun conversation. But something’s always been missing. Neither Jasmine nor I have dropped the L-word, and for me, it’s because I just don’t love her. I care about her, but love? I don’t feel that deep, emotional bond. It sounds terrible, I know.

  I decide not to say anything, which then freaks her out. Her eyes widen. Her mouth gapes in shock. I’m sure she expected me to agree with her.

  Jasmine quickly backtracks, eyes turning sultry. “We could eat pizza,” she purrs, walking two fingers across my chest, “or we could move onto the main course.” Her blue eyes twinkle with mischief.

  My attention goes to my computer. “I’m pretty tired right now.” My expression is apologetic. “Some other time?”

  Jasmine sighs. “Fine.” She settles onto the couch and reaches for a slice of cheese. “Pizza it is.”

  Chapter 3

  Austin

  When my alarm goes off, it takes me a few minutes to wake. My eyes burn. My head is groggy. I didn’t sleep well. Nerves, most likely. I tossed and turned all night, bits of memory fragments flaring like sparks of light, then extinguishing. Me and Logan, Logan and me. It’s impossible to disentangle the two.

  It’s four in the morning. The fan whirs overhead, steady. My eyes slowly adjust to the darkness. It reminds me of a different darkness, the darkness of the walk-in closet at Chelsea Holmes’s graduation party all those years ago. Him, blindfolded, sitting on a chair, his pants around his knees. Me, kneeling in front of him, feeling as though my skin would split from how much I wanted to to
uch my friend. Only, he never knew it was me who touched him. That I’d made sure of.

  As I lay there, wondering what will happen when I step off that plane in Paris, I think of how I’ll face my former best friend. How do you go back to the way things were? You can’t. Time passes, trust breaks, and you’re left with scattered remains. The guilt weighs on me. I took advantage of my friend that night. I wanted it so badly that I didn’t think about the consequences. And the fallout that happened after, well, that was my fault too.

  I start gathering the last of my belongings. I need to call a cab to take me to the airport. My flight leaves in two hours from the Raleigh airport. I have a layover in Newark, and then it’s a seven-hour flight to Paris. Enough time for me to think of a solution to the problem, hopefully.

  The house is dark as I slowly make my way down the hall, my backpack and duffel bag slung over my shoulder. My stomach growls. I can’t afford to buy food at the airport—five dollars for a bagel is freaking ridiculous—so I put some bread in the toaster and grab a banana and some granola bars for the trip. I’m filling up my water bottle when there’s banging on the front door. My body goes still as awareness takes over. It’s the middle of the night.

  Moving into the living room, I peer through one of the side windows. The porch light is on, allowing me a good look at whoever’s knocking at this hour. When the person steps into my line of sight, dread settles in the pit of my stomach. The woman sways, leaning heavily against the wall.

  Hurriedly, I unlock the front door. “Mom?”

  Blinking up at me, my mother says, “Austin.” Her voice is slurred. Her eyes are bloodshot. A half-empty bottle of what appears to be vodka hangs from her small hand.

  I swallow to bring moisture to my mouth. From force of habit, I check for blood. The first time this happened, my mother showed up to my house covered in blood. I nearly shit my pants in fear, but she’d only fallen and knocked her head. Head wounds bleed a lot.

  No blood from what I can see. I check my watch. I need to call a cab in ten minutes.