The Winning Shot

CHAPTER SIX

EVERLY

An empty bottle that had beer inside less than ten minutes ago lands on the counter with a loud clunk and somehow doesn't shatter into pieces.

I've never been the type to drown my sorrows in alcohol, but apparently today I am. And if I could punch myself right now, I would. Hell, I'd gladly ask someone to do it, but I doubt Coach would like it if I showed up to practice looking like I joined Fight Club. Not that I'd tell him. First rule, right?

Fuck. What am I even doing?

At one of those annoyingly stereotypical frat parties I've grown to hate, getting wasted and wrecking myself because of what? A petty argument? Someone calling me out on my bullshit? That someone being Xander?

What exactly am I angry about?

"You're fake," I repeat the words that have been haunting me for days, but they get lost in the cacophony of voices, music, and other noises I can't really identify. "Am I fake?"

The question remains unanswered because no one heard it. Not the person who should hear it.

He was right; I won't deny it, but hell if it doesn't sting a little. Or a lot. Because for a moment there, I thought I was making progress, and all it took him a few minutes to make me feel like a total failure.

"I don't care about your opinion, huh?" I ask him, even though he's not here.

Shit. Am I slowly going insane, or can I just blame alcohol?

"Well, look at me now, asshole!" I don't mean to yell, but I don't seem to have any control over my tone of voice. The rest of my body isn't very keen on subordinating, either.

I care about what others think of me, and I always have. The only thing that changed is that I've stopped trying to convince myself that I don't care.

But apart from that, I like the guy—or liked, whatever—and I genuinely believed we could be friends. There were moments when he seemed to enjoy my company, but they were always followed by hostility.

I ignored the grenades until he dropped the bomb.

"Everly?"

I jump, startled by the voice behind me. Or rather, by the realization of who the owner is.

Is he one of those demons that you summon by thought alone? Well, it'd make sense if he were a demon. He can't be human. Humans don't have that kind of power over other humans.

I turn around to face him. Slowly because the room has suddenly started to spin.

Xander's right there, staring at me expectantly. And I'm right here, trying to decide whether his appearance makes me more angry or sad. Or perhaps it's both?

I'll admit that I'm surprised he showed up. Every time I even brushed the subject, he dismissed it immediately, so eventually, I gave up.

"What?" I ask with an unplanned British accent.

Well, that's new.

"Can we talk?"

My intoxicated brain needs a little more time to process his question. Time I can use to take a better look at him.

Not his clothes exactly—not even the long-sleeved black turtleneck that hugs his arm and chest muscles in all the right places—but his face. The absent eyes and defeated expression. The lighter and darker shades of gray that cover the skin under his eyes.

He looks like I feel.

"Haven't you said enough?" I let the bitterness show in my tone because there's no point in hiding it.