End Game

Chapter 27

Chapter 27 

Nate 

The music pounded in my ears, loud enough to drown out the noise in my head, but not enough to block it completely. The beer in my hand was warm, but I wasn't drinking it for the taste. Around me, the football house was alive with drunken laughter, clinking glasses, and shouted jokes. We'd just won tonight's game—by all accounts, it should've been a night to celebrate.

Three touchdowns. The last one in the fourth quarter sealed the win. My teammates lifted me on their shoulders, the crowd roaring like I'd just etched my name into history. It should've felt like everything I'd worked for. But instead, it felt hollow.

Because what did it matter?

Without Aurora, without Florida, with everyone knowing my business thanks to that damn article, the touchdowns felt like numbers on a scoreboard that didn't mean anything. My future, my shot at proving myself, was slipping through my fingers, and no amount of wins could fix it.

So I drank. Hard.

I tipped the beer back and chugged the rest, the bitter taste mixing with the burn already coating my throat from the shots I'd downed earlier. I wanted it to drown the noise in my head, to numb me enough to forget how everything was falling apart.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, I stared blankly at the crowd crammed into the living room. Someone shoved a shot glass into my hand, and I tossed it back without hesitation. The fire down my throat was welcome—something sharp to cut through the heavy, suffocating numbness.

"Yo, Nate!" Lincoln's voice cut through the haze. He clapped a hand on my shoulder, grinning wide. "Man, you had the game of your life tonight. Three touchdowns? And that last one in the fourth? Unreal."

"Yeah," I muttered, my voice flat. "Thanks."

His smile faltered as he eyed the empty shot glass in my hand. "But maybe slow down on the shots, yeah? You've been going hard lately. And we kinda need those legs in good shape for our next game."

I shrugged him off, reaching for another beer. "I'm fine. Just having a good time."

"Right," he said, skeptical. "If this is what a good time looks like, I don't want to see bad."

Before I could respond, a commotion near the front door caught my attention. The crowd parted, and my heart sank.

Mom and Momsie were standing there, their faces carved from disappointment and determination.

"Oh, hell no," I muttered, slamming the beer on the counter. I shoved through the crowd toward them, ignoring the curious stares from my teammates. "What are you doing here?"

Mom crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing at the sight of me. "Samuel called us."

I whipped my head around to glare at him. He wouldn't meet my eyes, just scratched the back of his neck like a guilty kid.

"What the hell, Samuel?" I snapped.

"He's worried about you," Momsie said before he could answer, her voice calm but steady. "And so are we." She stepped forward, reaching for my arm, but I jerked away.

"I don't need you to babysit me," I muttered, low and sharp. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine, Nate," Mom cut in, her voice slicing through the noise. "Look at yourself. This isn't you. This isn't the boy we raised."

Heat flared in my chest. I stormed up the stairs two at a time, my fists balled so tight my nails dug into my palms.

"Nathaniel James, don't you walk away from us!" Mom's voice followed, carrying that edge that meant I was seconds from pushing too far.