Bad Things

6. Let Me In

 There's a fire starting in my heart

Reaching a fever pitch, it's bringing me out the dark

Finally I can see you crystal clear

Go 'head and sell me out and I'll lay your ship bare[

See how I leave with every piece of you

Don't underestimate the things that I will do

- Adele.  

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The alarm on Shawn's phone beeped at ass o'clock in the morning. He groaned and kept his eyes closed as he fumbled for the offending object on the nightstand, only managing to knock it to the floor.

"Fuck," he swore and finally opened his eyes.

It was still dark in his room, only the streetlamp right outside the window providing any light. Shadows from the branches of the old maple situated at the back corner of the house swayed in the illumination. Shawn flipped over and hung the top half of his body off the bed and felt around the carpet for his rogue phone. When his fingers closed around it, he grabbed it and thrust himself back on the bed. Somehow in his struggle, he managed to press the button on the bottom and the screen lit up, blinding him for a second. Once he'd managed to blink away the black spots, his eyes focused on the list of recent outgoing calls. The topmost was a number he did not recognize, but knew whose it was all the same.

Shawn dropped his head back onto the pillow and closed his eyes. So it was all true. Camila. The fight. The baby. For those few seconds before he was fully awake, everything felt normal again. He was still just Shawn Mendes, top Varsity quarterback in the county—maybe even the whole state, number one pick for multiple college scouts, some even from the top football schools in the country. But now that he saw that number, now that he remembered, he was just some ass who'd knocked up a girl in high school.

He lifted his hand to grasp at his hair, when pain radiated up his arm. Shawn winced and cupped his palm over his left shoulder. The area beneath his fingers was sore, tender to the touch. Rolling over, he flipped on the bedside lamp, then got out of bed and went to his closet. He opened the door and stood half-turned in front of the full-length mirror hanging on the inside. The entire top half of his left shoulder blade was the beginning to bruise.

"Damn it." He brushed his fingers over the top, feeling the ache even with just that light touch. How the hell was he supposed to throw today with his shoulder like that?

Shawn knew, as he was being thrown down the night before, that the hits felt wrong. Harder somehow, and more purposeful. He'd always managed to land on that shoulder, which was odd in and of itself—no hit ever landed the same—and every guy who hit him made it a point to shove down on his pads each time they got up, practically grinding him into the ground.

He pressed into the discolored area once more, feeling around for any sort of damage he should be worried about. But it was just a bruise, thankfully.