I need a beer.
No, I do not need to start drinking now. I gotta face Melinda, to tell her what happened. Sober, preferably.
The ever-present noise of a baseball game floated out to him. The evolution of that sound tracked his years in this house. His boisterous siblings, volatile father, and always-in-control mother had anchored him then, as did his position in the pecking order.
He could practically still hear the tinny, single-speaker AM radio then the upgraded hi-fi his father had installed in the lower level the year of the pool addition. Lindsay had griped about it, its expense, its volume, its electricity consumption to high heaven. Until one night he recalled with crystal clarity.
He’d been going on seventeen, his hormones raging fit to kill. Cara had been at the house for a few hours, hanging out, playing ping pong with him and his family, having dinner, the usual—including the heavy petting later in the lower basement. The thought of her made him wince again as his overwrought body went into lizard-brain mode. They’d been within weeks of consummating all the make-out sessions but that night she’d left him with yet another set of blue balls, brain boiling, chest tight with a strange combination of anger and lust.
Funny when he thought on it now—that tight-skinned, on-edge, lower-belly pain he’d lived with during those years—he’d honestly believed that’s what it felt like to love a girl. Finally closing the deal with her had been such a physical relief he kept attaching emotions to it, until one day he’d looked over at her while she studied their freshman year of college and had nearly wept with the force of his feelings. He sighed and pulled the towel off before that particular memory progressed to the bad part.
That night, Antony had not been home, as usual. He’d been with his firecracker of a girlfriend Crystal, likely getting laid at that very moment. His younger siblings Aiden and Dominic had been staring at a video, heavy-lidded, a cease-fire in their usual ongoing battles declared in the upstairs living room. Angelique sat wedged between them, thumb stuck in her mouth.
He’d ignored them all, nursing a half-boner and raging fury plus sore muscles from his new trainer’s workout. After downing a couple glasses of milk for lack of anything better to do, he’d wandered downstairs to the walkout level, thinking he’d strip and jump in the pool to try and cool his libido.
As he’d rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairwell, he’d heard the music but had continued ignoring it. The sliding glass door had been open, in direct opposition to his parents’ ongoing refrain against air conditioning the whole dang outdoors. Without thinking, he’d headed for the patio, focused on the single goal of getting his dick to soften and his mind to still.
He’d been so surprised to spot his parents dancing on the patio to the sound of the new and much-maligned hi-fi blaring out “Stand By Me,” he’d had to stop, blink, and acknowledge that he’d nearly blasted his way through an a rare, private moment—something completely out of character as his parents rarely engaged in anything resembling pubic displays of affection around their kids.
He’d moved back into the shadows, observing the two people who anchored his universe. After ducking into the lower-level family room he’d stood frozen, as his father lifted his mother’s chin then pressed his lips to hers. That had been too much so he’d hightailed it indoors and taken a cold shower in lieu of a swim.
His mother had not complained once about the hi-fi after that.
When ice-cold water splashed over his head and shoulders he lurched forward, spluttering and cursing. Antony grinned and jumped into the pool out of his reach. Instead of chasing after him like usual, Kieran sat, stunned all over again at the thought of facing Melinda with his crap-tastic news. When Antony emerged at the far end of the pool, shaking the water from his hair, Kieran had to acknowledge he wanted to puke.
“What is wrong with you, bro?” Antony climbed out of the pool and sat at the edge glaring at him. “Seriously. You are not right.”
“I got fired.”
“Uh...oh....”
“Well, laid off. Pink-slipped. Last in first out. Whatever.” He flopped onto the pillow, jarring his aching head in the process.
“Well, I mean, you’ve got some cash saved right? All those endorsements that first year?”
Staying quiet, unwilling to explain yet again that all those endorsements had amounted to enough dough to fund a high-living lifestyle his rookie year in Miami which had led to his eventual debut as a second-year player, and, of course, to his ignominious exit from the ranks of paid-professional athletes. All that time, all that money, all the effort, for squat.