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So it goes on and on in a vicious cycle.
But that’s not all. They also have this very official-sounding unofficial bet that’s been going on for years.
To see who could score more goals.
At the end of each season, the number of goals made by each of them individually are tallied, and a winner is declared. And apparently, since Bardstown is a soccer town, this ‘winner’ gets not only bragging rights — which could be further used to provoke each other on and off field — but also the town’s respect, all the girls that you could think of, all the fanfare and free drinks and food throughout the year.
All of this, to a non-soccer fan, would look very surreal. It does to me for sure.
But that doesn’t mean that it’s not true.
It’s so true that there are actual sides, or camps, if you will.
The Mustang camp, made of everyone who worships my brother. And the Thorn camp, made of the disciples of Ledger Thorne.
So anyway, remember the second problem in our epic love story that I’d mentioned?
I mean, apart from it being imaginary.
It’s this.
Their legendary rivalry.
Which I knew nothing about up until last week. Since I don’t attend any games and my brother has never uttered a word about it to me. But I saw it firsthand on the field, my brother and him facing off. Actually my brother and him, practically coming to blows in the middle of the game over I don’t even remember what. Something about my brother not passing the ball to a striker so he could take the winning shot himself.
But that’s not the point.
The point is that I know about it now.
I know how much they both hate each other.
And even though I think it’s stupid and childish and ridiculous and really fucking idiotic to be fighting over something as trivial as sports, I still have to pick sides. And since I’m a Jackson, I am automatically Team Mustang. I will always be Team Mustang. I can betray anyone in this world, but not my big brother.
Never ever my big brother.
Because all we have is each other, and that’s always been the case. Us against the world. Us against our parents. Who can’t really be called parents because I don’t remember the last time they acted like it. When my dad’s not busy earning millions, he’s off screwing everything with a skirt. And when my mom’s not busy with her pool boys, she’s off globe-trotting and spending the said millions.
That’s why I promised myself that I’d stay away from him. I promised myself that I’d stay at a distance.
I’d look but never touch.
I’d dream but never wish for it to come true.
But look what I did tonight, what I’m doing tonight.
I not only blew my cover and entered, without a thought or a plan, into what is essentially the enemy camp — I mean, what was I going to do if and when I found him with that blonde girl? What was my plan of action? — but also, now I’m following their leader to parts unknown.
Just because he said — no, growled — ‘come.’
What am I, a dog?
I mean he could’ve phrased it nicely and…
No, wait.
Wait a fucking second.
Because that’s not all that he growled back there, is it? He growled something else.
He said…
But then I go crashing into something hard and I lose my train of thought.
Also my footing.
The latter I get back though. Very quickly.
And it’s all because of the hand on my bicep.
His hand.
Strong and heated.
Just like the thing that I crashed into — which I’m suspecting was his back — not two seconds ago.
So heated that I feel it through the thick layer of the Italian cashmere coat that I’m wearing.
Breathless and hot, I go from his long fingers wrapped around my arm, up his arm that looks all kinds of dense and solid, to his shoulders that again appear all corded and muscled — and all this, through his brown leather jacket — all the way up to his face.
And I say, “I’m not yours.”
Because that’s what he had said. Back there.
Along with growling at me to ‘come,’ he’d called me ‘his.’
Which I’m clearly not.
“You said that, back there.” I lower my voice a little and try to mimic him. “She’s mine. She’s not yours. I mean, I’m not yours. I’m sure you probably said it to save me from them. And thank you for that, but —”
“No.”
“What?”
Now that I’ve managed to get my breath and thoughts back, plus my footing, I realize that there’s no reason for him to keep a hold of me, but he still is. In fact his grip has grown tighter in the last couple of minutes.
As have his features.
Which is saying something, because his face already appears to be carved out of stone.
