Chapter 12: A Broken Glass

I hauled the rolling cart down the utility corridor and kicked the laundry room door open.

Forty pounds of practice gear spilled over the sides, reeking of stale sweat and dried infield dirt. Vaughn Mercer wanted me on a bus back to the city before sunrise, but six thousand dollars meant oxygen for my mother and high school tuition for Jonah. I wasn't packing for anyone.

I stripped off my canvas jacket and went to work in my tank top. The dried red clay scraped against my knuckles as I sorted jerseys, pants, and compression gear into three industrial washers. I dumped in the commercial detergent, set the dials to heavy cycle, and pulled the start knobs.

The three drums kicked on with a dull roar, water rushing through the pipes until the concrete beneath my sneakers hummed with vibration.

By the time the second wash cycle started, sweat was sticking my hair to the back of my neck. I hadn't eaten since six in the morning, and the fatigue caught up with me while I leaned against the folding counter to catch my breath.

Two quick raps sounded against the open doorframe.

Rhys stood in the doorway, blocking the hall light. In one hand, he balanced a paper plate with two slices of pepperoni pizza; in the other, a cold can of ginger ale.

"Brought fuel," he said, stepping inside.

I wiped my hands on my jeans and took the plate. "Thank you."

I took a bite, the grease and melted cheese cutting through the hollow ache in my stomach. Rhys leaned against the folding table, watching the drums spin through the circular glass.

"Nobody lasts twenty-four hours around Vaughn when he's like this," he remarked.

I swallowed, dabbing my mouth with a paper napkin. "Does he always treat the domestic staff like a punching bag?"

The easy humor dropped from Rhys's face. "No. He doesn't. He's cornered right now, Frey. Things are slipping out of his control, and he knows the road is running out."

I popped the tab on the ginger ale and took a drink. "I'm here for the paycheck, Rhys. Whatever is going on in his head isn't my problem."

Rhys watched the water churn through the rinse cycle. "The longer you stay in this house, the better shot he has of holding it together. Don't let him run you off."

He pushed away from the counter and tapped my shoulder on his way back to the hall. "Don't work yourself into the floor, kid."

It took until past midnight to cycle the pants, jerseys, and padded gear through the dryers. I folded the last road uniform, stacked the hampers against the wall, and flicked off the overhead lights.

The mansion was dark and silent, the bass from the pool long gone and the other players asleep or headed back toward town.

My sneakers squeaked against the floorboards as I headed toward the side exit, every muscle in my lower back screaming for the bed out in the casita.

CRASH.

The sound of shattering glass tore through the ceiling right above my head.

I froze in the dark hall. Seconds later, a muffled, guttural curse drifted down from the second floor.

Vaughn.

The exhaustion washed out of my legs, replaced by adrenaline. I turned toward the back staircase, taking the steps two at a time without making a sound.

The second-floor gallery was pitch-black except for a strip of yellow light spilling from a door left ajar. The master suite. I stepped up to the gap and looked in.

An overturned lamp lay across the rug, casting dull light across the room. A wide pool of amber bourbon was soaking into the floorboards, filling the air with the stinging reek of high-proof alcohol and broken glass.

In the middle of the spill knelt Vaughn Mercer.

He was bare-chested, dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.

His left arm was seizing in erratic, uncontrolled tremors.

The spasms pulled from his shoulder down into his hand, locking his fingers into a rigid, clawed curl. In a blind, frantic state, his bare hand was raking through the puddle of whiskey, gathering broken shards.

Blood welled from jagged gashes across his palm, mixing with the alcohol in slick red streaks.

"Vaughn!" The shout broke from my throat before I could think.

I shoved the door open, my sneakers crunching over glass as I crossed the room. He looked up, his face pale and eyes bloodshot.

"Get out!" he rasped, his voice tearing raw.

I dropped to my knees directly into the puddle, ignoring the burn of bourbon soaking through my jeans.

"Stop grabbing the glass! You're tearing up your own tendons!"

"Frey, get out!" he shouted, throwing his right shoulder forward to shove me away.

I ducked under his reach, lunged in, and clamped both hands around his thick left wrist. The tremors in his forearm kicked straight into my palms, his pulse hammering against my fingers. Using both thumbs, I wedged his spasming fingers away from the jagged base of the bottle.

Warm blood made his skin slick under my grip.

"Let go of it!" I told him, getting right in his face. "Let go, Vaughn!"

He yanked his arm back, breaking my hold, and drove his bleeding fist straight down into his own thigh, gritting his teeth in a desperate, futile bid to beat the seizing nerves into submission.

It didn't work. The spasm ripped down his forearm again, popping his fingers back open against his will and flinging dark drops of blood across the floor.

I stayed on my knees in the whiskey, hands sticky with his blood.

He wasn't drunk, and he wasn't throwing a tantrum.

The franchise superstar was on his knees, watching his career die from the inside out.

And I was the only witness to his ruin.