Heart Breaker: An AnguiSH Novella Read online

  I could just fade away.

  After washing my bowl and spoon I turn my phone back on. I don’t even check to see if there are any missed calls or text messages—there are none, trust me. I’ve already spoken to my parents that day and my sister never calls. After changing out of my work clothes and into pajamas, I burrow into my layer upon layers of bedding. I’m one of those cold people. Even during the Louisiana heat, I freeze at night. Opening a new book on my iPad Kindle app I read a few pages and then come upon the main character’s name—Blake.

  “He likes you. I heard him talking to Abe when I passed their table.”

  “Jill, you’re my best friend, and I love you. But you’re full of shit if you think a guy like Blake likes me. Anyway we’re in the seventh grade, what does he likes me mean anyway?”

  “You know he wants to go out with you.”

  “Out with me where?”

  Jill threw her hands up in embarrassment of my lack of knowledge about such things. It just means you’ll be his girlfriend.

  I chanced a glance over at the popular people table and saw Blake. But he was tossing pepperoni pieces at someone across the room.

  “He’s throwing chunks of mystery meat. He’s not even looking at me.”

  “You’ll see,” she smirks. I darted my gaze back down to my book while she attempted to give herself whiplash looking from me to Blake and back again.

  I click my finger on the top left of the app and chose ‘library’ from the menu that pops up. I have no desire to read about Blake and how he found the love of his life. It turned out that middle school Blake wasn’t talking about me that faithful day in the cafeteria. He was talking about Alyssa, the only other red head in the seventh grade class whose name happened to be eerily similar to mine. Jill hadn’t heard him talking about me. She’d simply heard him saying something about a pretty red head and jumped to conclusions. Conclusions that led me to write him a note asking if he liked me and me being laughed at for the rest of the school year. Thankfully, over that summer, Blake had been accepted to an elite Catholic prep school and I never saw him again.

  Giving up on my books, I slide down lower into the covers and wonder at what point I became this person—this girl who spends her evenings hiding from people. I was twenty one years old but still contained the same apprehension for people and my inability to judge the truth of their emotions as I did at the tender age of thirteen.

  “You are so screwed up, Aysa Branton.”

  And now, Chapter one from Dethroning Crown, coming soon!

  Dethroning Crown:

  Chapter One

  Crown

  To be haughty is to be heavy.

  Chewable electrolyte replacements—that’s how little time I had to myself and in general. I didn’t even have the time or gumption to open a bottle and down a drink. Thank God, I’d never been signed to be sponsored by the company that made this shit. I wouldn’t ever be able to chew it on camera without vomiting.

  Popping one of the tangerine flavored Starburst looking cubes into my mouth, I finished lacing up my cleats. I hated my cleats. I don’t hate cleats in general, obviously. I hate the ones they make me wear. They were neon green, the tint of some radioactive shit you’d see on TV. They were so damned bright and ugly, I nearly regretted signing the contract with the shoe company in the first place. That was probably why I’d not been shown the shoes when they handed over the check, the glare would’ve blinded me. Not to mention, they hurt like a bitch. Each stud indented itself into the bottom of my feet while I played, even though I’d padded the bottom with those orthopedic shoe inserts meant for old geezers with bunions. They also swindled me into wearing a fake tattoo with their brand on my damned arm like I belonged to them—like some cattle brand.

  I’d signed onto a professional team right after my eighteenth birthday. I was set to go to college on a full athletic scholarship to the University of Akron. My mother had died during childbirth and my father had not taken up drinking or bouts of madness as a habit. He made me and my training his habit. The first time I kicked a ball was when I was two—he filmed the whole thing. Ever since then, I’d joined every local team and soccer association. I spent my breaks and summers in various soccer camps and training facilities. I knew nothing else. Those shirts that read ‘Soccer is life. The rest is just details’ were made for me. So when the contract was placed on the grand Oak desk, even though I’d wanted to contemplate the choice—my father had put the pen in my hand and bought out the team’s internet fan store before the ink dried. There was no choice as far as he was concerned. I was born and bred for the game that he loved with all his heart—the same game that his body refused to play up to standards.

  Sometimes, I wished for my body to fail me.

  But who would I be?

  No clue—no damned clue.

  He’d tried as a kid and in high school to play as well as he could, but he just couldn’t hack it. His reflexes weren’t swift enough—his legs not fast enough. So he watched it on TV the way most Americans watch football. He called American football, handball. He scoffed as people around him got up in arms about American football. He’d cackle and complain, ‘They call it football but their damned feet never touch the ball.’ The World Cup, in our home, was a life stopper. All activities—church, practice, and even school, came to a halt every four years so we could watch the world celebrate the sport.

  How could I not play soccer?

  He oozed pride and I soaked it up.

  Soccer consumed me.

  I felt like a cow chewing cud as the taffy-like energy candy’s flavor diminished into something that had the consistency of those wax lips I used to chew as a kid. I hocked the wad onto the floor in front of me and watched as it melted against the floor and stuck to the locker. I ignored the glare of the old guy who cleaned up after the team as he unfolded a napkin from his pocket and picked up my mess from the floor. It was his job. He could get over it. If I didn’t do shit like that, he wouldn’t have a paycheck.

  I thought his name was Eli—or maybe Elmer.

  I wasn’t really good with names.

  Ignoring his scowl, I listened to the coach and the owners feed us their repetitive line of crap while I checked out my hair from different angles. There were mirrors all over the locker room and from where I sat I could see my hair’s every dimension. I’d gelled it up just right. Black spikes were in all directions and my hairdresser had shaved my hairlines perfectly. That’s what I paid her for. With the cameras constantly on me, I had to keep up my appearance. Half of the reason I’d gotten so many endorsements was because of my looks—no argument. My gaze flicked over to Davey. He was gunning for my position on the field and in the coach’s good graces but he’d get nowhere with that pansy hair of his. He’d become one of those players who grew their hair out long and now sported one of those stretchy headbands.

  It’s not like his hair impeded his playing. He was a good player, but lazy. That’s where I had the advantage in life and on the field—I was a machine through and through. I was the first to show up at practice and the last to leave. I ate only out of necessity and always strict on the carb to protein ratio. Food didn’t even have a taste anymore. Even though I was sure the Kobe beef I had delivered in was cooked to perfection by my personal chef—I wouldn’t know. I forked it into my mouth along with whatever other regimented portion of food was on my plate and left the table within ten minutes. Then it was back to working out and running hard.

  My life was stacked with employees who made my life easy. I had a personal chef and a maid. Since becoming a pro, I hadn’t touched a piece of laundry, picked up a stray sock, or even bought soap. It was all done for me so I could focus on my career.

  My career was my life.

  We made it out to the field and I focused on the crowd. I smiled, feeling the swell of pride as several signs and other fan-made praises were waved in the air.

  That’s right, ladies and gents, I’m an effing god in this arena. Shout m
y name, clap and gasp when I make a brilliant move. Fuel me with your worship.

  Headband elbowed me in the ribs, “Yo man, the national anthem.”

  I scanned the crowd to see they were now standing, right hands over their hearts.

  Shit.

  I quickly slammed my hand over my chest and pretended to mouth the words to the anthem of the United States even though I had no clue what most of the words were. I knew ‘home of the brave’ but that was about it. And I knew after they sang that part I’d get my couple of hours of glory. After that was my favorite part. The after parties for the team were unrivaled. Cold beer, loud music and hundreds of females clamoring for my attention and my bed. Which was fine by me, a guy’s gotta get his aggression out somehow.

  I didn’t even have to try, they just flocked to me.

  We broke free from our line-up and began to warm up on the field. I saw the coach waving for my attention, sidled up by Davey. I bet that douchebag wanted my spot.

  Over my dead body.

  “Crown, I want to save you for the last half. Take the bench, Son. Davey’s gonna take left forward this half.”

  Letting my best smile gleam, the one that made them question my sanity, I seethed, “The hell you are. That’s my position. I’ll play the whole game.”

  Davey patted my shoulder, “Hey man, we all want a shot to play. Take one for the team.”

  I wanted to rip that hand from its socket and watch it bleed all over his shitty white cleats.

  “You’ll regret this, Sanders,” I growled at the coach who was now nearly trembling. His damned chin was waggling like a kid whose ice cream cone had just fallen to the ground. Stomping over to the bench, I grabbed my team hoodie and threw it over my head. It wasn’t cold out, but I wanted the hood to cover what I knew was a deep frown of anger and disappointment.

  I didn’t want my fans to see him get to me.

  “He just wants to see what the kid’s got, man. Don’t let it get to you.”

  Derrick and I had signed with the team at the same time. I guessed we were friends. We shared an apartment and hung out when there was time. He didn’t really say much to me, though I saw him chatting it up with the other players all the time. He was from Texas and whenever he drawled out something, all I heard was ‘baked beans, cowboy, horse, taters.’

  “Yeah, no shit.”

  I pulled surveillance on the little bastard as he weaved through the other team’s defenses. He was skilled, I’d give him that much. But he faltered some at the goal and missed his shot or it got blocked by the goalie, time after time. He was excellent with the process, but his execution was shit—he got cold feet. Every time he missed or fouled up a shot, I looked to the coach to pull his sorry ass from the field and put me in. But he never did. Instead my ass just became more and more sculpted to the shape of the metal bench. If someone would pants me at that point, they’d find lines indented on my ass cheeks like a piece of lewd sheet music paper. He was royally pissing me off.

  When half time rolled around, I was ready to strangle the coach with my bare hands. How dare he bench me! There wouldn’t even be a team if it weren’t for me. We wouldn’t be on a winning streak if it wasn’t for me. Hell, half the people in the stands were there just to get my autograph and take some half-assed selfie with me in it. They came to see me dominate.

  I got up and began to warm up, the anger bubbling and boiling inside me. I approached the sideline and waited, not giving that asshat coach a chance to tell me otherwise. He didn’t have a choice. I was playing whether he liked it or not. Davey hadn’t even scored any goals. He’d attempted about a dozen, but didn’t cut it. So now I’d have to get in there and pull us out of defeat.

  And I’d love every second of it.

  Thirty minutes into the second half and I’d already scored two goals and flipped off the other team’s goalie under the roof of my shirt as not to get carded. The other team’s defense was fierce—no wonder Davey couldn’t do much. But it was nothing for a player like me.

  Approaching the goal again, I showed off some tricks for the crowd. I got around one of their fullbacks and zeroed in on the goal. One of their hotshot players, number ten, like me, zoned in on my path and we grappled back and forth for possession of the ball. I finally broke free and lined up my shot. I could hear the hoots and hollers of the crowd cheering me on, putting me on the pedestal where I belonged. And then devastating pain. I tumbled to the ground in slow motion with the fans still in sight.

  I registered the blow but didn’t know what it was until I tried to regain my ground and realized where the pain was emanating from.

  Looking down in the direction of the sensation, I saw blood on my shorts and bone protruding from my leg. My knee was shot to hell, shattered beyond recognition.

  And so was my career.

  Want to catch up on more of Lila’s Antics?

  Go visit her madness here:

  Email: [email protected]

  www.lilafelix.com

  www.authorlilafelix.blogspot.com

  www.facebook.com/authorlilafelix

  Twitter: @Authorlilafelix

  authorlilafelix.tumblr.com

  Spotify: Lila Felix

  Pinterest: Author Lila Felix