The Beautiful Game

Chapter Twelve - Carter

      Nothing is certain in life.

     Well, except for one thing: I drank too fucking much last night.

     Surprisingly, I woke up in my own bedroom, but I hadn't quite made it to the bed. I try to stretch out my limbs, my back tight and knotted from the hardwood floor, but it just causes my head to throb worse, I groan.

     Honestly, things got pretty hazy last night. I could remember my conversation with Blondie in the kitchen, I even remembered the half bottle of whiskey I'd downed after she'd spat her insults at me. I remembered her sat with that five foot dick head Max, and I wanted to piss her off, as much as she'd done me.

    The last thing I remember was the look on Blondie's face when she discovered me and that girl on the bed.

    On her bed.

    I tried to tell myself I didn't give a shit. She'd been eye fucking that dude, touching him, and smiling at him, actually smiling at him, so I retaliated. That girl had been desperate for it all night, so I gave in; and from the look on Blondie's face, it was not fucking worth it.

    The moment I saw her stood there I just felt like the biggest idiot known to man. For a moment, the impenetrable wall that she'd built within her eyes had dropped, the first time I'd been able to really read them, and she'd looked hurt. It was fleeting, but it'd been there. She was just so god damn frustrating.

    "You alive?" Marcus pushes my bedroom door open. The moment he sees me lying on the floor he starts to laugh.

    "Fuck off."

    "Coffee." He hands it down to me, I pull myself up into a sitting position, leaning against the end of my bed before taking the cup.

    "Ok, don't fuck off."

    "Carter you look like shit."

    "Why don't you?" Marcus leans against my dresser, nursing his own cup of coffee, looking ridiculously fresher than me this morning. Come to think of it, he disappeared pretty early on.

    "I stopped drinking, I actually er- I got talking to Ella." He rubs the back of his neck.

   "Joe's deli anyone?" Seamus fills the doorway, looking significantly more like I do this morning. In fact, Seamus looks like he didn't sleep at all.

   "Fuck yes." I stand up, and once the swirling room finally becomes stationary again, I get dressed for breakfast.

    Joe's greasy food and bottomless soda was one of the few things that could drag me off the floor right now and soothe a hangover so severe.

    The three of us were dressed and leaving in a matter of minutes. Joe's deli is a sandwich place just a five minute walk from our apartment, which is good because my fucking jeep is still sat outside Blondie's place.

    We slide into our regular booth, the red laminate seats worn and cracked, the retro décor dated and comforting. We'd been coming here for the past three years; it was one of the few things besides my mom and sister that I couldn't bear the thought of leaving in Michigan after graduation.

    Mandy, our sixty-something server comes over, she doesn't move the pencil from her hair or the small yellow notepad from the front of her apron, she knows what we're having. She greets us, fills up our waters and squeezes Seamus' cheek, reducing him from a gigantic defensive nightmare, to a child, all in the affectionate gesture.

    We each get our usual: large soda, side of pancakes and syrup, along with our breakfast subs and large side of hash browns. As usual the food is quick, and our table is completely laden with food. It's silent for a while, we all just shovel our food down, the egg yolk runs down my fingers as I eat, I ignore it and shove more hash brown into my mouth.