After we’d found him and hauled him into the car, I remember sitting in the backseat feeling something I’d never felt before—pity. I felt sorry for my father. And I can’t deny I was relieved when Mom shipped him back to rehab the next day.

“I hope he’s paying you accordingly, sweetie,” Mom says, sounding upset. “You and Jeffrey work such long hours at the garage.”

“Of course he’s paying us.” But accordingly? Fuck no. I make enough to pay for rent and expenses during the school year, but definitely not what I should be making for full-time work.

“Good.” She pauses. “Can you still take a week off to come visit us?”

“I’m planning on it,” I assure her. Jeff and I have already worked out a schedule so that each of us can head to Boston to spend some time with Mom.

We talk for a few more minutes, and then I hang up and wander downstairs to find something to eat. I prepare a bowl of cereal, the no-sugar, all-bran bore-fest that Tuck forces us to eat because for some reason he’s against sugar. As I settle at the eat-in counter, my mind instantly travels back to what happened last night.

Leaving Grace’s room five seconds after she’d jerked me off had been such an asshole move. I know that. But I had to get out of there. The second I’d recovered from that orgasm, my first thought had been, what the hell am I doing here? Seriously. I mean, yeah, Grace was awesome, and sexy, and funny, but have I sunk so low that I’m now randomly finger-banging chicks I don’t even know? And I can’t even use alcohol as an excuse this time because I was stone-cold sober.

And the worst part? She didn’t even fucking come.

I clench my teeth at the reminder. There’d been a lot of moaning, sure, but I’m ninety-nine percent certain that she didn’t have an orgasm despite her telling me that she had. Or rather, lying to me that she had. Because when a woman drops a noncommittal “Uh-huh” after you ask if she had an orgasm, then that’s called lying.

And that half-assed “yeah, sure, me too” she gave me about whether she had fun? Talk about bruising a guy’s ego. Not only did she not come, but my company didn’t do it for her, either?

I don’t know how I feel about that. I mean, I’m not an idiot. I don’t live in a magical bubble where orgasms fall from the sky and land in a woman’s bed every time she has sex. I know they fake it sometimes.

But I’m fairly confident I speak for most guys when I say that I like to think they don’t fake it with me.

Damn it. I should’ve gotten her number. Why the hell didn’t I get her number?

I know the answer to that, though. This past month, I haven’t cared enough to ask for a girl’s number after a hook-up. Or rather, I’ve been too wasted before, during and after the hook-up to remember to ask.

The thud of footsteps from the corridor snaps me out of my thoughts, and I glance up in time to see Garrett stride into the kitchen.

“Morning,” he says.

“Morning.” I shove a spoonful of cereal into my mouth and do my best to ignore the instant jolt of discomfort, while at the same time hating myself for even feeling it.

Garrett Graham is my best friend. For chrissake, I’m not supposed to feel uncomfortable around him.

“So what’d you end up doing last night?” He grabs a bowl from the cupboard, a spoon from the drawer, and joins me at the counter.

I chew before answering. “I hung out with this girl. Watched a movie.”

“Cool. Anyone I know?”

“Naah, I just met her yesterday.” And will probably never see her again because I’m a selfish lover and bad company, apparently.

Garrett dumps some cereal into his bowl and reaches for the milk carton I left out. “Hey, so did you call that agent yet?”

“No, not yet.”

“Why not?”

Because there’s no point.

“Because I haven’t gotten around to it.” My tone is harsher than I mean for it to be, and Garrett’s gray eyes flicker with hurt.

“You don’t have to bite my head off. It was just a question.”

“Sorry. I…sorry.” Real articulate. Stifling a sigh, I take another bite of cereal.

A short silence settles between us, until Garrett finally clears his throat. “Look, I get it, okay? You didn’t get drafted and it sucks. But it’s not like you’re out of options. You’re a free agent now, and you’re not locked in with a team, which means you can sign with anyone if they want you. And they’re totally going to want you.”

He’s right. I’m sure there are lots of teams that would want me to play for them. I’m sure one of them would’ve even drafted me—if I’d entered the draft.

But Garrett doesn’t know that. He thinks I’ve been passed over these past two years, and—have I mentioned what an asshole friend I am?—I’ve been letting him think it. Because fucked up as it sounds, having my best friend believe I didn’t get picked bums me out a helluva lot less than admitting that I’m never going to play for the pros.

See, Garrett had a choice about not opting in. He wanted to earn his degree without the temptation that comes with being drafted. A lot of college players choose to ditch school the moment a team holds the rights to them—it’s hard not to when you’ve got a pro team pulling out all the stops to coax you into leaving college early. But Garrett’s a smart guy. He knows he’d lose his NCAA eligibility if he did that, and he also knows that signing a contract with a team doesn’t guarantee instant success, or even playing time.