Copyright © Kate McCarthy 2015
ISBN-13: 978-0-9875261-8-2
ISBN-10: 0987526189
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any other information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for brief quotations in a review.
This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Title and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual person’s, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Editing by Maxann Dobson, The Polished Pen
http://www.polished-pen.com
Cover art courtesy of Mae I Design and Photography
http://www.maeidesign.com/
Interior Design by Allusion Book Formatting and Publishing
http://www.allusiongraphics.com/
Cover models are Maximilian Gust and Hannah Peltier
There are two main characters in this story. Jordan, an Australian, and Brody, an American, which begged the question, which spelling should I use for the dual point of view? I’ve decided to go with American for the entire story to reduce confusion. My reason being the majority of the story is based in America, however I am an author based in Australia, therefore you will find Australian slang and Australian terminology in this book from Jordan’s perspective.
Due to the subject matter contained in this story, some Universities, sporting teams, and processes, have been fabricated for legal reasons.
Thank you for purchasing a copy of The End Game. I hope you enjoy Brody and Jordan’s journey as much as I have writing it.
To my mother with so much love.
You taught me the value of having dreams,
and how important it is to reach for them before it’s too late.
I miss you.
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Books by Kate McCarthy
Other Books Synposis
About the Author
Jordan
I walk off the soccer field at North Sydney Oval. Dried sweat coats every inch of my skin from a bout of training I’d rather forget. I’m the best damn player this team has, better than all of them, and they know it. Yet I’m not wanted here.
Distrust glares back at me from my teammates’ eyes as they make their way toward the waiting bus. Their open hostility should hurt, but I can’t feel it. It’s an odd feeling, I think. Numbness. Like being injected with anesthetic. I wonder how long it will last.
My brother is propped in front of the bleachers, leaning against the fence behind him. He looks like he always does. Honey-colored curls peek out from a gray beanie, skin tanned no matter what the season, and cheeks tinged pink from the cool air. His clear blue eyes stare back at me, solemn and resigned, beautiful, yet always so damn sad.
He’s here to watch me train. I’ve been contracted to play for the Australian women’s soccer team in the upcoming FIFA World Cup. It’s a huge honor, and one I don’t take lightly, but I’m tired. My mind is elsewhere right now, which means my focus is shot.
Forcing a smile, I wave and make my way toward him. It’s a cool night and my cleats crunch loudly in the crisp grass, the rich scent of dirt rising up and teasing my senses. I breathe it in deep, feeling it lodge inside my lungs. It gives me no satisfaction. No sense of achievement. Tonight it gives me nothing.
He waves back. Nicolas, or Nicky as I call him, is my safety net. Being older by three minutes has given him a sense of responsibility, and he wields it like a weapon. Perhaps I’m selfish because I let him. How can I not? My brother’s given up his own future so I can have mine. I owe him everything.
“You call that soccer?” he shouts as I get closer.
“What do you call it?”
He shakes his head. “A fuckin’ train wreck.”
My breath huffs out sharply, fogging the air in front of me. “Don’t sugarcoat it or anything.”
Nicky tucks his hands inside his pockets and shrugs. “Sugar is for girls and spice and all things nice.”
I laugh, but the sound isn’t a happy one. I’m not any lighter for it. It only weighs me down further because Brody’s gone and I’ll never laugh again. Not on the inside.
“And I’m none of those?”
“Nope,” he says simply, his voice firm and matter-of-fact.
Reaching his side, I take a seat on the bench with a deep, exhausted sigh. Bending over, I begin untying my laces. “What am I then?”
“A fighter. Fearless. A fuckin’ thing of raw beauty out there on the field. No one can catch you,” he says, and I pause to look at him. Pride shines from his eyes, lighting him up from the inside, but when they begin to harden, my stomach sinks like lead. “Some of those girls out there play with heart, and some play just because they’re good at it, but you? You bleed the game.” He looks away, fixing his gaze on the field in front of us. “You play with a fire so bright it hurts my eyes. This game is a part of you. It’s a part of you that no one should be able to take away, and out there you were letting them do just that.”
“Nicky—”
“Don’t.” His voice is sharp and cuts right through me. Shaking my head, I return to my laces, unable to look at him anymore. “Don’t let them.”
One of the ties tangles in my fingers. I give up and rest my elbows on my knees, letting my head hang low. “They’ll get over it and tomorrow it will just be yesterday’s news.”
“Bullshit, Jordan.” Nicky jerks to his feet. Facing me, he crouches so I can’t avoid looking him in the eye. “This kind of crap doesn’t wash off after a hot shower. It sticks like fuckin’ tar.”
I force a chuckle. “Don’t be such a drama queen, Nicky.”
A strangled, angry sound rises from his throat. I know he’s only five seconds from losing his shit, but I can’t help it. I know what he’s asking me to do, and the very thought squeezes all the air from my lungs. I won’t do it.