Trust in Me

He glanced at me. “I’m sorry, man. Truly. I know how much soccer meant to you.”


I nodded absently as I turned right, heading for the bypass that would take us into Charles Town. Soccer had been my life since the moment Dad enrolled me in the local peewee league, and over years, I’d honed my skills as a striker, the middle scoring position. I was damn good, too, and it was no secret that when I registered for Shepherd and made their soccer team three years ago, I had no plans on staying here. I was biding my time before I could score a tryout with D.C. United. Soccer was how I met Jase and Ollie. Soccer had been my sanity.

But the only thing I was doing with soccer now was coaching a summer rec league program as community service. There would be no more soccer. At least for the foreseeable future, and one act of anger had ensured that.

Most people my age spent Friday night drinking and hanging out with friends. I spent my Friday night sitting in a circle—yes, a fucking circle—listening to people’s problems. Some of the guys in the group weren’t bad. Like Henry. He got drunk one night and got into a fight at a bar. He wasn’t a psychopath. Neither was Aaron, who apparently had some road-rage problems. A couple of the other guys, and that one chick with the pasty-white makeup and heavy black eyeliner, I wasn’t so sure about. They were kind of scary.

Screwed-up thing was that I wasn’t the youngest person here. Not by far.

I only had . . . ten more motherfucking months of this.

I could do this. Seriously. I could easily do this.

“Cameron?” Dr. Bale cleared his throat, and I wanted to punch myself in the throat. “Is there anything you would like to share tonight?”

This was the part I couldn’t do. The talking-about-me shit with a whole bunch of strangers staring at me. I looked up, and a sympathetic look crossed Henry’s face before looking away.

“No,” I said. “Not really.”

Goth chick—who apparently had a penchant for knives—threw herself back in her seat, crossing her arms covered in black ink. “He never shares anything.”

I pressed my lips together to keep from getting stabbed.

“That is true.” Dr. Bale adjusted his wire-frame glasses. “You barely contribute to the group, Cameron.”

Shrugging, I sat back and slid the baseball cap down lower. “I’m just taking it all in.”

Henry jumped in, thankfully, diverting the attention, and I floated under the radar until the end of the session, but when I got up to leave, Dr. Bale summoned me.

Great.

As everyone filed out of the room, I dropped back in the metal folding chair and leaned forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “What’s up?

Dr. Bale leaned over, picking out a folder from the plastic bin beside him. “I wanted to make sure you were getting something out of these meetings, Cameron.”

Uh. No. No, I was not. “I am.”

He eyed me as he hooked his leg over a knee as he leaned back in his chair. “You’ve barely spoken about the event.”

“There’s really nothing to say.”

“There’s a lot to say.” He smiled, pausing, and the skin around his eyes crinkled. “I know talking in front of people is hard in the beginning, but you have things in common with them.”

I stiffened. “I’m not sure I have a lot in common with them.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Sighing, I averted my gaze to the white walls. Posters lined them. Ones that spoke of talking, instead of throwing punches.

“Are you taking this seriously, Cameron?”

“Yes.” I forced my gaze not to search out the only clock in the room, behind me.

“Good. I’d hate for you to not take this wonderful opportunity and use it to benefit your life.”

I kept my expression blank.

“Do you realize how lucky you are, Cameron?” Dr. Bale asked when I said nothing. “What happened to that boy could have put you in jail for a very long time.”

“I know,” I said, meaning it. God knows I knew how lucky I was. And for the longest time I believed my ass should’ve been rotting in jail. I would’ve been if it hadn’t been for my father’s pull in the criminal courts and my otherwise spotless record. “I’m a really laid-back guy, Dr. Bale. What happened—”

“The beating you inflicted on that boy would beg to differ.” His gaze flicked down to my file. “Severe head contusions. Broken jaw, nose, and eye socket, along with several broken ribs.” He looked up, meeting my stare. That doesn’t sound like something a ‘laid-back guy’ would do, now does it?”

My stomach soured, but I didn’t look away. “I’m not proud of what I did. Looking back, I know there were plenty of other things I could’ve done.”

“But?”

But I didn’t have an “anger” or a “rage” problem. And as fucked up as it sounded, I still wasn’t sure I regretted what I had done. The fucker had been beating on my sister, and well, I had lost my shit.

And truth be told, if I had to do the situation all over again, I wasn’t sure I’d handle it any differently. You hurt my sister, you’re fucking with me. It was as simple as that.