Bad Things

6. Let Me In

Damn Cabello and his idiot team. Any other time Shawn had sustained injury, he'd have shrugged it off as part of the game. Football was a tough sport, and a lot of players ended up hurt or worse. But this wasn't a normal football injury. It would have taken many hard hits to the same area for his shoulder to look like this, especially considering he was protected by pads.

The intent was obvious. Alejandro Cabello had sent Shawn and his father a message. He had been interested in far more than winning that game. He'd wanted to take Shawn out of it. But what Shawn didn't understand was why. Sure, he knew all about the feud: Alejandro hated Shawn's dad for beating him all those years ago. Big deal. But this seemed a little extreme.

For not the first time, Shawn wondered if there was more to this whole thing than he knew. There had to be, because if there wasn't, he swore this had to be the saddest thing he'd ever heard: two grown men whining and crying over games they lost twenty-some years ago. Pathetic.

Shawn knew the answers weren't going to come to him as he stood there staring into the mirror at the darkening skin on his upper back. But there was one thing he did know for certain: this injury was probably the least of his worries once Alejandro Cabello found out what Shawn had done to his daughter.

Shit. Camila. What was he going to do about her? About all of this? He couldn't be a father, not now. Shawn had too many plans, too many things he wanted out of his life to be saddled with a damn kid. Especially a Cabello kid. In his father's mind, there could be no greater sin, Shawn was sure of it.

From the corner of his eye, Shawn spotted a line of light coming from under his bedroom door. Crossing the room, he quietly peeked out into the hall. The soft sounds of the television drifted toward him, and Shawn knew what that meant. His father was already up—or had never gone to bed in the first place—and was reviewing the tape of yesterday's games. Closing his door, Shawn turned around and leaned against it, tipping his head back and staring up at the shadows moving across the ceiling.

Out of habit, he tried to run his hand through his hair again, but the pain that lanced through his shoulder reminded him why that was a stupid idea. But it wasn't like making stupid decisions was a new thing for Shawn. Apparently, they were the only kind he knew how to make lately.

Shawn shook his head and crossed to the window. A dull line of yellow touched the horizon, and he watched as it grew and expanded over the dark night. There had to be something he could do to fix this, some way to convince the girl to ... he didn't know what. And he didn't know how, considering the girl wouldn't even talk to him.

A loud bang reverberated through the room and Shawn jumped at the sound.

"Get a move on, you've only got twenty minutes to get to the field." His father's voice sounded through the door.

"I'm up," Shawn called back, his voice still thick with sleep.

"Don't be late, Shawn. And have your head screwed on straight today. We've got a lot of work to do this morning."

Shawn closed his eyes and groaned as he listened to his father's receding footsteps. This day was going to suck. The morning would consist of his dad ripping him a new one over all the mistakes he'd found while sifting through the game, and Shawn would have to bear it while pretending his shoulder wasn't killing him. But worst of all, he'd have to bear it while trying to figure out how the hell to get himself out of an even stickier predicament.