Suddenly, my perfect girlfriend became a distraction, a failure. My perfect relationship turned out to be a lie.
I couldn’t focus on my training. I couldn’t focus on the game.
And I couldn’t… win.
Yeah.
I lost a game, didn’t I?
A week after I read those texts on Sarah’s phone and found out about her betrayal, we had a big game. I was so shocked, so shaken up and out of it, that I wasn’t at my one hundred percent. I missed a couple of goals and we lost.
I haven’t forgotten that defeat, no. I remember it very clearly.
But what I did forget is the fact that that’s when I hit Ben.
That’s when my anger snapped and I broke the rule.
The day after we lost the game.
I hit him because I lost. Because they made me lose, Sarah and Ben and what they did. Because they distracted me from my one and only focus and because they stained my perfect relationship.
Jesus fucking Christ.
That’s why.
That’s why I’ve been so angry. I’ve been so tormented and fucking tortured.
Because I lost my focus. Because my relationship wasn’t as perfect as I thought it was. My girlfriend wasn’t as perfect as I thought she was.
I’ve been angry because I failed to hold onto perfection. Not because I failed to hold onto my girlfriend of eight years.
Isn’t it?
It was never about love between us; she’s right.
What we had was bigger than that.
What we had was convenience and an innate need for perfection, and I’m only now realizing this.
Eight years later.
Eight years and I finally get it.
Eight years and her jarring me out of my focus, to understand that it was always about being perfect in every aspect of my life.
It was always about being The Blond Arrow.
Even now I’m more broken up about the fact that I didn’t get to play out the season than the fact that I don’t get to live with her. I’m not even jealous, am I?
No, I’m not.
I don’t even miss her.
In all this time that I’ve been angry over her betrayal, not once did I mourn the loss of her.
I laugh again, and this time it’s more tired than sharp. More exhausted.
Unclenching my fingers from around the bottle, I set it down on the table.
“A?”
For a second, I’d completely forgotten that she was here. I’d completely forgotten that she was waiting for me to speak and when I still don’t say anything, she grasps the lapels of my suit jacket – another reason why I hate going to these things, suit jackets.
“Are you leaving? Did you hear anything that I said to you? We are –”
I grab her wrists, her dainty feminine wrists that I can break very easily if I want to. But instead of it giving me a thrill like it used to, I find it… too convenient.
Too easy.
“I did. I heard every word.”
“But –”
“You said it was convenient and you’re right.” I clench my jaw, flexing my fingers around her hands. “Everything about us was convenient and easy. We match each other on every level and we should get back together.”
She smiles.
But her smile vanishes when I let go of her wrists and step back once again.
Once and for all.
“But look around you, Sarah. You’re surrounded by ambitious people. This whole team is ambitious. I hear Rodney, one of the half backs? Is a real up and comer. Not to mention, he’s single, and I overheard the guys saying that he likes brunettes. I think that’s pretty convenient, don’t you?”
Her face ripples with anger, with shock. “What has gotten into you? Why are you behaving this way?”
I chuckle humorlessly, feeling hollower, emptier than ever. “I believe the correct term is asshole.”
She fists her hands at her sides. “So this is the end?”
End. Yeah.
End of an era.
An eight year long chapter of my life.
An eight year long relationship that never should’ve been and all I feel is relief.
“I think so, yeah.” I jerk my chin at her then. “Good luck with Ben. Rodney. Whatever.”
“And what are you going to do?” she asks with venom in her voice. “Find someone like me to love? Someone who doesn’t distract you from your precious game and your goals?”
Love.
Is that what she said? That I’d find someone to love?
Something moves in my body. Something that eats up my short-lived relief. It’s not the usual shame, this thing. It’s not my skin crawling. It’s not even anger.
It’s something else.
Something more violent, more visceral.
Something fundamental.
Painful, even.
Something that’s sitting on my chest, pressing down on my ribs.
I clench my teeth and tighten my body against it before replying. “No. You cured me of that, actually. Because you just made me realize something about myself.”
“What?” She folds her arms across her chest, the very picture of perfect outrage.
“That a guy like me knows nothing about love.”
A guy like me who measures his life with the goals he scores and the trophies he wins, who lives his life in the pursuit of perfection, who takes eight fucking years to realize the truth about his relationship, has no idea what love is.