Love. The word keeps popping up in my thoughts, and I should be a little freaked out, right?
But I’m not.
“You’re definitely my gift,” I return, my voice soft, my heart fluttering from the admission. “And this weekend is going to be interesting. There’s so much I already have to tell you about it.”
“Tell me now.”
I hear the shower water shut off down the hall—yes, the walls are extremely thin—and know I don’t have much time before Evie’s back in the room. And then I can’t tell Cannon anything. “How about I call you tomorrow, when I return from my parents’ place?”
“I’ll call you. I have the game tomorrow, and it could be hectic.” He hesitates, a frown curling his perfectly sexy lips. “Though by the time I’m through with everything, you might be asleep.”
“Call me anyway. I want to talk to you.” I smile, the corners trembling as I’m overcome with emotion. “I miss you. So much.”
“I miss you too, baby.” He sighs. Runs a hand through his hair. “Send me good luck vibes for tomorrow. I need them.”
“I will. I promise.”
I lied to Susanna. I haven’t lied to a woman in years—it’s something I don’t like to do. But when I was in high school, I could be kind of a jackass, and I went through a player stage, working my way through the girls at school like they were disposable. One after another after another. And when a guy goes through a player stage, especially a teen asshole with a chip on his shoulder like me, he tends to lie.
A lot.
Em, my first serious girlfriend, wouldn’t tolerate my lies. She warned me when we first got together. She taught me that liars are the absolute worst. Deep down, I always knew she was right, but I lied to her anyway, about something stupid and inconsequential, and she about lost her shit.
I never lied to her again. I never lied to any woman again.
Until today. With Susanna.
And I feel guilty as shit about it, too.
Sighing, I run my hands through my hair, tugging on the ends, glaring at the black brace wrapped tightly around my knee. I definitely got hurt in practice yesterday, and they already told me I’m not allowed to play tomorrow. I’m stuck here in Arizona with a bum knee and a shitty attitude, and no one wants to be around me. Not even Jordan, who’s my best friend. I about bit his head off earlier, when they were escorting me off the field during practice and he asked what’s wrong.
That’s it. All he did was ask me what was wrong, and I yelled at him like he just kicked my dog and stole my girlfriend.
I am a complete jackass.
Our coaches let me get away with it, because they knew I was in pain and frustrated and scared. Not that any of us big burly men like to admit that, but yeah. Fuck yeah. I was terrified. I’m still terrified.
I’ve been to the doctor. They did an X-ray. I have a torn meniscus. I’m lucky I didn’t tear my ACL, but I did serious damage, and I’ve done this sort of thing before. Because of the previous injury, the team doctor had a firm suggestion.
I’m out for the season.
And fuck, that hurts so damn much, I don’t know how to deal with it. So I lash out.
Oh, and I lie.
Football is everything to me. It’s my life. It’s been my life for almost as long as I can remember, and I’ve let it consume me these last few years, since I became a professional. I have one shot at this, and I know it. The sport is rough, it will take you out in a split second, without warning, and right now, I feel like I’ve lost my dream.
My entire career.
It’s not a career-ending injury, the doctors and my coaches insist. Season-ending, yes. But you’ll play next year, they tell me. You might need surgery, you’ll do physical therapy, and you’ll be back at it in no time.
Their words offer little reassurance, not with the constant doubt running through my head. They can’t one hundred percent guarantee I’ll be “back at it in no time.” They don’t know shit. This injury could be worse than they think. I might not recover fast enough. I’m not getting any younger, and there are hungry, young, strong-as-hell players coming up behind me, dying to take my place.
I don’t know what I’d do if I had to give up my spot on the team. Where would I go? What would I do with my life? I have money, yeah, and I’m under contract, so they’d have to finish paying me even if I couldn’t play any longer.
But I’m young. I don’t have a plan for after football. Well, I sort of do, but I’m not ready for it yet. I don’t want to go out like this, not now. I’ll be fine I tell myself when I’m trying to be positive. Maybe everyone’s right. This isn’t career-ending, only season-ending. And shit, the season was almost over anyway. We’re going to the playoffs, and we could possibly go all the way to the Super Bowl, but I don’t know.
Honestly? I don’t want them to get to the Super Bowl because I can’t play in it. And that is the most selfish feeling I’ve ever had.