Snap took too long.
No one was open.
Missed a tackle.
The Hawks’ defense is tight.
Their QB was on fire.
Coach isn’t cold, just clinical. With each assessment, I shed a little bit more weight off my shoulders. I didn’t play great, but the other team sure did. It wasn’t my best game, but it wasn’t any of our best games.
When he hits end on the video, he points to thefield. “Time for drills. We’ve got a game to win on Sunday.”
I smack palms with my guys then trot out to practice, ready to leave the Hawks game behind me.
I need to put everything behind me, and out of my head.
Even this empty ache in my heart.
An ache that intensifies when I go home that night alone.
Instantly, I miss her all over again. I wish I were seeing her tonight. Making dinner with her. Talking in her kitchen. Curling up with her in her bed.
But I don’t reach out. I hit the hay early.
On Tuesday morning, I peel off my best time running in a while, but I feel out of sorts all day. Even after an excellent practice. Even though the team looks damn good.
That night I go home alone again—of course—but my condo feels emptier than it ever has before. I text Carter and shoot the breeze with him for a while, then we play a few rounds of basketball on my Xbox.
When we’re done, I check my phone, wishing for a note from Brooke.
But she offered to cool things for me, for myfucking benefit so I could do the job I’m paid to do. And I took her up on a generous, selfless offer.
She’s not going to reach out since she did thisforme.
She’s a woman of her word.
I should be a man who gets his job done.
I go to bed alone, the same damn way I wake up the next day. I do it all over again. Lather, rinse, repeat.
Practice, focus, miss Brooke.
Then miss her again, and again, and again.
After practice Thursday morning, I head out to meet my agent for lunch, trying to shake off the hollow feeling chasing me—my guilt too. It’s the day of the press tour. I should be there to show the bloggers and podcasters around. They’ve been good to me. I should be good back to them.
Maddox waits for me at the Indian food truck. When he heard I didn’t get to try it a few weeks ago, he insisted on taking me out.
I stride up to Maddox and say hello, focusing on the here and now. I will be present for lunch with my agent. “I am here to repent,” I say, flashing him a smile.
“Good. The chana masala will make you neverditch this truck again,” he says, then asks if he can order for me.
“Hell, yes. You always know what to pick,” I say.
He orders naan, eggplant bharta and the aforementioned chana masala, then we grab a picnic table.
As we tuck into the tasty dishes, he asks about my mom. “She’s keeping busy with Sophie and Mira, I presume?”