“You’re so suspicious, young Padawan.”
“My dad is an IRS investigator. He says everyone lies.”
“I’m the liar in this situation.”
“What did you tell her you did for a living? Did she even ask, because if she didn’t ask, then she definitely knows who you are.”
“Oh, she asked, but I evaded the question like I do defense when I’m in the pocket.”
“So you lied.”
“Evaded.”
“If you like her so much, then why not tell her who you are? She’ll probably be thrilled.”
“I am an amazing human being–”
“Oh, brother.”
“But she’s going through some things right now, and I don’t want to saddle her with my shit. The moment I tell her who I am will make her fair game for public scrutiny. I don’t want that for her.”
“Damn, you do like her.”
He pours my smoothie in a tall glass and hands it to me. “Drink.”
“Yeah, man, I think I might like her.”
“Like her as in she might see the inside of this house one day?”
I never bring anyone to my apartment. It is my number one rule when sleeping with women. The moment you bring them inside your inner sanctum, the woman is already planning what dresser drawer she’ll use for her sleepover underwear.
“Possibly.”
“Then you better tell her and let her decide if she still wants to be bothered with you. I may not have a girlfriend, but it doesn’t take an expert to know that she will not appreciate finding something like that out by anyone else but you.”
I hate it when he’s right.
“I’ll take it under advisement.”
I pop some of my pain meds, drink my new smoothie, which lo-and-behold tastes just like the other one, and then I head to the practice field.
I haven’t seen my teammates since the game last week, and maybe a little time around them will help me get my mind off of the cute little doctor with the bewitching brown eyes.
Seventeen
JETT
The energyof the locker room is focused but hushed when I walk in for the first time since my injury. Each member of the team is preparing for an intense day of practice in their own unique way. While we didn’t win our last game, the good news is that we’re actually still in the running to win our division because two other teams lost last week.
A few of the players give me a head nod or actually open their mouths to say hello as I make my way over to the physical therapy room. I wasn’t expecting a ticker tape parade, but damn, they could be a little friendlier.
I don’t want to be here as much as they don’t want me here, but it’s part of the job. While I won’t get to play for most of the season, it’s still my duty to get recommended therapies for my injury and cheer my teammates (and I use that word lightly) on to victory.
As much as I hate to admit it, Rivera, who is my direct competitor on the team, is the only one who seems genuinely happy to see that I’m alive and breathing.
“How’s the shoulder, Jett-Ski?” A nickname that some players call me in the league.
“Hurts like hell.”
