My breath shakes as a shiver runs through me. But I close my eyes to refocus.
Football is my life. If I don’t have this, God knows…actually, no. They can drag the football out of my cold, dead hands, because I’ll be playing until then.
I have to. I refuse to contemplate the alternative. Because if I’m being honest with myself…it’s bleak.
After grabbing my gear, I throw my phone in my bag and toss it over my shoulder, heading out to my car. Bouncing my shoulders, I smile. I’m so pumped to be back into full practice that nothing could ruin today. Nothing—
Motherfucker.
The second I exit the parking garage, I’m hit with a wall of reporters, and the smile drops from my face.
There’s been no fucking news. He’s still in a goddamn coma, and the police aren’t pressing charges…yet. I don’t know what more they want from me.
“Is it true that if your teammate dies, he’ll be the third death you were involved in?” I pause, my knuckles white as I clench the steering wheel. “And is it true that you abandoned your family in their time of need?”
Fuuuck.Bile rises in my throat as my chest tightens uncomfortably. Who’s been talking? Was it that asshole after I walked out on him in the bar with Cade? That was weeks ago. Flashes go off as more questions are thrown my way, but a ringing in my ears blocks them all out.
My vision blurs as my sister’s screams echo through my mind.“Zane, no!”
“Zane?”
The brakes screech.
“Zane!”
Fuck.
Snapping back to the present, I shake off my thoughts, schooling my features. Fuck the media. And fuck this.
Fake smirk back in place, I sit tall. I’ve been through it all before. I can get through it again.
When I first transferred from my college in Florida to Washington State, thanks to my old high school coach, I was constantly hounded by the media. They wanted someone to blame for the loss of an innocent life, and the police never named my sister. Rightly so. She may have been driving, but the accident was not her fault.
I should have been in her place.
I shouldn’t have survived her, and the world is constantly reminding me of that.
But not today. I refuse to be affected. Today is supposed to be a good day. And it will be.
Squaring my shoulders, I smile back at them, waving as I slowly roll forward. And as the sea parts, I lower my passenger window, giving them exactly what they want.
“You’re fighting an old fight. This story’s been done. Come on. Be better. You can do it.”
With that, I plant my foot and drive away, waving out the window when I’d much rather be flipping them off.
It’s been years since anyone asked me about the accident. Not since the spotlight on my football career took center stage.
When I was finally able to play in Washington, I played my fucking ass off. I flipped the narrative, forcing everyone to talk about my career instead of my past, and there was no going back.
Why the fuck did I go back?
I should have faked an appendicitis, or told Storm management that I had severe gastro—anything to convince them to leave me behind. It was a fucking preseason game. They wouldn’t have cared. But no. My stupid cockiness got the best of me, and I had to prove that I could do it, that I wasn’t trapped by the past. That no matter what, I was a force.
And I did prove it, way beyond what I could have imagined.
Until I stepped off the field and it all turned to shit.
Memories of my childhood came crashing back to me. Moments at that very stadium with my sister and dad, dreaming of a life that would never come to be.
