Grabbing a leftover Cubano sandwich out of the fridge, I plate it. Like a bad dream, however, I remember how many times I hoped Chris would ask me out to dinner, even though I knew that wasn’t possible at the time. Putting my plate in the microwave, I spend the minute it heats assuring myself that I wasn’t in love. Maybe he was just my first fairy tale that didn’t come true.
The microwave beeps, pulling me from my soul searching. I grab a glass of sweet tea and get situated with my plate at the table, telling myself it doesn’t feel strange to eat alone. It’s no different from the silence of having nothing to talk about with someone else. In fact, it’s better.
There’s a soft tapping sound against the patio door that overlooks the back of the property. I take a bite of my sandwich and watch the iridescent droplets of rain dribble down the glass. No doubt it will help feed the weeds I’ve seen sprouting up around the previous owner’s shrubs. Flipping through my mail, I search for the gardening catalog I’d spotted the other day. I should do something about the yard. The landscaping is a bit unkempt, and the stones in the walk up are cracked andcrumbling. I’ve done nothing more than cut the grass since I moved in, having been too busy situating things inside the house and possibly having an existential crisis.
The subconscious is a fascinating thing. I’ve studied the human body extensively—having had to in my work as a physiotherapist—but the mind always baffles me more than muscles and nerve endings. Are we ever really in control of our thoughts, or is there some little person inside our brains, controlling levers and pressing buttons? Because as I stare at a page of sundials, any focus I thought I had escapes me.
‘Get some good sex.’
Jamie’s words come back to me, and my first thought is of Chris. I’ve had enough sex now to know that Chris wasn’t the most thoughtful top, which tells me he had as little experience as I did when we met. I was too sore plenty of times after our late-night encounters, but each time was pleasantly intense. It was the kind of scorching intimacy you can’t wash away and wear the memory of it like a sore muscle for days. There was something incomparable about the connection I felt when we were together that I’ve never felt since. That memory leads to the next thoroughly depressing one.
I left him a voicemail after his accident. I don’t remember what I said, but it was something along the lines of hoping he was okay and that if there wasanythingat all that he needed, I’d do it. I think I checked my phone a million times in case I missed a call from him.
And he…never called back. The end.
Shifting my gaze to my plate, I stare down at the last bite of my sandwich. I pick it up and shove it into my mouth, chewing mindlessly.
That’s how it started, didn’t it? My addiction to making relationships work. Calling a man who’d already made his decision about us well before that. A man who made meunwittingly set a precedent for a level of passion that exists only once in a blue moon.
Shoving away from the table, I cart my dishes to the sink and scrub them with resolve. No shame. Just resolve. I’m too old to beat myself up.
I have a home, a good job that I love, and a best friend who’s always just a phone call away. I’m going to be happy being single while I work on myself. Maybe I’ll let myself ‘have some good sex’ now and then or not, and neither option will be some damning life sentence.
They say you find things when you least expect them. Who knows? Maybe I’ll learn to be in a relationship without losing myself. Maybe I’ll meet someone whose company I enjoy so much that life won’t make sense without them. A spark that turns into a steady flame and doesn’t burn out. I’m not asking for an inferno. I’ve learned a few things after all.
CHAPTER 3
Chris
Inhaling, I hunker further over the press desk and bounce my knee to release the restless energy brewing inside me. My joints are killing me, and it’s all I can do to focus on the game in this humidity.
He promised me he wouldn’t. He fucking promised, but the joke’s on me for believing him. I knew he was lurking in the back of the room, just waiting for the first opportunity to pounce on one of the line coordinators. I can hear him—that boisterous Vince Mightener laugh. He wore his damn college bowl ring today. I should have known.
Can’t he just accept the fact that I’m lucky I’m even sitting here in the press box? I have. I will always be grateful that he and Mom brought me home to recover. Grateful for how hard they fought to get me the best care possible. I can’t imagine what it was like for them to see me like that after I’d been so capable my entire life. But how much of what little I’ve accomplished after that, do I have to share with Dad?
I only started going to local high school games just to have an excuse to get out of the house when I was able to finally move on my own again. Writing about the games afterward became something to pass the time, a way to keep my mind sharp and prevent me from climbing the walls of that bedroom that seemed to close in more each day I was under my parents’ roof.I knew I’d never play sports again, nor be well enough for any kind of physical labor. It’s laughable how I put the cart before the horse back in college, majoring in communications like I’d be broadcasting NFL games after I retired from an illustrious career on the field. Sitting in that stupid hospital bed that my parents had put in my old room, a light went on, though. If I couldn’t play the game, maybe I could at least write about it. I knew football. It’s all I know, really. That and how to write articles for the press.
Overhearing Dad trying to talk me up to people who owe me nothing leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. He might have been a big reason why I fell in love with the game and how I learned the plays at a young age, but the writing? I did that on my own.That’smine. It’s all I have left, and I hate that he’s so disappointed in me that he’s trying to pimp me out for more glory. Always pushing for more. Pushing for me to be a star at something else. It’s fucking embarrassing.
“Chris! Hey, Chris!” he shouts from across the room, making the guy from the Houston Gazette next to me turn and frown at the distraction.
Pinching my eyes closed, I curse under my breath and set my pen down on my notepad. Ihave togo. If I ignore him, he’ll just come over and draw even more attention to both of us.
Pushing up off the narrow counter that runs along the press box window, I get to my feet. The movement pushes my chair back, but not far enough. These workspaces are narrow and cramped. I prefer snagging a seat on the end, but Dad was lollygagging on the way up, so I wasn’t able to get here early enough to secure a prime spot. Shuffling to the side, I make my apologies to a coach and reporter in the seats I have to squeeze behind to get to the end of the aisle. I’m a big guy. Getting injured didn’t deplete my size. I’ve certainly shifted from some muscle to more fat over the years, since I can’t work out the wayI used to, though. Either way, I’m too big to be able to make a smooth exit, bumping into the backs of their chairs.
Glancing over, I give Dad a chin nod to let him know I’m coming. The last thing I need is his hollering across the press box again. By the time I make it up the carpeted, dull gray steps, I’ve worked some of the stiffness out of my joints from being squished behind the press workspace, so my movements are more fluid and dignified for the pony show he no doubt has planned. He’s standing next to Glen Moriarty, an offensive coordinator, who’s clearly analyzing footage. To top it off, I can see Glen communicating with someone on the field via the headset he’s wearing, a standard practice during gameplay.
I flinch, watching Dad clap him on the shoulder. For God’s sake. I know things have changed since he was in college, but he should know better than to interrupt one of the team coaches during a game. Just because the guy’s in the press box doesn’t mean he isn’t working.
“Here he is, Glen. Have you met my boy, Chris?”
“Dad,” I warn, giving my head a shake as Glen holds up a hand and says something into his headset. I can tell my plea will be all for naught, judging by the excited smile on Dad’s face. Fuck. He’s already in his element.
When Glen finally looks up at him, Dad gives me a clap on the shoulder this time, reverberating the ache in my back. “Chris used to be a Panther. Tight end.”
As he rattles off my former stats like they matter at all, I want the floor to open up and swallow me. I’m pretty sure Glen already knows who I am. He’s seen me up here a few times since I got on with the San Antonio Times and cleared to come to the press box. I’ve congratulated him and the other coaches on a few wins without dropping my past. Without bragging about the nothing I have to brag about. You know, kind of like a normal human being who isn’t trying to get their kid a job? Besides,anyone who can read could look my name up on the internet if they read my articles, which I’m sure the coaches all do.
As Dad goes into way too much detail about my ancient training history and even some of my best plays, I clench and unclench my fingers at my side, trying not to twitch. He used to do this all the time when I was younger, and I’d just stand there like a dutiful son. A slab of meat, like cattle being auctioned off for the best price per pound. I always appreciated how proud he was of me, but I can’t say I was ever comfortable not having a voice while he tried to get me into the best schools, and later, the best agent.
