Like he left it.
I squeeze my eyes shut briefly.
This is a freaking disaster.
My legs tingle when I move away from the door to walk back to the bed.
My heart is still pounding. My stomach is trying to eat itself, so I pull out a sleeve of crackers that I keep in the nightstand, then sit at the edge of the bed eating them until I think I might be able to at least doze.
Definitely not sleep.
Not tonight.
Also—I have to find a new place to stay for another few weeks.
Dammit.
8
Holt
Everything hurts.
My fucking foot hurts. My armpits hurt. My back hurts. My neck hurts. My head hurts. My fingers hurt. My ass hurts.
It all hurts.
But the thing that hurts worst?
Knowing I owe Ziggy an apology.
I don’t have to. I could kick her out. Deny I did anything wrong. Never see her again.
Except she’s right.
I should’ve let her know I was headed back early.
There’s a pregnant woman in my house, watching my dog, keeping me updated on what’s going on around here while I’ve been gone, and I scared the shit out of her in the middle of the night, coming back weeks before she expected me.
I can make all the excuses I want.
Hard to give her a heads-up when you lost your fucking cell phone somewhere between camp and the airport.
Hard to care when you’re facing potentially missing part of the season playing ball in the US instead of signing with a team in Europe.
One goddamn accident in the weight room that ended with a broken foot and they’re no longer interested.
I’m broken and they don’t think I can get better enough to belong.
Not just my foot.
All of me. I’m not competitive in Europe anymore. There’s a big crop of younger guys who’ve been training harder than I have. They’re better than I am.
I can’t compete overseas anymore.
Too old. Barely thirty, and I’m too fucking old.
And getting home—I can’t even sleep in my own damn bedroom. Caden’s bedroom is on the main floor, but I won’t use it. Still not ready for that.
