This would be funny if my ideal temporary living situation wasn’t on the line. “That sounds really hard. I wouldn’t want you to go to that trouble on my behalf.”
He sags against the doorframe, head drooping while he rubs his eyes. “I’m a nice guy. I just—I don’t like being like this either, okay? My life’s been shit the past few years, and now—now just fucking look at me. I can’t play. I can’t sleep. I can’t just be happy. There’s nothing to be fucking happy about.”
Dammit. I don’t know him, but I know his type. Stubborn. Proud. Unable to handle being down.
“Are you taking your pain meds?” I ask him.
He grunts.
I’ll take that asI’m supposed to be but don’t want to be. Orthey’re not working. OrI don’t want to talk about it.
“When are you supposed to take more?”
He mumbles something incoherent.
And do you know what’s incredibly annoying?
I feel for the bastard.
Because I, too, am sometimes a little stubborn, proud, and unable to handle being down.
When morning sickness hit me on the ship, it hit hard. And I didn’t want help. I wanted to handle it myself.
I didn’t want to cause problems. Didn’t want to be the person other people had to make accommodations for. Didn’t want to be the person people gave special treatment to either. That’s why I rarely mention who my stepdad is. The minute they find out you’re related to one of the richest men in the city, they make all kinds of exceptions for you.
That’s not how I want to live.
Honestly, when I get to the Pounders office on Monday, I don’twantthem to know I’m Roland Keating’s stepdaughter. I want them to judge me on who I am and how I work.
Not that I get any say—Miranda says when she started for the team, Dad sent out an announcement threatening to end the career of any player who looked at her wrong, which means he’ll probably do the same for me—but it would be nice if the pity job for health insurance came with anonymity too.
Holt’s probably the same.
Doesn’t want accommodations or special treatment.
I sigh. “Go take your medicine. I’ll drop you off at the phone store when I leave.”
Those deep brown eyes lift. They’re bloodshot with blueish-purple bags beneath them.
That young man waters my garden for me in the summer when I can’t do it myself.
You’re staying at Holt’s house? He helped me fix up my car and saved me over a grand since I didn’t have to pay someone to do it.
He gave up his career to come home and nurse his brother, and not one of us on the block heard him complain once.
The freezer has four pies now from kids on the same baseball team. There are seven discount cards for various restaurants and local stores in a little basket in the kitchen, all fundraisers for marching bands or other sports teams.
Jessica has a home despite the two of them not getting along.
All evidence says this man is a good man who’s not handling being hurt well.
His Adam’s apple bobs and he looks down at the floor. “Are you leaving permanently?”
“Not yet.”
“Thank you.”
I’ve never heard a more defeatedthank youin my life.
