“Here is the only place I can focus. For a long time, my life seemed like it was out of my control, and this was the only place that was all mine. So the organizing? The need to keep everything together? That’s me over-compensating for my life outside of school.”
Shock colored Brad’s face, and he stared at me, as if expecting me to take the words back. I shrugged. “We’re all fighting our battles, Brad, and I’m not here to judge how you handle yours. But maybe we can help each other.”
He nodded. “I’d like that.”
I held out my hand to Brad. “It’ll never be perfect, but we can try to make this work. Help the other out when things get tough.”
Brad smiled at me before putting his hand in mine. “You offering me a truce, Sideris?”
I smirked. “I’m down with that.”
After we released our hands, Brad got up from the chair. Ollie stood only a few feet away from him, her arms crossed over her chest like a sentinel. She waited until the door closed behind him before dropping the act. “Okay, I’m glad you two made peace, but I gotta be honest—I wish I took a picture of him in that chair. My stomach hurts from holding in that laugh.”
“Thank goodness you didn’t,” I said, dropping my head to my table. “It’s a start, right?”
“Better than what you had before,” Ollie muttered as she turned back toward the bookshelf. She hummed something to herself, and my eyes narrowed.
“What was that?”
“Oh, nothing.” Ollie smirked. “Just sayinghow you’d never have had the confidence to confront Brad before a certain someone dick-matized you.”
“Dick-matized?”
“Oh please. It’s true. Damien brought down your walls one orgasm at a time, and now, you’re becoming the boss bitch you were always meant to be. Now, if only you’d turn those powers toward him.”
“Ol—”
She held up her hand. “He’s going through a lot, and I feel for him, I really do. But Damien’s also a grown man. He signed up to be in a relationship with you, and he doesn’t get to walk away without a conversation. After everything you two shared, he owes you that much. And if he doesn’t reach out soon, he’s going to hear from me.”
“Don’t, Ollie,” I said, exasperation leaking into my tone. “You don’t have to get involved. This is between the two of us.”
Ollie stared at me. “That’s where you’re wrong. He’s hurting someone I love. The best woman I know. And after everything you’ve been through, no one gets to mess with my girl. Not even Damien Ramos.”
THIRTY-FIVE
“You can give me five more, Damien.”
Fuck that. My leg throbbed and sweat covered my brow. Every fiber of my being fought against my physical therapist’s command, wanting nothing more than to slink back into my bed and sleep away the rest of the day.
But worse than the pain? The fucking shame that covered me like a second skin.
Chase, our team’s physical therapist, stood in my guest bedroom, staring as I laid out on the floor. The room had transformed over the past couple of weeks, going from an extra bedroom to a home gym designed for my recovery. Mats lined the floor, resistance bands hung from the wall—there was even a set of parallel bars sitting on the other side of the room.
Not that I’d gotten there yet.
No, I was still working on basic fucking functions, like lifting my damn leg off the ground and putting slight weight on my knee. Last month, I would have pushed through these exercises without a thought. I pushed my body to thebrink daily, running the bases and hitting a ball at almost 90 miles per hour. The knowledge of how far I’d fallen almost hurt more than the actual injury. Knowing what I’d been capable of—the limited mobility I had now—filled me with rage.
With a scoff, I dropped my leg back to the floor. “I’m fucking tapped, man.”
Chase sighed as he moved to my side. He dropped beside me, helping me to sit up. “You’re getting there, Damien.”
“Right,” I said sardonically. “Can’t lift my leg more than an inch. Real fucking victory there.”
“Healing takes time,” he said, not for the first time. In the three weeks since my surgery, he’d reminded me of it every step of the way and celebrated even the smallest of victories. His energy was infectious, but it wasn’t enough to push through the clouds shrouding my mind.
The little progress wasn’t enough.
It’d never be enough to get me back on the field, back to playing ball at a professional level, in time. Weber and the rest of management stood by me during my recovery, but a player at my age, with an injury like this? They were just waiting for me to call it, to tell them I was stepping into retirement.
