“Connor… I wanted to just talk before we go any further or go on any dates.” I’m struggling to make eye contact with him. He’s so sweet and seems like such a good man, so I hate what I have to say for his sake. “You’re a really nice guy. You’re sweet andyou’re funny. You’ve been such a gentleman every time we’ve seen each other… and”—I sigh—“you’re a good man, you may even be the better one—”
“But I’m not Nate,” Connor interrupts.
I hang my head, shaking it back and forth before looking back up at him.
“No… and I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m so sorry. I know I told you we were just friends, and we were—weare. This past week things have just gotten really confusing for me and I just… I need to sort them out.”
Connor walks closer to me, reaching his arms out and wrapping me in a hug.
“Hey, I get it.”
“You’re not mad at me?”
“Nah, that’d be a dick move to be mad about that.” He smiles and it somehow feels like he’s giving me permission to smile back.
“I’m glad that you told me now. Campbell’s a good guy. I’m sure he knows how lucky he is to have someone like you.” He pulls back. “But if you have any single friends, send them my way.” Connor winks as I collect my bag.
“Thanks, Connor.”
He smiles as I leave and I feel… so much clarity.
It’s a beast.
Anxiety, that is.
It’s there when I go to bed and it’s there when I wake up, hell it's there in the middle of the night jolting me out of my sleep in a panic.
Except today, I woke up with less. And the day before it was the same. A little less each morning.
Anxiety is constantly feeling like something isn’t right. And when you can’t figure out what it is, your mind starts to convince yourself that it’s you.
If someone told me a few months ago that I’d be starting my mornings with podcasts and journals instead of sports highlights and funny memes, I’d have laughed in their face. A podcast? Sitting and listening to other people babble on about things? Never anticipated I’d be a subscriber to this podcast, butever since Mia introduced me to this one by Dan Hart, I can’t start the day without it.
It’s like everything he says are things I’ve felt. He played football in college—never made it to the NFL, but it doesn’t matter. The feelings are the same, the pressure, the anxiety of it all. Playing any high intensity competitive sport can bring even the toughest men to their knees. Just because I’m in the NFL doesn’t mean I’m immune to the feeling of being anxious. I’m no longer too proud to admit that I’m struggling with it. Every day I’m making the conscious choice to work through it and overcome it. It’s part of the reason I’ve barely talked to Mia since we’ve been back. It’s been almost a week. Aside from everything else I learned about myself during this hiatus, I really learned that if I want to be exactly who Mia needs, I can’t give her a half-ass version of myself. I need to be worthy of it. Cockiness tells me I already am, but until my mind feels more like myself, the humble part of me knows I still have work to do.
“Are you all set to go in a few days? Demi has been on my ass wanting an interview with you. You don’t have to do it though, it’s completely up to you. If you aren’t ready just say the word. It’s still widely known that you’ve simply taken time for yourself. Nothing more, nothing less.”
There were fifteen voicemails on my phone when I finally got home and decided to listen to them. Some from my agent, others from my publicist, a few from friends and family, and then one very simple and to the point voicemail from Demi Sanchez. She’s a sports reporter and someone who I’ve spoken to a handful of times in interviews on the field. They’ve always been quick recaps of the game, how I’ve felt after a big win or a tough loss. She’s feisty and challenging. Liam loves to rile her up. Watching them interact is a constant show. For every time he hits on her, she has three ego shots just ready to fire back.
“I respect Demi. If anyone is going to properly handle an interview with me, it’ll be her,” I reply to my publicist’s question confidently.
“She seems to feel strongly about mental health, so I think that’s why she’s gunning so hard for this interview.” The tone of Bex’s voice comes off sounding annoyed. I know she’s been handling a lot of things for me while I took time off.
“Thanks for handling all of this, Bex. And just always handling my shit,” I say, not remembering the last time I actually thanked her for everything she takes care of for me.
“Oh. Yeah, that’s what I’m here for. It’s my job.”
“Yeah, I know… but thank you.”
I couldn’t do half of what I do without the team of people who help me. Taking time away would have been a fucking nightmare without Bex and Phil. They were always just a text away, they didn’t share anything about where I went or who I was with, even though both of them knew.
“Are you doing okay?” she asks just before we end the call.
“I’m better.” It’s honest. “Hey, Bex?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you help me with one more thing?”
