A shadow crosses his face. “Not playing.”
“You’re more than a professional athlete.” I remind him, brushing my hand over his cheek and his features soften.
“Yes, but that is the biggest part of my identity. The money and the fame entice, but I burn to be on the field… I wouldn’t know what to do if I weren’t playing.” He gulps. “What about you?”
Where to start?
“Afraid to miss out on opportunities. Not seizing what was right in my face because of fear.”
He casts an intent look my way. “Maybe fear is good. It prevents us from doing something stupid.”
“I can’t believe you said that, reckless boy,” I say, forcing some levity in my tone.
The sigh rocking his chest rings with destitution. “Maybe if I knew what fear was, I wouldn’t.”
I place my finger on his mouth, eyeing him seriously. “No. Not on my watch.”
He cocks a brow. “Aren’t friends supposed to take you as you are?”
I shake my head but never break eye contact. “This is not you. This is you being guilt-ridden and talking nonsense.”
He leans back, scrubbing a hand down his face. “My hand trembled on the ball today.”
I swallow the unease, turning in my belly. “And what did you do?”
“I held it longer than needed, waiting to get better and screwed up a touchdown.” He curls his hand into a fist on his chest, and I place mine on his in a testament of my support and desire to soothe him. And it works because he relaxes his hand. Flattening it, he intertwines our fingers.
“Give yourself some grace. You focus on doing the best you can. Day in and day out until you’ll play again without fear.”
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m sure you were sent to me to keep me afloat. Help me through my darkest time.”
TWELVE
IAN
Practice doesnothing to ease my anxiety. I replay the drills in my mind, recalling how each pass was shaky. I played shitty as fuck.
My teammates gave me understanding nods afterward, but it didn’t help. The coach sighed, delaying the inevitable discussion I expected as he exited the field.
Nothing seems to yank me out of the debilitating funk, and trying to push aside that fateful moment only ricochets it back stronger.
Roman slaps a hand on my shoulder, squeezing in encouragement. “It’s okay to have a bad day. We all need some time to process.”
Day, not days.I jerk my chin in acknowledgment. Picking up my duffel, I dread the hospital visit. Seeing my friend lying there despondent guts me.
In my car, thoughts weave in my head, creating a dark, poisonous web. Fuck, I am the captain, and I need to get my shit together. I have a responsibility toward my team.
My phone rings, blaring through the sound system. I press the button on the steering wheel to accept the call, and my mom says, “Hi, honey, how are you?”
“I’m okay. On my way to visit Levi.”
A muffled cry has me gripping the wheel tighter. “My poor Levi. I want to visit him, but I can’t take a few days off.”
“He understands,” I grit out, loathing the unjust situation.
“And you?” she asks softly.
“I’m holding up.” Barely.
