"I’m going to take a shower," she whispers, pulling her body away from mine, forcing me to let her go.
I would confidently join her in the shower because I can’t keep my hands off her. We’ve showered together every single night since we started this—whatever this is. But I know in my gut that me joining her right now is the last thing she wants me to do.
I know she needs space and time to process whatever happened tonight, and I know she needs to process it alone. Whenever she’s willing, I’ll be all ears, ready to listen to what she has to say, but I refuse to force her to tell me when she’s not ready.
Crawling back into bed, her hair is wet and her body lightly trembles against the edge of it.
She’s crying, and it takes everything in me to not beg her to tell me what’s wrong.
"Are you okay?" I ask, inching myself closer to her, wrapping my arms around her body to cuddle her from behind.
Above everything, I just need to know she’s not hurt. I don’t need to know the little details right now. I just need to know she’s okay. But she doesn’t respond with words. She responds by nodding her head, a movement that I can feel against the pillow.
"Whatever it is, it’s going to work out. I promise. It’s going to work out," I say softly in her ear.
Finding her hand rested against her stomach, I lock my fingers through hers. I don’t know who I’m reassuring, but I know we both need to hear those words.
So I repeat them every few minutes, until she finally falls asleep in my arms, and still, I refuse to let her go.
thirty-four
Harley Age 22
"The draft is tomorrow.You feelin’ confident?" my roommate, Emerson, asks as he throws me a bottle of water from the fridge.
We both play college football for Ohio State University, but he has no intention of going pro, so he didn’t offer his name up for the draft. I, on the other hand, have been looking forward to this day since the first time I threw a ball.
"Hell yeah, I’m confident," I reply, trying to keep my voice as steady as possible.
But I’m not confident.
I have a lot riding on this.
A lot to gain and even more to lose.
Sure, I have a backup plan. I’d be stupid if I didn’t. But it’s not where I pictured my life going. Football is the one thing I’ve wanted to do for as long as I can remember and I plan to do it for as long as my body will allow.
I say I’m confident, but I’m fucking terrified. I might have the best arm in college football, and everybody knows it, but that doesn’t guarantee a damn thing. It’s all a waiting game, and today feels like the longest day of my life.
"How do you find out?" Emerson asks as he opens the fridge again, this time in search of a snack.
"Coach said they’ll call me." I bite into an apple while throwing myself down onto the couch, flicking the TV on for background noise.
"Well, I guess I better prepare for a rowdy afternoon tomorrow for when we celebrate." He chuckles, heading toward his bedroom, protein bar in hand, slamming the door shut behind him.
We’ve lived together since freshman year. Originally, we lived in a dorm, but eventually moved to an off-campus apartment with two of our other teammates, Carter and Angus.
Carter offered his name up for the draft, but Angus was a bit like Emerson. Football was a hobby, something to keep them out of trouble. Getting their degree was always more important, and I respected the hell out of it.
Our apartment has been tense the last few days, with Carter stressing about not getting called up while everyone hypes me up in front of him.
He’s a defensive lineman, one of the best on our team. But there are a lot of good defensemen in the college league. It’s not a sure thing for him, which is why he’s on edge. I can’t say I blame him. He wants to play for the New York Panthers, but I want to play for the Charlotte Eagles; the team I followed my whole life.
My dream is so close, I can almost taste it.
Feeling my phone vibrate from my pocket, I see Coach Benson’s name on the screen and I automatically sit up straighter before I answer, knowing full well he can’t see me.
"Wingrove." His voice is loud. It always sounds like he’s shouting.
