“I’m just saying, with all the negative press and bad juju that’s followed this guy,plusthe recurrence of his shoulder injury, I challenge football fans to keep it real and ask themselves the hard question. Do you still think West Golden belongs in Cypress Pointe?”
My teeth grit together. All I can think about is how it would feel to squeeze Ira’s throat in my hands.
“Well, there you have it folks,”the host says.“Today’s hot take is that the Cypress Pointe Emperors were better off without West Golden. Visit our forum to weigh in. Thanks for joining us this afternoon, Ira.”
“It’s been a pleasure.”
The show fades to black, then goes to commercial, but I’m still seething, filled with unshed rage that only seems to burn hotter every day.
Every day I’m stuck in this bed, unable to do shit for myself.
Every day my career hangs in the balance.
Every day I hear my name getting tossed around by assholes who don’t know shit about me.
“Fuck!”
The remote flies from my hand, barreling across the room in a blur. And it isn’t until a shrill “West!” hits the air that I even realize Blue’s just walked in.
She ducks out of the way, narrowly clearing the remote as the tray she carried in falls to the floor. The remote and its batteries clatter against the wall, followed by the splash of hot soup and the ceramic bowl that holds it shattering against the tile.
And Blue’s staring—mouth open, shoulders heaving with every breath, in complete shock.
“Shit, babe, I… I’m sorry.” I adjust my sling, flinching as I get out of bed, hating how being injured has slowed me down. I stoop down beside Blue, using my one good hand to gather pieces of the bowl to toss onto the tray.
It’s not much help, but it’s all I can offer at the moment.
She glances up at me, and for a moment, there’s a flash of something in her eyes that guts me. It’s like she doesn’t know me, doesn’t know what to expect from me anymore.
I can’t blame her.
We went from hardly talking to each other after the fight, to this. Blue being my caretaker as the world burns down around us.
Shame hits me, and I hate it. Hate being a burden, hate that things have been so fucking hard lately, hate that we don’t feel like us anymore.
“I’ve got it,” she says quietly, pausing to push her hair behind her ears.
I ignore her and keep cleaning, because the mess is my fault. She doesn’t fight me on it as she walks off to grab towels to wipe up the broth. She takes the tray back to the kitchen and the towels to the wash. I take a seat in the armchair while she’s gone, rehearsing an apology in my head when I hear her heading back this way.
But then, when she walks in, that look is on her face again.
The one that makes me feel like she’s slipping through my fingers, like my apology won’t do anything but make her resent me more than she already does.
So, I stay silent, watching as she crosses the room, pushes the curtains open and lets in the afternoon sunlight.
I can’t remember a time I felt this kind of distance between us. Yeah, she’s taking care of me, and I thank her for the meals, the help getting dressed and undressed, and just generally taking care of shit I can’t take care of, but that’s all there is to us anymore.
She wakes up early, showers and gets dressed. She makes breakfast and brings it to me in bed, makes sure I take my painmeds, and then I don’t see her again until it’s time for lunch or dinner.
She’s avoiding me, and I’m not sure what to do with that.
She grabs the empty glass I left on my nightstand after breakfast, and I catch her wrist as she passes in front of me.
“Can we talk?”
I glance up at her, but she doesn’t make eye contact. Instead, her eyes stay trained on the floor, but that’s good enough. I know she’s listening.
“This whole thing has been tough. On me. On you. And… I’m sorry I’ve been hard to live with.”
