“You pull another stunt like the last one, where I have to carry your ass out. . . ” He doesn’t finish, his voice turning soft and betraying him.
I don’t need to remind him that it’s the risk of what we do. He knows, but I couldn’t bear it if the roles were reversed.
“I’ll be smart.” I smile, but it takes effort. “Don’t forget, I learned from the very best.”
He stands, clearly over this conversation. Thank goodness, so am I.
“I know you hate hugs, but you have to hug me this time.” He holds out his arms, and I step into them—strong and safe, the rare place I feel that way.
“Uh, you have to hug me like always.” Hope spreads her arms, and I squeeze her tightly.
I grab my backpack, tossing the apple in the air and catching it. “You stay out of trouble, too, old man.”
“Old man, my ass. Good luck telling the girls. I’m glad I’m not invited.” This man can handle a platoon, but we girls will take pleasure in driving him to the loony bin.
“Don’t worry, your phone will be blowing up all night.”
“I’ll be sure to turn that shit off.”
I laugh.
“Ryder.” He stops me, his hand moving to that place over his chest where some people feel things. “I know what this is costing. I’m really proud of you.”
Oh, man.
I can’t stick around with that. I nod, then push through the door to go tell my girls I’m leaving for a while. That will take the rest of the day.
Chapter 4
COLE
I blow air out of my cheeks, setting the weight bar on the rack. I lie, my chest moving in and out, staring at the metal rafters as weights clink around me.
“You gonna lie there all day or do another set?” Ricketts’s face appears over me.
I roll myself up, my slick back peeling away from the plastic.
“What’s up with you, man? Did you decide to take up sleeping in?”
His words pick at my defensive wall, even though he doesn’t mean anything by them. No one knows about the threats. I’ve kept it all to myself, not wanting to make it more disruptive than it already is.
“I had something important to take care of.” It’s all I offer, so sick of hearing about my tardiness.
The tight end runs a hand through his long hair. “These jackasses can’t seem to cut you some slack, but whatever made you miss practice must have been pretty urgent.”
I’m never late. I don’t miss practices, meetings, training, or anything related to the team, so my absence this morning didn’t go unnoticed.
I meet his gaze, contemplating telling him about what’s happening. If there’s anyone I’d trust with the information, it’s Ricketts. But I recall Tracker’s insistence that I keep things on the down-low since we don’t know who might want to take me out.
The first threats came through email, but quickly turned to letters. They were simple black font on a white page, stating I’d be eliminated from the roster. Rob told me about it, and we moved on. It wasn’t the only time someone pinned last season’s losing record on me.
A few weeks later, another arrived in the Stingrays’s mail. This time, it was a photo of me with a red “X” meticulously painted over it. Behind it was a fabricated injury report. The note beside my name: death.
This one was brought to my GM, who demanded precautions, but I talked him out of it. I didn’t need anyone on the team thinking I was getting special treatment, so he let it go. Greg insisted on hiring a private organization to trace the picture and envelope back to its origin. They came up empty.
The preseason ended, and we lost our first official game. That’s when my tire was slashed with a note tacked to it, reminding me that I won’t see the end of the season.
I wasn’t concerned until someone cared enough to follow me and risk being seen or caught on security cameras. Unfortunately, due to the darkness and camera angle, nothing was captured.
