“Rocket Boy saves the day once again,” T-Bone’s deep voice rattles through the room.
He’s still a complete asshole, but after tackling Jenkins and being able to roll around in that spotlight for a while, he’s finally stepped up to help us win these past few weeks.
I can’t hate him entirely.
“Don’t worry, T-Bone. You’re getting plenty of credit,” I toss back. “Now, if you’d save the energy of constantly running your mouth, we just might have something,” I stand as the guys snicker.
I toss my gear in my locker, ready to go home. I grab my phone and leave the guys to catch up on the latest gossip. I check my messages, knowing it’s pointless.
It’s been two weeks since I left Ryder at the hospital, and I’ve heard nothing. I’ve messaged her, but each day that goes by, I’m losing hope.
I drive home in silence, thinking about going to see Matt, but I stopped by yesterday. I spent an hour throwing the ball around and then showing him videos of the new routes Ricketts and I are working on.
I talked to Hope about bringing him to the stadium for our last game of the season, and I’ve arranged tickets in case she thinks he’s ready.
I enter my apartment, which I can now admit I hate. It’s cold and desolate, and after having Ryder here, I can’t even pretend anymore.
I shower and tug on some shorts, hearing my phone buzz on my bed.
I ignore it. It’s either another news source wanting an exclusive interview or Maggie checking on me, as she does twice a day now.
It vibrates again. I grab it.
HOPE WARD: Track and I would love to bring Matt if you can still get us tickets.
HOPE WARD: Also, no worries if it’s too late. We haven’t said anything to him yet.
I smile. This kid has a chunk of my heart, and being able to do this for him will make the day one hundred times better.
ME: It’s already taken care of. I’ll drop the passes by tomorrow.
I lie back on my bed and stare at the ceiling, thinking for the millionth time that this is not how I envisioned my life. I’ve only begun to sort out how to fix that, but it’ll be a slow process as I manage one change at a time.
My phone buzzes again. Nick.
“Hey, man.”
“You sound like shit,” his low voice grumbles.
“You don’t sound any better.”
He laughs. “I hear the Stingrays are potentially releasing you from your contract early? Is it true?”
After the shooting, Rob and I met with my management again to discuss how to handle the media. In light of everything that’s happened, they recognize it might be in their best interests to start fresh.
“They see the damage that’s been done. They’re willing to let me out of my contract and become a free agent or consider a trade if the right deal comes along.”
“Well, shit. What are you waiting for? That team has brought you nothing but a giant-ass mess.”
I rub my forehead, knowing there’s only one thing that makes me question a move, but she’s not given even a hint that she’s close to being done pushing me away.
“Yeah. I want to know what my options are. Rob’s evaluating who might be interested. I don’t want to trade one bad situation for another. If I go free agent, I’m risking sitting out next season, which maybe wouldn’t be the worst thing.”
There’s silence. “Sit out next season? Man, what the hell? Are you all right?”
“I just. . . Football can’t be the only thing anymore. You know?” I run a hand over my face. “You were right. I’ve been miserable, and it’s time I did something about that. I just don’t know what yet.”
“Does this lack of enthusiasm have anything to do with the blonde-trained-assassin who saved your sorry ass?”
