Page 4 of The Backup Plan

I don’t glance at people when they whisper. I don’t acknowledge them in any way. If they’re not certain, then I’m not going to slow down and give them a closer look so they can be.

Besides, this is my time. My calm before the storm of my fourteenth season in the NFL. My last night to have a drink—the ritual I allow myself before the start of every season. Two beers. Nothing more. Once camp begins, alcohol disappears from my life like it never existed.

Discipline matters.

Routine matters.

Especially now. Especially with a shoulder that has put an unwelcome question mark over my career and its future.

I step into a bar that looks busy but not packed. Wood everywhere. Warm lighting. Music’s low enough that conversation can exist without shouting, and it’s the kind of place people come to unwind, not get annihilated.

Good enough.

I slide onto a stool near the middle, nod once to the bartender, and order a beer. Simple and forgettable.

I take a pull on the bottle, welcome the taste, and when I let myself look around, that’s when I notice her.

She’s sitting alone a few seats down near the end of the bar.

Pretty isn’t the right word for her. Gorgeous isn’t either, though she’s definitely that. It’s something quieter. Something softer. Like she doesn’t realize how much space she takes up or how much attention gravitates toward her.

Another thing I don’t do during camp. Date. The distraction is just that when I need to be focused—front and center.

And yet I look her way again.

This time though, I notice something more.

She’s holding a glass of red wine with both hands . . . as if it’s anchoring her in place. A place I’m not sure she wants to be if the stiffness in her posture is any indication. She looks around the bar, almost like her head is disconnected from her shoulders, and when she looks my way, I notice how glassy and unfocused her eyes are.

She’s drunk, right? Because something feels off to me. Like she’s not quite present.

And the guy next to her in the pink shirt? He’s too close. Too . . . controlling. Leaning in. Talking at her instead of to her. Putting his hand on her back that she continually shrugs off. Smiling in a way that makes my jaw clench.

Mind your own business, Hale.

I’ve had more media training than I care to remember. More prevention and awareness meetings. So I’ve learned that it’s wiser not to insert yourself into situations you don’t fully understand. Don’t be alone with anyone who could later say you did something to them that you know you didn’t.

Don’t play hero. Don’t play fixer. Many people are out to make a name for themselves off my name—and that includes lawsuits and false accusations.

I take another drink, eyes still focused on the situation at the end of the bar when they shouldn’t be.

The guy laughs. She doesn’t. Is she really that drunk that she can’t form coherent words? Although it looks like the shake of her head and her demeanor reflects a clear no.

The Polo Prick doesn’t move away.

Something cold and uneasy settles in my gut.

I watch longer than I should. Long enough to notice the bartender glance over at them, frown slightly, then look away again when another group calls him over.

“Hey,” I say, getting his attention as he moves past me. “They come in together?” I ask with a lift of my chin in the couple’s direction.

“No. Both separate. Why?” He glances their way.

“I don’t know, something doesn’t feel right,” I murmur more to myself than to him. Stay out of it, Hale.

“Maybe, but she hasn’t signaled for help from me. I’ve stood over there a few times to make sure.”

“Hm. Thanks,” I say and glance back at them. But the bartender’s been busy covering thirty-plus immediate customers as well as the servers bringing in orders from the floor.