Page 67 of The Backup Plan

I glance around the group, at guys who might be rookies, backups. At guys who might be cut in September.

“The guys you surround yourself with. Everyone has talent, so that’s a given, but it’s the bond you form that matters. It’s the pulling for the team instead of your own records or stats. It’s not taking your spot for granted because there are so many others waiting to fill it if we fail.” I chuckle. Self-fulfilling much? “It’s also a collective desire to do it for the man standing beside you on the field.” I can see silent nods, and it encourages me to go a step further. “I say that’s what we do this season, what we make of ourselves. A team who fights to win for one another.”

I can see in their expressions and reactions that my comment lands right where it needs to. That it sticks and is fodder for thought.

Cole nods once, like he didn’t expect me to give that answer—but the look he gives me says he respects it.

The conversation shifts. Food. Trash talk. Our first preseason game this weekend. And the more people drink, the more freely people talk.

“Yo, Hale.”

“What’s up?” I ask, turning to find Jackson Wheller walking toward where I’m now sitting with a plate so full of food, I’m wondering how it hasn’t buckled.

“You got a woman back home?” he asks.

I don’t answer right away when the answer is a no-brainer.

Because for some reason, the first thing that flashes through my mind isn’t the house I sold in Los Angeles or the friendships—and hookups—that I walked away from to come here.

Rather, it’s a thrown-back head laughing at a cactus piñata. It’s a hallway with a door across from mine. It’s the warm smile of a woman who hasn’t met me for our morning runs for a few days.

I shake my head. “Nope.”

“Oof,” he says. “Single. Rich. Good-looking. All that in a new city?” He whistles. “Dangerous.”

“Or peaceful,” I counter.

He barks out a laugh. “Liar.”

“Perhaps.”

“No wonder you throw the ball like you’re pissed all the time. The man needs some pussy to relax him,” he shouts and cheers go up all around us.

The man needs some pussy.

Crass as it may be, the comment sticks with me as I pull into the apartment complex parking lot and shut off the engine.

If only it were that simple.

My gaze drifts up to the familiar window across the way. The light is on. What are you doing, Em, because it sure as shit feels like you’re avoiding me.

An unwelcome awareness hits me.

She’s your “in” to get to play, Lucas. The one with the final say.

Your neighbor.

A line you can’t afford to blur—not when everything you’re here for depends on keeping your head straight and your reputation intact.

And yet . . .

I grip the steering wheel hard, taking my frustration out on it, before finally getting out of the truck.

Whatever this thing is—this knot in my gut and the reason why I glance at her door every time before I open mine—needs to stop.

Emery

“I know I imagined it.”