Page 4 of Last Slice of Pie

“Seems you weren’t the only one that night who realized you were going places.” He smiles at Bryan.

“No. The year after, my sophomore year, scouts started coming in. It was exciting for all of us.”

It really was. Scouts were always calling and wanting to drop by. GiGi brought them into the main house, and she did the talking. Bryan’s stepfather never bothered to show up, which was actually probably for the best. GiGi won over everyone she ever met—never underestimate the power of a great slice of pie.

“I bet, and now from what we hear at the network, you’re about to head back to your hometown.” Images of Oakwood pop up and begin rotating on the screen behind him.

Wait . . . what? Hometown?!

Marie lets out a squeak of some sort next to me as I sit up straight and slosh some of the sangria over the rim of the cup and onto my lap.

“Yes, Paul. I am.” He nods, a small smile touches his perfect lips, and then his gaze cuts to the camera and pierces me straight through the heart.

Strawberry-Citrus Sangria

TODAY IS ONE of those days.

In fact, today is the third one of those days in a row. I know what’s wrong; I know what’s coming. I just have to decide if I’m ready.

It started three nights ago with the airing of the interview. I watched it from home, by myself, because I couldn’t bear to have people’s eyes on me. I hate being in the spotlight. I also hate being viewed as anything other than what I am, and that’s a damn good football player. I’m not a puppet, and I don’t believe in the dog and pony show that often accompanies this job. It isn’t anyone’s business where I come from, what I eat for breakfast, who I spend my time with, or how I choose to live my life off the field.

Then, as if it was an omen, two nights ago there was a record-breaking storm for the number of lightning strikes to hit the ground. The leftover electricity left a buzz that permeated the dense humid air right up until last night’s season opener. We won our game, and I should have been elated, but for some reason I just wasn’t. Sure, I was happy about the win, but the adrenaline rush that usually comes after a victory like that one just wasn’t there. Instead, I watched my teammates explode around the locker room afterward, and rather than heading out with them to celebrate, I decided to drive home, sit on the back porch, and stare out at the night while thinking of her.

My best friend’s sister.

Ever since James came to visit over the Fourth of July, I can’t stop thinking about her. Yes, I have thought about her every day for the last ten years, but this is different, and lately I feel consumed. The only thing I can come up with is that during our four years of college, I spent every day with him, so even though she wasn’t there, he was, which eased the ache of missing her. It wasn’t until he left for the Navy’s aviation program after graduation that the emptiness really set in. Suddenly, they were both gone, and I had to learn to live without them. Seeing him again after such an extended period of time apart reminded me of that loss and reignited my deep yearning for her.

Lexi.

One would think because James and Lexi are siblings, they would look similar, but they are polar opposites. He’s tall; she’s short. He’s loud and outgoing; she’s mostly quiet and reserved. He has dark features and she has light, but despite their differences, it’s their eyes that suck me in. Both have pale green eyes that are all-knowing and have a way of piercing me straight to my core. I know it’s weird, and even though I was always with him, his eyes made me feel like I was with her. If he was around, I felt like she was, too, and somehow that was enough.

Now, I’m not so sure.

While sitting on the back porch, I listened to our song of the sounds of the night; that’s what she used to call it. Always constant and never changing, the melody has become a comfort to me, and every night since I was ten years old, I’ve slept with the bedroom windows open. It was mainly because she liked the window open, but also because it calmed me when I felt trapped in a life I so desperately wanted to escape.

My mother died when I was ten. I’ve never known who my father is, so I ended up being stuck with my stepfather. He made it very clear that I was unwanted baggage from her, an inconvenience to him, which is why I spent most of my childhood dreaming about what I needed to do and what it would be like to leave him, to leave that small town. I couldn’t wait to get as far away as possible, and I swore over and over again I would never go back.

However, ever since the day I left, it seems I am constantly doing or seeking out little things that remind me of the place I once called home, even though it never really felt like home. It was just a temporary experience I had to endure in order to move on to the next chapter of my life. I’m continually surprised when I find comfort in things like the sound of cicadas and the smell of grass after a late-day summer shower. The reality is, it all just comes back to her. Do I find comfort in those things because they remind me of home, or is it because they remind me of a time in my life when I was with her?

Well, I never really was with her, and years later, it’s the one regret I can’t get past, even though I did it all for a reason.

Now, I find myself in an interesting predicament, because I want to see her again. No, I need to see her again, but how do I do that after all this time? I walked away from her ten years ago and never looked back. I left her without even saying goodbye.

The thing is, I never wanted to say goodbye to her. I still don’t. It would feel too official and too final, and I liked knowing our relationship hadn’t ended, knowing she was out there somewhere. I know I hurt her—how could I have not? Maybe one day I’ll get the chance to explain, and maybe one day she’ll understand.

Now, here I am today, and practice was brutal. They think it’s funny to tell us we should feel fortunate they let us sleep in and start practice at ten instead of the usual six o’clock in the morning. The only problem with this is that by ten in the morning in Florida, it is just plain hot outside. The sun is pounding down and the humidity is almost unbearable. I know I can handle it, though; I’ve been playing football in the south for the last eighteen years.

Reid and I walk back into the locker room together, having run a few extra drills after the team left the field. After joining the Tarpons, he quickly slipped into the role of being my go-to wide receiver, just like James was in college. The more we work together, the more I can feel the magnetic draw to his hands. The ball just seems to leave mine and slip right into his grip. It feels so good.

Off the field, Reid and I also formed a bond that most people don’t understand. He’s quiet, just like I am, and because of that, we gravitated toward each other. Neither of us particularly cares for the fame and flair that comes with being an NFL player. I understand why most of the guys choose not to hang out with us; I can imagine that trying to hold a conversation with us is a lot like watching paint dry.

Walking up to my locker, I see there are two pie boxes sitting on the bench in front of it. I pick up the card on the top box and read that it’s from a fan. All of them are from fans, and when I say all, I mean all. Yesterday there were twenty-six pies dropped off for me, another four this morning when I arrived, and now here are two more. The guys think it’s hilarious, but that hasn’t stopped them from wandering into our cafeteria to eat them. There’ve been homemade pies, Village Inn pies, Mike’s pies, Publix pies—you name it, we’ve had it.

Except for Lexi’s pies.

“Are you excited about heading home?” Reid asks as we strip off our sweat-soaked practice jerseys and pads. My eyes catch on the silicone black wedding band he wears. Reid got married two months ago, and as happy as I am for him, there is a part of me that’s jealous and longs for what he has—his best friend, the girl he loves, by his side, every day. I’ve never had that; well, I haven’t in ten years. Memories of me secretly seeking Lexi out on the top row of the bleachers where she always sat have my chest aching. She never shied away from telling people she was at the games to watch both James and me, but I always knew she was really there for me.

“Yeah, I guess.” I shrug my shoulders.