Page 71 of Lessons in Lemonade

“Why don’t you hit the showers and I’ll text you later with when we should get together again.” She moves away from me to turn off the supposedly calming music she was playing.

“Sounds good. Thank you, Jeanine.” I’m trying not to come off as a complete dick, but my voice is rough with frustration, and I know she can hear it.

“Of course. What medicine are you taking?” She moves to bend down and pick up the mats and blocks we were using. I wrap my towel around my neck and grab my bottle of water.

“I don’t like medicine, so only naproxen as needed.” I think about the last time I took some and realize I’m due. I need the swelling to be as minimal as possible.

“Perfect. Once you’re showered, have them hook up the TENS unit for thirty minutes, too.”

A TENS unit is a device that sends electrical impulses to a desired area to help manage pain. Although the pain is minimal at this point, it’s more of an irritation because of the swelling that bothers me.

“Will do.” I give her a brief smile then walk out of the activity room and into the weight room.

Noises I once loved assault my ears, and I cringe internally. The clanging of the weights, the loud thumping music blaring from the speakers, the laughter from guys scattered across the room . . . Of course as I pass them by I get head nods and a few brief greetings, but it’s like now that I’ve been removed from this, the family atmosphere I once felt it was doesn’t feel that way anymore. It feels tiring and monotonous, like I had been sucked into a vortex and now that I’ve been let out, it’s not the same. There’s so much more to life outside of football.

On top of that, since I’ve been back, more than ever I have noticed the age difference between the incoming guys and me. Since the draft last week, the rookies have descended, and to me it feels glaringly obvious that I am old as dirt standing next to them. When we are in our twenties, we all feel the same, but I’m thirty-two and they are twenty-one and twenty-two. I may have time and experience on my side, but they have significantly less aches and pains and a hunger for the sport that I just don’t think I feel anymore. I want to feel that, but maybe I’m immune to it after all this time, or maybe it’s a sign that it’s time for me to move on. I just don’t know.

Plus, they look like babies. I mean, the one dude I passed coming in today still has acne.

Acne.

Quickly making my way to the locker room, I shower, get dressed, and head to the training room. It’s here that Reid finds me, having just showered himself. I’m hooked up to the TENS unit and staring at photos of Meg on my phone.

“You look like shit,” he says, not sugarcoating anything.

“Ah, thanks, man. Love you, too,” I say sarcastically. Looking him over, I see he actually looks great, but then again, why shouldn’t he? He’s in great health, and he has the girl.

He pops the spout on his water bottle, squirts some into his mouth, and then his gaze flits to my phone. Spotting the image, he asks, “You talk to her yet?” His New York accent is sounding more pronounced these days than it used to, or maybe it’s just that I’ve become accustomed to hearing a sweet Southern one.

“No.” I look down at the screen and run my finger over her face. The photo is one I took of her in the back yard at her house. She’s wearing little shorts, a tank top, and these large rubber boots she keeps just inside the back door. She’s got the hose on, she’s watering her plants, and she’s smiling at me.

She’s so beautiful my heart constricts in my chest.

“Why not?” he asks, propping his hip against the end of the therapy bench I’m sitting on.

I look back up at him and shrug. “Honestly, I don’t know.”

It’s been over two weeks, nineteen days to be exact, and every day feels longer than the last. She made the first move. She texted me, and I didn’t text back. I know I’m being an asshole to her, but my feelings are hurt and I’m still licking my wounds.

“You know you’re an idiot, right?” He frowns at me.

“Probably, but what am I supposed to do? She doesn’t want me, and you know that.” At least she doesn’t want me like I want her.

“Then change her mind,” he says, as if it is that simple.

Have we talked about Meg since I returned to Tampa? Yes. Most of the guys were curious at first because I had been gone, but once word spread that it had ended, they stopped asking, which I am grateful for. There’s nothing like sitting at the dinner table with a bunch of dudes and having them ask you about your broken heart. No, thanks.

“Seriously, though, I have never known you to throw in the towel when it’s something you want. From beating one of your previous records to raising money for a charity, you go above and beyond for everything—why not her?” He tilts his head to the side to try to get a better read on me.

“I don’t know.” I shake my head.

He’s right. I’ve always done everything to the max. It brings me joy and excitement to know I’ve put a hundred and ten percent into everything I do, so why did I bail on her, on us, so quickly?

I know why: because she wasn’t changing her mind. At least not then, not at that moment, and I refused to stand there and let her see me cry. Now, though, after a little time apart, she might think differently.

“What do I do?” I ask him, desperation most likely written all over my face.

“Why are you asking me that? I don’t know her or anything about her. You do. I know she told you she didn’t want a relationship, but did she ever tell you why? We all know you’re terrible when it comes to listening—you only hear what you want to hear—but she had to have said or done something.”