“It happens,” he said.
“What?” Ricky asked, wiping off his face with a towel.
“Mistakes.” He started shoving the packages of underwear into his extra gym bag. Throwing them away was wasteful—Aunt Mo frowned upon that sort of thing. Maybe he could donate them—or something. He’d leave that up to Connie.
“Mistakes?” Ricky faced him. It was clear from the fuck-you posture and scowl on Ames’s face he didn’t think he’d made a mistake.
Should have kept my mouth shut. “Forget it.” He finished shoving the last underwear pack into his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and closed his locker.
“I get that you think you have some sort of role to play here. Like it’s your job to teach me shit or something.” Ricky threw his towel on the ground and crossed the room. “But I’m not sure why I’d listen to a recovering drug addict who spent just as much time on the bench as he has on the field in the last two and a half years.”
“Everything you just said is true.” Brock was done letting Ames in his head. “Just so we’re clear: I don’t give a shit about your career or your ego. I care about my team.” He shrugged. “If you want to take another swing, go for it. You know what Coach will do.”
Ricky Ames didn’t budge. He didn’t back down—but he didn’t open his mouth.
And while Brock didn’t relish the idea of walking away first, he had no interest in having a pissing match with the kid. His father was being discharged from the hospital and Brock needed to be there for that. With a shrug, he grabbed his stuff and headed toward the exit.
Outside the locker room, a few fans had gathered for autographs. He paused, signing programs and posing for pictures, then hurried toward the parking lot. His phone started ringing as he unlocked the door. He opened it…another avalanche of underwear came spilling out onto the hot concrete parking lot. “Shit.” He pulled open the back door of his four-door truck and started throwing the packages inside. If he got pulled over, he’d have a hard time explaining this. He answered the phone. “Brock here.”
“Brock?” He knew the husky voice. “Hey, do you have second?”
“Vanessa?” He slammed the back door and climbed into his truck. It had been a couple of months since he’d seen his ex-wife. He’d been leaving his Narcotics Anonymous meeting and she’d been going in. She’d looked good. Clean. Healthy. He hoped she was.
“Hi.” Her voice wavered.
“You okay?” If she was, would she have called?
“I’m just having a hard day and, I don’t know, I wanted to hear a friendly voice.”
He started the truck, waited for his phone to sync before answering. “How hard?” he asked, moving slowly through the parking lot and onto the highway.
“Hard.” She paused. “Really hard.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, V, but you need to call Janine.” He ran a hand along the back of his neck. “She’s your sponsor.”
“No. I know. And I called her. I did. But she didn’t answer.” She sniffed. “I just, well, I called you.”
Because he was one of the few people who knew the true scope of Vanessa’s addiction. She’d always dabbled—it helped her stay thin—a job requirem
ent for a model. But when he’d been injured and taking pain pills, Vanessa had introduced him to a new world of things to inject, snort, or smoke. It hadn’t ended well. “I’m going to an NA meeting in the morning. You need a ride?”
“Sure.” She paused. “I’ll call in the morning, though, just to make sure.”
“V? You’ve worked hard to get clean.” He didn’t know what else to say. Their divorce had been a mutual agreement, so they’d managed to stay friendly—but not close.
“I know. I know.” She sniffed. “I heard about your dad. How is he?”
“He’s being discharged to his assisted living facility. It’s good. At least there will be familiar faces.” Or would they be? His dad’s memory was continuing to slip.
“I’m glad to hear it. Give him my best, please.” Her phone beeped. “It’s Janine.” The relief in her voice was instantaneous. “Okay. I’ll let you go. Take care, Brock. Bye.” She hung up.
Talking to Janine would help. He didn’t know how he’d make it without his sponsor, Randy. Hopefully, with her new fiancé and her career on the upswing, Vanessa would have the motivation she needed to stay clean.
The Three Kings were playing on the radio. Their number one hit “Your Loss” was the ultimate breakup song. He didn’t know who or what inspired it, but after Emmy Lou had started sending back his letters and his heart had been shredded, the angry lyrics hit close to home. It was like Krystal had stolen his thoughts and feelings and put them to music.
He blasted the music, humming along, fingers tapping out the beat on the steering wheel.
You tell yourself you never loved me.