“Wait, wait. How are you getting home?”
“I have an Uber waiting out front.”
“Oh. Okay. Great. Be, uh, safe.”
She smiles. “See ya, Rhett.”
“See ya.”
I fucking hate the words and the way they sound and how hard I’m trying to be cool when I feel anything but.
Good thing I’m getting out of dodge in a couple of months, so I won’t have to really interact with Amelia again. I’ll steer clear at Samuel and Emma’s wedding. It should be easy enough, considering they invited four hundred people to the freaking thing. Then I’m back in Vegas for the preseason. Soon.
Too soon. Or maybe not fucking soon enough.
Chapter Four
Rhett
Sweat rolls down my temples and drips into my eyes. They sting, a searing burn that matches the one in my quads.
“LFG, baby!” Tom, my trainer, barks from behind me as he yanks on the harness strapped across my middle.
I grimace, my heart screaming inside my chest. I pump my legs harder but end up tripping on a tree root. I catch myself from falling on my face just in time. “Only douches,” I pant, “use acronyms. Especially that one.”
“The only douche I see is the one in front of me.” He keeps tugging on the harness, pulling me backward as I try my damnedest to run forward. “Now let’s fucking go.”
These resistance sprint drills are pure torture. They’ve never been fun, but I was always able to dominate them, motivated by the knowledge they made me that much faster and more resilient on the field.
Now, though? I’m having trouble just getting through them. I don’t know if it’s because I’m another year older. I’m only twenty-seven, but in football years, that might as well be forty. Maybe I’ve just softened up during the off-season.
Could also be the fact that Samuel and Emma are getting married this weekend. I’m happy for them, but if I’m being honest, I’m feeling a little . . . I don’t know, jealous? Maybe? Which makes no sense. I love being single. Allows me to focus on football and cut loose when I need to.
Whatever’s going on, I’m sucking wind.
On account of the great weather—seventy degrees and sunny, one of early summer’s last comfortable days before the oppressive heat sets in—we moved today’s morning workout from my home gym to the field behind my house. There’s a steep incline at the far edge, one I’m currently trying to scale. My blood is pumping, and my body’s on fire, the soles of my shoes catching in the tall grass. Despite the early hour, the sun scalds my head and bare shoulders, making my scalp prickle.
It’s June, which means it’s almost football season. For the past decade, it used to be my favorite time of year.
But when I think about going back to it all—the nonstop travel, the politics, the injuries—something’s missing. Am I just tired of the game? Hell no. Football’s given me an extraordinary life. How could I possibly be tired of it? I love playing. Always have.
I stumble again, this time on a clump of dirt, and Tom lets up on the reins a bit.
“You okay?”
I make a noise that’s partway between a dry heave and a groan. I’m definitely feeling the gallon or so of whiskey I’ve imbibed this week, plus those beers I knocked back last night.
But Tom doesn’t need to know that. I should be cleaning up my act now that training camp starts in less than two months. But I keep pushing it off. Between Stevie’s beer, Samuel’s food, and Emma’s cellar, feels like there are more temptations on the farm than there are in my team’s new hometown, Las Vegas.
“I’m fine,” I grunt. “Just need to get back into the groove.”
Firming my ab muscles, I keep pushing up the hill toward the gigantic oak ahead. There’s a buzzing sound that gets louder as I approach. Only when I’m at the tree do I see that my phone is lit up with an incoming call—I set it on the roots, along with my water bottle and towel.
I ignore it. This hour and a half session is for sweating and sweating only. Everything else can wait.
“All right,” Tom says, dropping the harness. “One-minute recovery. Then we’re gonna balance out all that pulling with a push—burpees.”
I bend over and put my hands on my knees, my heart trying to crash through the back wall of my torso like a Kool-Aid man on coke. “Fuck you, Tommy.”
“Fuck you right back,” he replies with a grin. “How’s the knee?”
“Better,” I say. It’s true; my recovery from a sprain last season is the one piece of good news I have to share today.
I look up at the sound of my phone buzzing again. Screen’s lit up with someone’s name, but I can’t see who it is from here. I let it go to voicemail.