Don't Promise (Don't 3)

I didn’t bother to check my email or grab the stack of notes in my inbox. I turned toward the exit doors and ran back out into the Texas heat.

I didn’t know what Ray was fussing about. There was plenty of evidence of the last hit and run on the side of the Texas service road. I pulled up behind the police car and put my car in park. I couldn’t see all of the vehicles from my vantage point, so I walked across the road to survey the damage. The tow trucks had just arrived.

“You with the station?” The officer stepped from the accident and tipped his cowboy hat toward me.

“Hi, yes, I’m Sierra Emory from KXMA”

“Officer Blake.” He smiled. “You ok?”

My ankle gave a little in my pumps. “Your name is Blake?” I straightened my stance.

“I can spell it out for you, so your people get it right on the screen. It’s B-L-A-K-E. Bob Blake. You think it’d be an easy name to spell, but they sure do like to get creative with it.”

I reached out to grab hold of the police car. I blamed it on the heat.

“Do you need to sit down or something?” Officer Blake stepped closer.

Embarrassed, I faked a smile. “No. No. I’m ok. Would you mind showing me the damage and the vehicles? I think my photographer is up ahead getting the footage.”

“Sure. Let’s stay on this side of the road so you don’t have to worry about the glass.” Office Blake pointed at the debris. “It started five cars ahead with that trailer.”

I looked around the side of the tow truck. Are you kidding me?

“Seems like whoever the suspect is hit that boat up there first, which lead to this chain reaction.” He whistled.

I looked at the wooden boat sitting on the back of the trailer. My stomach lurched into the back of my throat. All I could think about were the nights out on the sound with Blake. The way he steered us where he wanted to take me. How he showed me the beauty of the island again. That there was value in facing where you came from, even if it hurt.

The truck. The boat. Seeing my summer flash in front of me like this. It was too much. I shouldn’t be here. I couldn’t.

“Hey, where are you going?” the officer called as I ran toward my car.

I didn’t see the people on either side of me, or the cars rolling past.

I didn’t bother to answer the officer. Either the universe or my heart were talking to me. It didn’t matter which, because they both were saying the same thing.

31

Blake

Two weeks later

I stepped off the plane and onto the tarmac in DC. The crisp air filled my nostrils. It was the closest anything had felt like home in a long time. It was fall. This was what seasons meant. Change. Movement. Football.

I didn’t get this in Florida. And for a quick second it reminded me of what I was missing on the island. Oyster roasts and hunting season. Bonfires in the backyard with my cousins drinking beer. Hauling wood inside the boat barn for the season to keep the stove going. All those things I did before I left for good. Before I traded my roots for a life in the AFA.

I was being fucking nostalgic for no reason. I shook my head. What in the hell was I doing?

Jones ran up behind me, slapping my back. “Ready to beat the Sharks?”

“Hell yeah.” I nodded. No one thought we had a chance. The Sharks were having a killer season.

Playing them at home wasn’t going to be easy. We were the warm-weather team invading their outdoor stadium like fish out of water. But I believed we could win. If the rest of the team got their heads out of their asses and played. We would win. We had every reason to believe it could happen.

I climbed onto the bus the team chartered to take us to the hotel. We had a light practice tonight and I had press meetings afterward. I knew what the questions would be. They were always the same. I had standard answers about the season. A way to explain why we were underperforming with exceptional talent. Our public relations director sat down with me before every press conference. He had scheduled the same meeting tonight after practice.

I sat back in the seat while the bus chugged forward with a puff of diesel. My legs were cramped in the small seat. I knew the one question that was coming tonight that I dreaded: where did I fit in that equation? Did I let the team down by not leading them to be something better? Was I responsible?

I heard the guys laughing and talking behind me. They played music and showed each other their social media posts. To them it was a game. They reveled in their celebrity status. The money that rolled in because they were professional athletes. But what they hadn’t figured out was that it was going to be short-lived if they didn’t start winning games. Contracts didn’t mean shit when the numbers were low.