What else is fucked up? My throwing arm today. I can’t get it right. After being on top of my game all season, throughout every practice and game, I’m playing terrible. Like some sort of fumbling rookie who’s terrified of his own shadow.
Maybe it’s because I didn’t sleep well over the weekend.
Or maybe it’s because I spent most of Sunday afternoon working on a fucking paper that was due today.
I try not to let myself think about Ava or the fact that we had sex for the first time in months, and how great it was…
Until it wasn’t.
I haven’t had sex with freaking anyone since that last weekend in February we were together, and I’ve been playing great ever since.
Is sex ruining me? Is sex with Ava the issue?
I shove that crazy thought out of my head as I stride off the field, ignoring my team’s razzing and insults. I know they don’t really mean it. They’re just giving me shit.
But their words ring in my head and make everything worse, swear to God. I can’t let them get to me. Even more, I can’t let them know they’re getting to me. Then they’ll never let up.
“You all right?”
I turn to find Diego approaching me, his expression concerned.
“I’m great,” I grit out before I whip my helmet off and drop it on the ground. I really want to throw it down the sidelines, but the coaches don’t approve of violent outbursts. If they let it happen during practice, we’re more likely to do it during games and we could get in trouble.
“Really?” Diego scratches his chin. “You’re kind of a mess today.”
“No shit?” I send him a wide-ey
ed look. “More like I suck complete ass.”
“Something bugging you?”
It’s his tone. The way he’s looking at me. I get the sense Diego knows exactly what’s bugging me. Not that I’m going to mention it to him. Not out here during practice.
After Ava fled the back seat of my car Saturday night in just my hoodie, I sat there for a few minutes, naked and stunned. Then I pulled on my clothes, jumped into the driver’s seat and got the hell out of there before anyone came out to find me. Ended up lying awake in my bed for hours after I got home, reliving the moment with Ava. How good it felt with her, how fucking right we are together.
How I freaked out immediately after it happened, afraid she might be full of regret once she realized what we did, and how I decided in a millisecond to beat her to the punch. She’s the one who told me it was probably a mistake, and that word kept repeating in my head, over and over again. Even while I was fucking her.
That’s why I said all that bullshit about how we shouldn’t have done it. Was it a dick move?
Hell yes, but I’ve been known for making dick moves here and there. It shouldn’t have surprised her.
But it hurt her. More than I thought it would. Worse, it made her mad. Really mad.
What I said ruined any progress we might’ve made before that. That’s why I couldn’t sleep. That’s why I wrote a shit paper. That’s why I can’t throw a ball to save my life today. I fucked up and I know it, and I don’t know how to fix it.
Haven’t mentioned shit to the guys either, but I’m thinking Diego knows what’s up. Which means all those dickheads know what’s up. And they probably think I’m a giant prick, thanks to their girlfriends calling me every name in the book.
I suppose I deserve the name-calling. The hate and the wrath. I’m an insensitive asshole. It’s like I can’t help myself.
“I’m sure you already know what it is,” I say to Diego, annoyed when one of the coaches calls a water break.
That means I have to talk to Diego even longer. With my luck, Tony and Caleb might join us. Sounds like a good time.
Not.
“Jocelyn mentioned something to me, but she didn’t go in to too much detail,” Diego says.
I turn to see Caleb making his way toward us. “Gracie told me that you fucked Ava in the back seat of your car and then told her it was a mistake.”