“Exactly. They get him in trouble. Like he’s in trouble with you right now.”
It’s true. And I want to fix it, but I don’t know how. Or where to start. I’m terrified if I wait for Eli to make the first move, he just…never will.
And that’ll be it. Everything over between us. Done. Finished.
“I can’t even believe I’m saying this, since it sounds like I’m defending him, but I have played with a variety of guys during my football career. Professionals, who never acted out, were always on time and excellent players. Ones who had the skills but lacked the passion. Those types didn’t go far. I could go on and on. Eli has the skillset and the passion, he just needs to learn how to rein the passion in so it doesn’t overwhelm him. And to leave his troubles at home or wherever they belong, and bring the skills and the passion onto the field. If he can get that under control, he will rule the world,” Dad says.
“What kind of player were you?” I have my own feelings, but I want to hear his.
“I had the skillset and eventually the passion, but at first, I was more of a machine. I knew how to get out on that field and get the job done. Your mother helped me find my love for football. Before her, I was just going through the motions,” he explains.
The love of a good woman changed him, I guess.
“Your brother is much the same. He channels his anger onto the field, which helps,” Dad continues.
“I think Eli was doing that after we broke up. Then we get back together and his anger disappeared,” I say, not about to tell my father how Eli called my vagina magical and said it zapped him of his powers.
Talk about ridiculous.
“He probably was. Don’t take it as an insult that you throw him off. Just—maybe he just needs to figure out his shit?” When I send him a look, he shrugs. “I don’t know.”
Hmm. I don’t know if I have the patience to wait for Eli to figure himself out.
For all I know, he’s already moved on.
Twenty-Nine
Ava
It’s Thanksgiving afternoon and I’ve mostly avoided the chaos that is my house. Family and friends everywhere. The annual football game with the fam—I begged out of it, said I wasn’t feeling good.
Which is true. I feel like crap. I think I’m coming down with something. I’m tired all the time, can barely keep my eyes open, and I try to eat, but I just want to barf it all back up so I stop. Which means I’m cranky, because I’m hungry, yet everything sounds disgusting.
A vicious cycle.
I’m getting lots of sympathetic looks from family members and my Aunt Chelsea has asked me if I was okay at least one hundred times since she arrived a couple of days ago, which tells me I must look really bad.
Autumn texts me it’s almost time to eat and I throw a sweater on over my T-shirt and leggings combo, ready to head downstairs when there’s a knock on my door and then Jake’s busting through it, his expression determined.
He comes to a stop and looks me up and down, his brows drawing together. “You look worse than yesterday.”
“Gee, thanks.” I try to push past him, but he grabs hold of my arm. “If you came in my room to make me feel bad about myself, good job. You succeeded.”
“That wasn’t the plan, but everyone’s concerned about you, Ava. Are you like legit depressed over this Eli Bennett thing? He’s not worth your stress,” he says with a scowl.
Talking about Eli with Jake is never smart. “I thought I was depressed, but I feel awful. I think I’ve caught something.”
Jake releases his hold on me and takes a big step back as if I’m contagious. Which I might be. “Whoa. Like what?”
“I don’t know. A virus? A bug? The flu?” I touch my forehead, but I can’t tell if I have a fever.
“You achy all over?”
I shake my head.
“Feverish?”
“I don’t think so.”