Not My Romeo (The Game Changers 1)

“True, true. I just want you to know what to expect. If you take a hard fall again, even after surgery, you might injure it again.”

My stomach lurches. “Fine. Lay it out for me, then. What should I expect? Summer camp starts in June, and I want to be ready for it.” I pause. “Shit. I’m doing this play for the next month.”

“I saw that on ESPN. Nice touch.”

“Yeah. The fans like it.” Even though it makes me uncomfortable as hell, my image has improved slightly. I haven’t gotten any glares when I take my table at Milano’s lately. But fans are fickle. And if they knew I had a shoulder injury. Damn. They’d be ready for Coach to trade me in a heartbeat. They’d fall in love with Aiden. He’s poised and ready . . .

He continues. “Let’s pencil you in for early April. The first two weeks you’ll be moving hand to mouth only; then we’ll progress to driving around week six. After that, we’ll see about summer camp.”

“Damn.”

“I know you like to work out, Jack, but take it easy. Stick to running. It’s the off-season. Go on vacation like a normal person. Take it easy for a while.”

Take it easy? Yeah. Not gonna happen—not if I want to keep my spot.

“I’ll manage.”

He arches a brow. “You got someone to take care of you while you recuperate?”

Lucy, although I hate to ask her. She’d jump at the chance, but she has a new husband, and they’re planning a cruise around the world in April. There’s Quinn. I could ask Devon, too, but shit, he’s got his own life going on, and I hate for any of the players to see me weak, even him. Elena comes to mind, but I push that thought away. Not even going there.

“Yeah.” I stand up, feeling . . . shit . . . a little lost. Just the thought of not being able to play the game, to do what I do best in life, makes me feel like I want to barf. And I can’t even confide in anyone except Coach. I’m . . . alone.

The doctor rises up with me, and I guess he reads my face. “It’s not the end of the world, Jack. You still have some games left in you.”

“A Super Bowl?”

He laughs. “You come close every year . . .”

“Right. But never a trophy.”

He smiles. “Sure would be nice to have one for Nashville.”

I nod. “You do the surgery, and I’ll get us one.”

But as I leave his office and head to my car, I’m not nearly as confident as I sounded. Fucking Harvey. Even from the dead, he’s haunting me. My head goes back to that day, the memories tearing through me, those shots that took my mother’s life, the one he pointed at me. And he would have shot me again if I hadn’t somehow reached up and wrestled the gun out of his hand. I was so small then, a runt of a kid, a lot like Timmy, my muscles and strength not yet honed by dedication to football. I closed my eyes and pulled the trigger, and when I opened them, he was dead, a bullet in his forehead. I swallow, fighting that anxiousness that rises up whenever I picture him and Mom on the carpet, blood seeping. I ran to her and screamed until the neighbors ran inside the house. Then I cried in the ambulance when they refused to tell me whether she was alive, and it wasn’t for the pain in my shoulder but anguish for the only person who ever cared about me.

Only she hadn’t cared enough to leave him.

I hate that I came last with her.

I hate that her love killed her.

Who needs that kind of emotion? Nobody. Especially me.

“Stop torturing yourself with that game. I have news.” Lawrence sits across from me inside my apartment as I watch the video from the Super Bowl. He showed up after my doctor’s appointment, wanting to get the lowdown.

“Yeah? It better be good.” I’m tense, watching the screen, preparing myself for that last interception I threw. Shit. I wince as I fire the ball to Devon, overthrowing his outstretched arms, a Pittsburgh lineman catching it and running it all the way downfield for the touchdown that ended the game for us.

“Sophia reached out to me this morning.”

Flinching, I turn to look at his smug expression. “What the hell did she want?”

He grins. “Seems she’s broken it off with the hockey player.”

I arch a brow. “Am I supposed to care?”

“She wants to see you.”

I frown. “Why? We’ve skillfully avoided each other for a year.”

He shrugs. “She says she wants to make amends. Make her apologies. There’s a charity gala next week, and she’d like to be your date.”

I bark out a laugh. “Amends? Hard to take back a book she published, Lawrence. That deed is done. We are done. I care nothing about seeing her again.”