The Guy on the Left (The Underdogs 2)

“So, I won’t be able to watch him as often as I’d like. You might want to make other arrangements for Mr. BMW. The next few months are going to be grueling.”

“It’s fine. I understand. So, I was saying before that I’m sorry—”

“I heard you. You think he’s out enough for me to sneak in?”

I exhale the last of my hopes to rid the tension between us.

“I would give it a few more minutes just to make sure. He still believes in this stuff for the moment. I don’t want to take that away just yet.”

“Cool.” He leaves me in the kitchen, taking a seat in my recliner. “Mind if I watch Sports Center?”

“Uh, sure, yeah, go ahead.”

After a few minutes of amiable silence, I finally speak up.

“Tell me how this works.”

“What?”

“The draft.”

“If I draw enough interest, I get invited to the NFL Combine. It’s a four-day camp where reps from all thirty-two teams observe the potentials to see who’s the best fit for their franchise.”

“When will you know if you’re invited?”

“By the first of January.”

“That’s got to be nerve-wracking.”

“I have to make sure I’m ready. Push myself harder. No time for bullshit.”

I swallow his comment. “I’m sure you will. You look,” he turns to me, his lifeless stare making it hard for me to breathe. I’m not a fan of this version of Troy, and it stings me that he’s become so closed off. A complete one-eighty from the man who assured me he wasn’t going anywhere. It strikes me then just how much I wanted to believe him. “You look like you’ve been working out a lot.”

“Yeah.” He turns his attention back to the TV.

“And then what?”

Eyes still trained on the screen, he shrugs. “And then I may or may not get a letter to attend the draft. If I do, I’ll have the choice of showing up or watching from home.”

“What will you do?”

“I’ll bring my mother. This is both our dream.”

“That’s really something. I love that you’re so close to her.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m so sorry I caused a rift between you. I’ve been meaning to apologize in person, but Dante has been around and—”

“Yeah, me too.” He stands, and I stop him with a hand on his chest, which he promptly removes. “Clarissa, I’m tired, okay? Too tired to fight.”

I step back, feeling slapped. “It’s okay, I think you’ve made yourself pretty clear.”

He lets out a heavy exhale. “Sorry, I’m not acting the way you need me to.”

“It’s not that, I just thought maybe—”

“Maybe what?”