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My chest feels hollow as I open the sliding door, head out, and take a seat by the water. A groan rumbles out of my throat as I stretch out my sore knees.
I can’t remember the last time I went swimming. Hell, I can’t remember the last time that anyone was in this pool.
This mansion is beautiful with more rooms than I can count, but what’s the point of it all?
I remember being so proud of it when I had it built eight years ago, but these days, it just feels kind of pathetic.
I keep asking myself what’s it all for?
I no longer care what’s hanging in my closet, what’s parked in my garage, or what’s stacking up in my bank account.
What good is a lake house when you’re all by yourself and what good is a gorgeous infinity pool with no one to have fun in it?
They’re just things and it’s a sad day when you realize that things are no longer enough.
“Fuck, dude,” I whisper as I try to shake these thoughts out of my head.
I feel like I’m spiraling. I need to get myself grounded.
Ten years in the league and I don’t remember ever being this frustrated.
“Stop thinking about her,” I whisper to myself. “You always get this way when you think about her.”
She’s gone.
It’s a cruel fact, but it’s true.
She doesn’t want anything to do with me or she wouldn’t have left.
I just have to move on.
I close my eyes, lean back in my chair, and try to think of something else.
But I just end up wondering where she is and what she’s doing.
And like always, it breaks my heart.
CHAPTER THREE
Fiona
“You need curtains for these windows,” Mom says as I dump the nachos into a bowl. “You’re a single woman living alone, it’s not safe.”
I grab the salsa out of the fridge and pour it into another bowl as my blood pressure starts to rise.
There are people all over my kitchen and it’s hard to move.
“Any pervert can be hiding in the bushes, jacking off.”
“Mom!” I shout. “Please don’t say jacking off.”
“Yeah, I agree with Fiona,” my cousin Dana says as she grabs a nacho. “You should say jerking off. It’s more polite.”
“Can you guys please not?” I say as I check on the spaghetti sauce. Shit, it’s bubbling. “There are kids running around.”
Right on cue, my adorable five-year-old Lucas comes barreling into the kitchen with four of his younger cousins following him in a line. They’re all shouting as loud as they can for some reason.
“Nope!” I say as I grab his little shoulders and guide the crazy train into the living room. “There’s hot things in here!”
