I can't be sure if Ophelia and Tony are working together. The rest about her is certainly real, right down to the fact that she's writing a book.
I haven't stopped to read it yet, but I've seen what she reads. She's undoubtedly writing about us. Will she describe it as "pounding, railing, and ravishing," like they so often do? I shudder as those words dance through my memory, seared into my brain. Her body, her sounds, her taste in my mouth. But now it's out there for the entire bloody world to read as if they were voyeurs in our bedroom.
This is it. My career is done.
In the blink of an eye, all because of Ophelia.
When Phaedra Jones royally rooked me, I could feel some semblance of compassion. She had a lot of problems. It wasn't personal. I was simply the dumb sap who tried to help.
But Ophelia … it's like a career-ending slide tackle that I never saw coming. Of course, I didn't, because I was too busy memorizing every facial expression and the sound of her laugh.
I was too busy falling in love.
I think I'd rather have my knee blown out by a dirty play than this. At least then people would understand the pain. There's no amount of paracetamol—or hell, even morphine—that will ever make me feel better about this.
I shove my clothes into my bag. My shaving kit is in the bathroom, but I can always buy new supplies. I have to get out of here now. Without a word, I leave. If I never have to see Ophelia Finnegan again, it will be too soon.
I drive away from the hotel, not even sure of where I'm going. Eventually, and because this is New England, I come upon a Dunkin' Donuts. I turn into the parking lot and pull out my phone.
It's hard to ignore the notifications which are lighting it up, but I do. I apply the same laser-sharp focus I use when I'm going through a grueling training circuit. I focus on my end goal.
Going home.
My initial instinct is to hop on a flight today, but it is the Sunday after Thanksgiving, which is one of the busiest travel days of the year. Not to mention I've got business to wrap up here seeing as how I'm never coming back.
And that's the plan.
I need to do something, focus onsomething, other than this pain in my chest, threatening to rip me apart from the inside out.
I pause for a moment to take stock of my life. It's rather depressing.
I've got two bags of clothes in my trunk. I don't even have a toothbrush since I left it behind in the hotel. I have an apartment, which I'm paying for, that has no furniture. I've got furniture in storage four states away. My best mate is back in England. I've got a wife I hate, an agent who screwed me over, and the American sports media thinking I'm the world's biggest nob.
What I don't have is a career or options.
My phone buzzes and reflexively I look. It's Kenley. This should be interesting.
"Hullo."
"Holy fuck, Bird Man, what the hell?"
I shake my head, though he can't see it. "I dunno. I … I don't know what happened."
"The media has been all over central office, looking for a statement."
"I saw what Miller said to ESPN." I cover my eyes with my hands. I just want this all to go away.
"Jesus, that article was brutal. What the hell? Where did it even come from?"
I explain the coincidental circumstances that led me to that ill-fated dinner. "I didn't even plan on being there. I … I had nowhere else to go, so I called Ophelia."
"But you did really marry her to try to get citizenship for the trade."
Shame fills me. "I'm not a cheater. I never have been, and I don't like people who play dirty. I don't know why I thought it would be okay."
"Desperate times call for desperate measures. We all saw the writing on the wall with the Terrors. Another season of riding the bench, and you might as well hang up your cleats."
Kenley knows me well. Apparently better than I knew Ophelia.
