My ex-wife told me I was so emotionally unavailable that she had to have a side piece to meet her needs.
When Hannah reached out, I immediately criticized her, instead of listening to an old friend. I barged into her place of work to demand that she spill her secrets to me because I wanted to know. I never considered whether I had a right to know.
And then I basically coerced her into being my date so I didn’t have to deal with Katherine.
She did it all.
She stayed with me for two days, even though she was basically on a job audition. She even saved me from being exposed by taking the tape off my shoulder.
And I wouldn’t even give her five minutes to explain.
God, she was right. I’m the most selfish bastard that ever lived.
For the first time in my life, I don’t have soccer to blame. I can’t use it as the scapegoat—the crutch—for this. Nope, this is all on me.
This realization slams into me. Intense, visceral awareness dawns on me. My whole life, I’ve acted this way. Acted in my own self-interest but called everyone out fortheirbehavior.
As if that was the problem all along.
I could be just as spoiled and entitled as my mother. As Katherine. But even worse, I hurt Hannah in the process.
Not just now, but back then too.
She wasn’t supposed to be a one-night stand.
Then or now.
But I was too busy focusing on my career—and myself—to do the work to keep her. Would it have been that hard to keep in contact with her when I moved to Nevada? It wasn’t like the olden days when I would have had to mail an actual letter.
I could have texted her. I could have kept my MySpace. I could have done the bare minimum to let her know that she meant more to me. But I didn’t. Because all I thought about was playing soccer.
God, even when she was freaking out or struggling with things, I always managed to turn it around to be about me. Like in the hotel when she was telling me about her illness, and I decided it would be a good time to have sex. Or when we got back to her apartment, and she was obviously upset. She’d been asking me about Xavier and the BFL, and then somehow we were talking about me and how people use me.
Not to mention, I encouraged her to put herself and her career first, even if it meant screwing others over. But then, I punished her for doing just that. Not even doing it.Thinkingabout doing it.
I had the nerve to be angry with her.
The question I should be asking is why does she want to be with me? What do I have to offer her? She’s not in it for the status, that’s for sure. She didn’t want my help.
She didn’t even want to use me. If she had, she’d be on top with the story about my shoulder, breaking it before the Buzzards even knew what was going on.
God, I feel like punching something. Unfortunately, it’s relatively difficult to punch yourself in the face, though Lord knows I deserve it. I pick up my phone to call her but drop it before I can pull up her number.
What would I even say?
I need to figure that out before I make things worse.
Not that they can get much worse.
“THANKS FOR COMING IN, Cal.” Coach gestures for me to sit down. Today’s the first day of practice, and I’m still sidelined for a minimum of three more weeks. Needless to say, the last five days since my big revelation have been like a living hell.
The entire foundation of who I am has been shook.
Not to mention, I spent at least three of those days at the bottom of a bottle of whiskey, where all the best decisions get made. It was a good place to mentally replay every conversation I’ve ever had and realize I’m a shitty human being.
There were several drunken texts. At least they were only to Watson Ross, who had a play-by-play of my downward spiral. He probably shouldn’t give his number to patients.
I’m still hungover and getting called into Coach’s office isn’t helping.
