But now I was here, like a spectator at a party I was no longer invited to. How do I explain to them that I'm damaged? That I'm still not sure what I can take and give to a lover? How far I can push my own limits here in this playground for fucking?
I probably shouldn't get too fucked up, literally and figuratively, before my yoga date, so I satisfied myself with just watching the others get their nuts drained.
By early evening, I made my way to the main dining room, a rustic space with exposed beams and massive stone fireplaces. I'd planned to eat alone, but spotted a familiar face at a corner table.
“Cord Morales?” The stocky black man stood as I passed his table. “Kendon Michaels. We've never met, but I've analyzed your games from the booth more times than I can count.”
Kendon Michaels. Retired about ten years ago after a solid career with Tampa Bay, now working for ESPN as one of their studio analysts. I knew the name, knew his stats. Good quarterback, smart player, fun to watch on NFL Primetime when I was a kid.
“No shit.” I shook his hand. “Good to meet you in person. Mind if I join you? Eating alone gets old.”
“Please.” He gestured for me to sit as he settled back into his chair, waving the server over to take my order. “I have to ask—how's the shoulder healing up?”
Here we go again. But something in his tone suggested he wanted to know, not just making conversation.
“Getting there,” I said, the standard response I'd perfected. “They've got me scheduled for surgery in a few weeks.”
“Good luck with that.” He cut into his steak with precision. “I had a couple shoulder surgeries before I called it quits. The physical part's hard enough without all the other bullshit.”
He gets it. I knew he meant the media circus, the speculation, the way everyone felt entitled to an opinion about my future.
“You ever miss it?” I asked.
“The game? Every damn day.” He smiled, rueful. “But not the pressure. Not the way everyone wanted to own a piece of you. What I do now...” He gestured with his fork. “It keeps me close to football without all the weight. Travel to the big games, analyze plays, but I'm home most of the year.”
“Sounds like a good gig.”
“It is. ESPN pays well, especially for guys who played the game and can break down the mental side of it.” He studied me for a moment. “Plus, I got lucky. Bought into a couple tech startups with my last signing bonus. Everyone thought I was crazy.” His smile spoke volumes. “One of them turned into something big.”
So that's how he can afford the membership fee here. Nice.
He took another bite of his steak. “If you're ever interested in broadcasting, I could put in a good word.”
Television?
“Never thought about it before. Then again, never thought about life after football.” I shrugged as my roast chicken and vegetables was set before me. “Always thought I had at least a decade before I had to worry about it.”
“That's the truth,” he said. “But let me know if you change your mind.”
Sitting behind a booth wasn't exactly on my list of dream jobs, but it was good knowing someone out there was doing itand enjoying it. Something to think about. If the surgery doesn't work out.
“I appreciate that.”
We talked for another hour after finishing our meals. Kendon shared some stories from his time in the league, and it reminded me how much I loved that part of my life, just talking about sports.
When we stood to leave, Kendon shook my hand again, careful of my shoulder. “It was a pleasure talking with you, Cord. Good luck with everything.”
I left the restaurant feeling a flicker of something I hadn't felt in weeks. Hope, maybe. The evening had cooled further, and the property had transformed. Lights strung between buildings cast everything in warm gold. Music pulsed from the nightclub now, and the pools glowed turquoise in the darkness. I walked back toward my suite, my mind replaying what Kendon had said about broadcasting. Maybe there were options I hadn't considered. But then a sharp twinge from my shoulder sent a jolt up my neck, a brutal reminder of my reality. One pleasant conversation wasn't a cure. It was just a distraction. Options were for guys who could still lift their arm over their head without wincing.
I checked the time on my phone. Almost time for my evening dose. Good. I fumbled with the bottle, dry-swallowing the pill as I walked. I needed to be steady for my appointment with Dusty. I needed the familiar, welcome quiet to descend.
Chapter Three
Dusty
Cord showed up at eight sharp, filling the doorway with his presence. Tall and broad-shouldered, even with the injury pulling one side lower than the other. Dark hair, dark eyes that swept the transformed studio like he was calculating risks. Athletic shorts and a loose tank top showed off the kind of body that came from years of professional training, with defined muscles, muscular legs, the careful balance of power and control. But there was tension in how he held himself, favoring his good shoulder, jaw tight like he was bracing for pain.
He looked around my yoga studio like he'd stepped into someone else's dream. The afternoon's bright energy had melted into candlelight and shadows, my favorite sandalwood lingering in the air.
