* * *
The pounding wasrhythmic and relentless.
I couldn’t be sure whether it was coming from my head, which ached like a motherfucker, or if it was elsewhere in the house. I lay still on the recliner and tried to separate the noise, the vibration, from the pain.
Pound! Pound! Pound!
“Son of bitch.” I screwed my eyes tighter and worked on shutting out everything. I didn’t want any sensory input at all, nothing touching me, no vision and sure as hell no noise. I willed it all to go the hell away.
But it didn’t stop, and after a few minutes, I was sure the sound was coming from the front of the house. And since it had been going on for a long time now—I wasn’t sure exactly how long, but enough that my nerves were frayed—I was pretty certain whoever was there wasn’t going away of his own accord.
It wasn’t Alison. I was as sure of that as I was of my own name. She wouldn’t pound like this. At least, I didn’t think she would. And I’d sent her away. If it was her again, I wasn’t sure I could be strong enough to ignore her twice.
I toyed with the idea of dragging my sorry ass up the stairs and closing the door, which would muffle if not completely silence the noise. But I wasn’t sure that I could make it upstairs. Matter of fact, I was afraid I couldn’t. Physical therapy had been slow and grueling so far . . . oh, and then there was the fact that I had completely blown it off for the past week.
Bothering with that shit didn’t make sense when it wasn’t going to get me back onto the football field. What the fuck did I care about being able to walk when I had nowhere to go anymore? I might as well be a complete cripple, stuck in this damn chair for the rest of my pathetic life.
I lay still for another few minutes, reaching for sleep, desperate to dive into the relative oblivion. But then the shouting started.
“Noah, for the love of God, man, I know you’re in there. Open the damn door. Or I’m gonna just knock it down, and you know I can.”
Zeke. For fuck’s sake.
I tried to convince myself that it was relief I felt and not disappointment that it was my teammate and friend at the door instead of Alison.
“Or maybe it would be better if I called the cops and told them the dude who lives here is probably in trouble. He’s just a month post-op on his knee, just a couple of weeks out of the hospital, and he crapped on his PT appointments, so we need to get in here and make sure he’s still alive and not, like, passed out on the shitter. How ‘bout that? I mean, I’m sure the media won’t pick up on that. We won’t have photographers and reporters here to see if Noah Spencer is slumped over naked on the can.”
If it were anyone else making these threats, I’d assume they were idle. But Zeke was the kind of man who’d do exactly as he’d warned if he thought it would accomplish what he wanted.
With a growl borne of frustration and anger, I reached for the lever to lower the recliner’s leg rest and then grappled on the floor for my crutches. I hated the damn things, but it was better than being in a wheelchair or using the walker that had also been suggested. What was I, fucking ninety years old? No, thanks. I’d make do with crutches.
I managed to hoist myself to a standing position and then swayed precariously for a moment before I caught my balance and began to move. I made it to the front door before I bellowed out an answer.
“Go away, Zeke. I don’t need you. I don’t fucking need anyone. I’m alive, if that’s what you want to call this, and I just want to be left alone.”
“Sorry, man. It’s not happening. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere until you open the door and let me in.”
“Not happening.” I braced myself against the wall. “Not today.”
“Yeah, well, a couple of things you need to consider here. One, I dragged my cookies all the way out here to your little Fortress of Solitude, and the least you could do is let me come in, have a drink and use the john before I drive back to town. Two, I’m here partly because the team had a meeting. They were all planning to come out here and storm your gates, but I managed to talk them into letting me make the first move on my own. So maybe you should be happy that I’m here and not the whole group. Show a little gratitude by opening the door.”
I grunted. I didn’t want to see Zeke—hell, I didn’t want to see anyone—but I could see the truth in his explanation. If I didn’t at least let him in so he could vouch for my wellness—ha, that was a word I used loosely—then I’d probably end up with Coach and the rest of the circus on my porch. That wasn’t going to happen. I couldn’t handle that.
With a string of expletives muttered under my breath, I unlocked the door and swung it open. Zeke stood just outside, his forearm resting on the frame.
“Well, it’s about damn time.”
Without waiting for me to issue an invitation, he eased past me into the house. His nose wrinkled, and his eyes went wide as he glanced around.
“Noah. Dude, did you have a kegger and forget to invite me? Because your place is trashed, and it smells like balls.”
“Housekeeping hasn’t exactly been on the top of my agenda,” I sneered. “And if you just came here to complain, you can turn around and leave. I didn’t invite you. I don’t want you here. I don’t want anyone here.”
“Yeah, well, I wasn’t lying when I said the team was threatening to come. Coach told us you’d blown off your physical therapy, that you weren’t answering his calls, and that you’d fired your housekeepers.”
“How the hell does he know that?” I demanded. “None of his damn business.”
“Easy. Angela hired those housekeepers based on a recommendation from Dowers’ wife, who uses them, too. They told her, she told Dowers, and he told Coach.” Zeke shrugged. “No secrets, man. You know we’re like a weird dysfunctional family.”
