Ascent, the sports label wants to lock in dates for the campaign shoot. They’re not going to wait forever. I told them mid-July, but I need you to confirm. Also, the Raptors PR team wants to schedule your intro presser. They’re being patient because you’re their guy, but they have no idea where you are and they are asking me about it.
Don’t make me look bad. Answer your messages.
I wince and open the second one. Figure I should know exactly what I’m walking into.
It’s much shorter.
Call me tomorrow. Not asking.
Dave’s been with me through all of it—the draft chaos, the negotiations, the interviews, the million little things I would absolutely screw up if left unsupervised. He fought for every dollar of my rookie contract and somehow managed to make me sound like a responsible adult in press conferences.
The least I can do is call the man back.
I keep scrolling, immediately clicking when I see the message from Reese. Thank God he and Dax were drafted into the Raptors too. Otherwise, I’d be having an even harder time right now.
Hey Z,
Dax says you’re good to crash at his place until you find your own spot. It’s a two-bed, five minutes away from the stadium and is already furnished. Let me know when you’re getting in and I’ll help you move your stuff.
Also, Coach Masters asked about you at the workout today. I covered for you, but I’m not sure how long he’s going to buy the excuses I’m coming up with.
I snort.
At least one person in my life is committed to enabling me.
I should answer all of them, but I’m just not in the mood to fully face my reality yet. So instead, I lock my phone and toss it onto the cushion beside me and lean my head against the couch.
My head is aching, and it’s not just because Honey isn’t playing ball. It’s everything. It’s all shifting. This isn’t like college ball where I could get away with doing whatever the fuck I wanted. This is professional-level shit. I have contracts. I’m the franchise quarterback. The first draft pick. The one they traded up to build a team around me. I’m the fucking reason Dax and Reese are here too. I need to walk into the Raptors stadium in two weeks and be ready to lead.
Yet here I am, on a cruise ship chasing a girl who just pulled away from kissing me.
I could be in Rome right now. Ishouldbe. I need to learn the playbook and build chemistry with my new receivers so that I’m ahead of the curve for when camp starts.
Every day I’m here, I’m falling behind my own standards.
Every day I choose Honey over football, gambling the career I’ve worked my entire life for.
I know this. I’m not stupid.
But if I hadn’t gotten on this ship, I wouldn't have been sitting across from her in that booth tonight and seen the small smile on her face when I tried to take the corner of her chocolate torte.
Football has been the most important thing in my life since I was seven years old. It saved me. It saved my family. It helped me take care of Tiff and Ella when everything felt like it was falling apart. It gave me purpose when I needed one, a future when I wasn’t sure I’d have one, and a way out when everything felt too hard to manage.
Football gave me everything, but Honey is the reason it means anything.
She’s the person I want beside me when the lights go out and the stadium empties. She’s the one I think about when something good happens. The one I want to come home to after the wins and the one I’d want holding me together after the losses. I’m not ready to let that go because the timing is inconvenient for her.
I’ll wait. I’ll fucking wait as long as it takes because I’m the most fucking patient man she’s ever met.
I let out a long breath, grab my phone again, and force myself to be an adult because while I wait for Honey, I need to make sure I have a life worth something.
I open my emails and start typing out responses. They’re all short, barely a sentence long, but I’ve responded and confirmed that I will call all of them in the morning.
Once I’ve finished, I toss my phone onto the coffee table and stand, stretching the tension out of my shoulders.
The balcony door is still cracked open from earlier, so I step outside and breathe in the salt air as I stare into the abyss.
When I lean against the railing, I glance down at the honeycomb tattoo on my forearm. It’s barely visible in the low light, but I don’t need to see it to know the commitment I made.
