Page 55 of Last Slice of Pie

Three.

I gave our opponent multiple opportunities to take the lead in this game, and thank God for our defense. We were so close to this game ending differently, and it would have been my fault. All. My. Fault.

I feel as if a thousand pounds have landed on my shoulders and a hundred pairs of my teammates’ eyes are turned toward me. It’s very overwhelming. To say I’m embarrassed . . . well, that word doesn’t accurately describe how I feel.

“What are you doing?”

My eyes briefly flit to Lexi. She’s standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. For some reason, I find I can’t look at her. It’s been this way all afternoon, since I met her in the family room after the game. I’m grateful she came for me, but—though I hate to admit it—I wish she hadn’t.

None of my teammates spoke to me after the game. Hell, they weren’t speaking to me during the game. I sat on the bench, looking at replays, and they all kept a wide berth. Even Reid and Jack kept their distance, and all that did was piss me off. At the time, I didn’t understand why, but I sure do now.

“Looking at films,” I mumble, as if she doesn’t already know what I’m doing.

“How long have you been doing that?” she asks. In my peripheral vision, I see her cross her arms over her chest.

“I don’t know, a few hours.”

When we got home, I immediately retreated to my room to be alone. Since then I’ve looked at films, run on my treadmill, looked at more films, took a long shower, and then ended up back here, where I am now, reviewing films. As if I haven’t tortured myself enough, I’ve been reviewing the last four games, and sure enough, like a beacon light, I stared too long in each of those games, with each game getting progressively worse. I may as well have announced loud and clear to the Jaguars today, Hey, watch me. I’ll nonverbally tell you what our next play is. I’m so angry with myself.

“Okay, well, how much longer do you think you’ll be doing this?” she asks.

I did come up for air once, and I sat with her just long enough to scarf down the shrimp, pineapple, and avocado dish she made. It was good, although I barely tasted it. I just want to be alone right now.

“I don’t know. A few more hours.” There’s a bite to my tone, and I can’t bring myself to care. Clearly, she sees I’m doing something that’s important to me. Besides, she’s a big girl; if she insists on being here, I don’t need to entertain her.

“All right. What time do you think you’re going to head to bed?” I can tell she’s irritated, but she’s trying to keep it at bay too.

“I don’t know,” I snap. “Does it matter?”

I keep my eyes on my glowing screen and not on her. I know it’s rude, but whatever. Can’t she see I just want to be left alone? Can’t she see I’m not in the best of moods? Can’t she see internally I’ve having a meltdown of epic proportions?

“I guess I’m just trying to figure out why I drove down today if you didn’t plan on spending any time with me.”

Spend time with her?

Is she serious right now? Did she not see how I played today? I do hear what she’s saying, and I know she isn’t trying to be selfish or needy, but given where we are in the season and the shitshow I keep putting on game after game, I don’t have time for her. It makes me even angrier that she doesn’t realize this.

My chest, which has already felt like it’s being crushed with stress, now feels like it’s going to cave in and implode. My hands move to the edge of my desk and tighten around it. I know none of this is her fault and I’m doing my best to not take it out on her, but she needs to take a huge step back right now and think objectively about what I need and what I need to be doing.

These next two weeks, every minute is going to be spent preparing to play the Saints and nothing else. I’ve never gotten this far into the season, and as if it isn’t exciting enough to be playing the conference championships, we are only two games away from fulfilling every professional dream I’ve ever had. From the moment I first held a football, it’s all been leading up to this, and I can’t be distracted. Not right now, not by her, not by anyone.

Time suspends as neither of us speaks. I know she’s waiting for me to say something, but I don’t know what, and I don’t know how to do so without coming across like the biggest dick on the planet. She hasn’t done anything wrong . . . or has she? Hearing people whisper behind my back that the Jarvie jinx has struck again—maybe they were onto something this whole time and I was too blind to see it. I know, right now, just thinking this is crazy, but I feel crazy. I feel like I need to look at every single aspect of my life and figure out what is happening to make things go wrong.

“One thing, Bryan. Tell me one thing.”

One thing.

My gaze shoots up from the monitor to her. Her hair is pulled up on top of her head in a mess, and she’s wearing a long-sleeved gray T-shirt and cutoff denim shorts. She looks casual and beautiful like always, but all I can focus on is that she’s standing in the doorway and I feel trapped inside. This room, which is a nice-sized space, suddenly feels small, and I just can’t breathe.

One thing—it’s what we used to say to each other to open conversation, to give insight into what’s going on in our head. It’s like she’s pushed a button with those words, like she’s turned a key. The tension under my skin and in my chest—it becomes even tighter than it already was. I feel like I’m suffocating, and as much as I don’t want these words to come I out, they have to. I need them out of me more than I’ve ever needed anything, and with that thought, they burst free from my lips.

“I can’t do this.”

Shaking my head, I let out a long-overdue sigh and feel that pressure crumble with the absolute truth. I thought I could do it. I thought I could finally balance being with her and being the best I am to my team and to myself, but I can’t. It’s too hard.

“What do you mean you can’t do this? I need you to talk to me.” Her irritated tone is now combined with one of distress.

How do I talk to her? I don’t want to talk to her—I don’t want to talk to anyone. How do I tell her to leave me alone until this is over? It will hurt her, I know that, and then what? What about next year? This is my job; this is what I do. I’ve willingly dedicated my whole life to this, and I can’t do this again. I can’t go through the constant chatter from my teammates and industry people. I can’t go through any more side glances as I pass by, and I certainly can’t deal with more talk of her putting a jinx or spell on me. It was a stupid comment but one that suddenly doesn’t feel so stupid anymore.