Page 155 of Game Plan

“I’m sorry we didn’t arrive earlier,” Craig said next, wrapping his arms around me gently. “I’m really sorry, Mel.” He spoke so low, his voice filled with emotions, I bet no one else could hear what he was saying.

“It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”

“I still feel responsible. You’re one of us. And we protect ours. Always.”

“Thanks.”

“Mase looks awful…like he lost a boxing match.”

I leaned back, and a small chuckle passed my lips. My abdomen stretched, and I grimaced in pain. “I told him this badass version of him suited him and was sexy.”

“You shouldn’t have. His ego will grow even bigger.”

“True. But this time, it deserves a little boost.”

“I’m relieved that your sense of humor is intact. Are you hungry?”

“Starving.”

He stepped back and tugged at my hand. “Come sit. We have enough food to feed an army. We couldn’t find the cupcakes Mason said he’d bake, so Cassidy made a batch. We thought a little sugary treat could do everyone some good.”

“Cool.” No way would I admit we had licked the batter off each other’s bodies earlier. “Thanks, guys.”

Camping night was nothing like we’d planned, but in a sense, it was even better.

Mason had offered for me to sleep upstairs, but I yearned to be amongst our friends. A while later, alone in the tent set up in the kitchen, safe in Mason’s embrace, I relaxed, knowing nothing could harm me anymore tonight.

“I love you.” I kissed the tip of his nose, and he smiled against my chin.

“Love you more. Now sleep because I need you to get better.”

I closed my eyes, and for once, I didn’t feel like contradicting him.

41

Not all love stories were meant to end with a happily-ever-after

I woke up to a numb arm and Melinda wrapped around me in her sleep. After the events of today, I bet even asleep she required the safety of my arms. I wiggled my fingers, trying to send blood back to my fingertips, in vain. Moving slowly to avoid waking her up, I slid from under her before tucking the covers around her. I’d been so scared earlier when Nichols had kicked her in the stomach. I had done my best to prevent my face from betraying the cocktail of emotions that had raged inside me to avoid scaring her too. I still couldn’t believe he had succeeded at pulling me into a chokehold. If my brother and Rutherford hadn’t arrived when they did, a few more seconds and I would have fainted. I wanted to puke, just thinking about what the motherfucker would have done to Melinda if I had. I didn’t know if I’d ever be able to forgive myself for getting her hurt when I was the one supposed to protect her, no matter how many times she’d told me none of this was my fault. Deep down, I still felt inadequate for what had gone down, and the giant bruise forming across her stomach was the proof of my mistake—and my failing.

I stretched my neck to the right and to the left to relieve the tension that had lodged there in the last few hours while listening for any sounds or voices, other than snoring, that would hint one of our friends was awake.

Nothing. Everyone was out cold.

In the dark, I slipped on the sweatpants I’d discarded at our feet when we went to bed earlier. Quite unlike me, I had kept my T-shirt on, not wanting Melinda to see my own bruises, the ones covering mostly the right side of my body.

Moving to my knees, I unzipped the tent, keeping an eye on my girl to make sure she stayed asleep. She stirred, a grimace flickering across her pretty face, and I held my breath. Rolling to her other side, she drew the covers up and squirmed for a second, without ever waking up.

Slowly, I exited our tent and surveyed the living room from where I stood, making sure I hadn’t roused anyone. Satisfied, I tiptoed up the stairs toward my bedroom. I hadn’t had a minute to myself since the fight earlier, not willing to leave Melinda’s side even for a short instant.

I closed the bathroom door behind me and removed my shirt, studying my naked torso in the mirror. Random bruises were forming everywhere Evan Nichols had hit me. My ribcage was dotted in bruises too, and I wondered if I had a broken rib. Using my finger, I traced each bone, trying to find indents that would confirm my fears. So far, so good. After what felt like forever, I risked a rotation of my right shoulder. I’d been avoiding it until now, afraid my teammate had landed a punch there and I hadn’t noticed amid the brawl.

Pain radiated from the crease between my shoulder and neck, down my arm, and up to just underneath my ear, where Nichols had held me around the neck. I extended my arm, and pain radiated everywhere it shouldn’t.

I couldn’t hold in the tears threatening to leak. My good shoulder slumped in defeat. All my life, football had defined me. Without it, I had no idea who I’d be or what I should aim for in the future.

Everything I had done—the early trainings, the sweat, the tears, the icing, the pain, the injuries—all the sacrifices I had made through the years would soon be for nothing. I had to find a way to heal, or else I would never be recruited to play pro, and my dreams would come crashing down. I had three more years of college, and my shoulder wouldn’t survive it without proper care.

It was about time I was honest with myself. I had done everything in my power to fix it on my own, but I was lacking resources and ideas these days.