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I blink, brain still on pause, and push up to sitting. My entire body protests, and I groan, taking the water and ibuprofen.
“Thank you.” I knock back the pills with a gulp of water. “And sorry. I really showed my ass, huh?”
I glance up to see Amelia looking at my bare chest. Then she looks at my crotch. Specifically, the tent pitched there. My traitorous dick perks up even more at the attention, and I give the covers a tug, piling them in my lap.
She blinks too, and pulls the sleeves of my hoodie over her hands.
I like the way she looks in my shit.
“To be fair, I imagine it’s a very sore ass, so . . . I get it.”
I return her grin. A warm feeling swarms inside my center. Like bees. And then I realize something.
The weight on my chest I wake up with every day isn’t there. I mentally feel around for it, poking the usual suspects—breastbone, rib cage, heart—but it’s gone.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat. “Really. Not cool of me. I don’t usually drink that much.”
Amelia raises an eyebrow. “I’m not the press or, I don’t know, your coach or whatever. You don’t have to lie to me.”
We’re ten feet apart, but the space between us comes alive, vibrating with this low-frequency energy, and the swarm inside my chest brightens.
One of the (many) things I adored about Amelia when we were younger: how she knew me before I hit my stride in the game, and how she liked me for me. I won her over just by being myself. Sharing parts of my life I hadn’t shared with anyone else. The dark parts. The painful ones. Not only did she never judge me, but she also understood better than anyone ever could.
We’d both had to grow up too fast, endure too much loss when we were young. I lost Daddy when I was nine. She lost her mama when she was sixteen. A big blow, considering her dad was never in the picture. He and Amelia’s mom weren’t married, and he left her before Amelia was born.
I’m tempted.
Lord, am I tempted to spill my guts to her.
But luckily, the remaining shred of self-preservation I have left kicks in, and I knock back the rest of the water instead. The throb in my head and between my legs lessens. But that energy between us? That stays put.
“Can I make you some coffee?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “I’m heading to brunch with friends. You going to be okay?”
I’m not sure.
“One cup,” I say. “Stay for one cup. Least I can do.”
Amelia presses her teeth into her bottom lip and gives me a look. The kind that is probing and a little pitying, and Jesus Christ, I hate it. Just like I suddenly hate the idea of her leaving. The room is lighter with her in it. Or maybe that’s just the way the sun looks this early in the morning? Glancing at the watch on my wrist, I see it’s only eight o’clock. The last time I was up this early was during the season. Feels like a lifetime ago.
I didn’t use to be such a slob. But over the past year or so, I’ve had a hard time giving a shit. I know I should keep fighting. I need to keep fighting. I beat myself up all the damn time about not doing more, achieving more in my career. I just . . . I don’t know, when I reach for my reasons, my why, I find them. They just don’t motivate me to crush my goals the way they used to.
In fact, the pressure I put on myself to crush those goals make me pretty damn angry. Maybe that explains the constant hangovers. Alcohol is my attempt to numb the rage and the exhaustion. Escape it.
“I’m more of a tea girl.”
“Shit, that’s right. Still?” I fist my hair in my hand and give it a hard tug. “I could scrounge that up too. I’m sure the main house has a good selection.”
One side of her mouth curls upward. “I have to go.”
“Okay.” Not okay. “Um. Well. Thanks. For not, you know, pushing me off the side of the mountain.”
“So you could end up at the bottom of a ravine?”
I shrug. “Probably where I belong anyway.”
“You don’t belong in a ravine. A pond, maybe. A river.”
Now I’m the one grinning. “Because I drink like a fish?”
“Exactly.” She reaches out and pats my shin. “Take care of yourself, all right? I’m worried about you.”
Even through the blankets, I feel her touch like a bolt of lightning.
What is up with this? The way I feel around her? It’s been nine years, for Christ’s sake. I’m a grown man now. One with a sense of self-control I’ve painstakingly cultivated over my career in the pros. I know better than to let my dick, or my past for that matter, fuck with my head.
