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“It’s who I am. I can’t separate it. I don’t even think about it. I live and breathe football. I always have.”
I touched his hand, the one I had so carefully put back together. I didn’t know what lengths he had gone through to heal it in record time, but I was starting to understand pieces of his story.
“But your dad isn’t making you do those things now, is he? You’re your own person, Wes.”
His eyes hardened. “He made me into a winner. A champion. And that’s who I am. I’m who I am because he pushed me. He made me.”
I swallowed. It sounded like brainwashing. It sounded like a child being robbed of precious years of imagination and happiness. It sounded like a tyrant parent living out his own dream vicariously through his talented son. The entire story pissed me off.
“I know it’s not the same as playing for a national team or having the world watch my every move.” Although lately, it seemed like the press was following me around. “But when I’m in surgery, I know that feeling. I want to win. I want to succeed.”
“No, that’s not the same.”
“Just hear me out.” I ran my fingers along his arm, swirling over the ink that ran the length of his bicep. “When I’m in there, I know I can’t win every time. People count on me. The patient. Their family. The surgical team under my direction. But we can’t win every time. And I have to live with that. That has to be okay. Because if it’s not, I can’t be a good surgeon. If every time something went wrong and I believed we were failures, how would I ever walk back into the next OR? How could I ever give someone else hope?” His eyes were on me, and I prayed he understood what I was saying. “Being a good surgeon means accepting loss. And I think it’s the same thing for you, too. Everything can’t be a win. There is a line drawn that isn’t worth crossing. Not for winning. Not if it means being unethical. Not if it means it will let more people down. Not if it costs you your health, or possibly your life.”
He gently brushed the hair off my shoulder. I sighed, believing I had struck a nerve with him.
“I don’t think we’re wired the same way.” His words smacked me in the face.
“You didn’t agree with any of that?”
“You were right about one thing. Being a surgeon isn’t the same as being a quarterback. You don’t know the weight on my shoulders.” He stood and took our plates to the sink. “You don’t know what I’ll do to win.”
I looked at the empty counter, feeling the disappointment sink in. Our first fight had transformed into an emotional story, and now I couldn’t believe I’d never felt more disconnected from him than I did at this minute.
Maybe I didn’t have the warrior’s spirit to win like he did, but I wasn’t going to give up. Not yet.
17
Wes
I washed the dishes and tried to ignore Lennon’s eyes needling my neck. She didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. We were from different worlds. Surgery and football had nothing in common.
“I’ve got to go over some plays.” I turned off the kitchen light and sank into my recliner. “Coach has changed up some things.” I started flipping through the binder the messenger had sent over.
She sat on the couch, holding her wine glass, and started switching through the channels. She landed on a show about a president and his mistress.
“Could you turn that down, please? I’m studying.”
“Sorry.” She practically muted the TV.
I didn’t like this. The fight. The tension. The fact that I had done something to piss her off, when it was none of her business. I did what was necessary to win. And the Wranglers weren’t going to win with Cosech on the field. He’d made that clear last game. We had run the ball almost every play and barely won by a field goal. My return was the only way to punch our ticket to the Super Bowl.
“I think I’ll study in the bedroom.” I kicked the recliner in place and headed to my suite. This was awkward as fuck.
“Why don’t I just leave for tonight? You can study. I’ll give you some space.”
I turned in front of the double doors leading to my room. “Hell no.”
“I don’t want to pressure you, Wes. Me sitting here while you’re pissed feels like pressure. I don’t want to make this worse. We can talk tomorrow.”
I dropped the binder on the table. “That doesn’t work for me.”
“Why not?” she questioned. “We have to agree to disagree on this, and maybe we both need our space right now.”
“Because I want you in my bed tonight.”
“Sex isn’t the answer.” She rolled her eyes. But I saw the spark. I saw the lust. I saw my opportunity to finally show her what Wes Blakefield could do with two fully operational hands.
