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“I’m sorry. It’s just, it’s got to be easier for guys like you.”
“Believe what you want. I’m telling you different.”
There’s no point in talking to whiskey, it does nothing but lie to you. It tells you you’re stronger than you are, more resilient than you are, and that your dick will work when you’ve drunk too much of it. All lies. But the numb it sometimes provides makes it necessary.
Theo’s out cold by the time I get him back to the house. Collecting him from the truck, I hoist him up the porch steps and into the house and kitchen before nabbing one of my frozen Gatorades out of the freezer.
Bloodshot eyes open briefly when I set him on his mattress. “Shampoo.”
“What’s that?”
“Shampoo,” he repeats as if it will give me more clarity.
Chuckling, I head to his bathroom in search, and grab a bottle of what I assume is her shampoo and hand it to him where he’s sprawled on the bed. He doesn’t bother opening his eyes but pops the cap and inhales. “Thanks, man.”
“Just don’t drink it. And anytime. Thanks for the room.”
“Lance?” He calls weakly from the bed as I get to the door.
“Yeah?” I look back to see he’s out.
But I know his question and scribble both my reply and my regret on a Post-it I find on his desk, before leaving it in a place he can’t miss it.
Problem is, I was never good at coming up with the words to tell Harper how I truly felt. Maybe if I had, she wouldn’t have cut me out of her life so fucking easily. And even if I managed to find them, I’d never get a chance to tell her because she took the ability away from me.
Sixty-three fights later…
The shouts coming from all sides of the ring dull into a collective thrum. I’m dancing on air, light as a feather, my arms the only thing weighed down by exertion. Six rounds, and he’s fazed. I crack my neck, arms loose at my sides just as the bell rings, and the dance begins.
He’s dizzy, weakening by the second. It’s only a matter of time.
I come at him with my winning combination, and he swerves, knowing my tactics. This I was prepared for, so I change the sequence.
Body, body, body, uppercut.
I’m still fighting.
I’ve been as low as a man can get in the last two years.
No girl.
No draft.
And the bank is about to foreclose on the ranch.
Draft day came and went, and I retired my number.
Football is over.
Harper and I are long over.
But this, here, this is my future.
Not every dream is realized. That’s the hard truth, and the lesson I’ve come away with and survived.
Not all hard work pays off. Not every guy gets the girl. And sometimes, even the most carefully laid plans get changed, interrupted or abandoned because life has other ideas.
I’ve been on my knees more times than I can count at this point. From the ashes of the past twenty-four months, I know who I am, it’s become abundantly clear.
