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“Shit,” he says. “I’m sure he didn’t tell you for a reason.”
I think about it. What good could have come from him telling me.
None. Only stress.
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
“He walked back in the room as I was trying to get them off the screen and he flipped out. Nobody ever said another word. That part? That was completely my fault. But if the investigators saw that on his phone, they never would have believed it was my fault.”
“But that’s only part of it.”
“Yeah, you’re right.” He’s quiet for a moment as he turns onto the bridge. The metal ridges flicker on us from side to side and we both stare straight ahead.
“The thing is, coaching wasn’t ever what I meant to do. It was an easy place to land for the time being. But it’s not my passion or anything.” He squeezes the back of his neck again as he crosses onto asphalt and I resettle in my seat. “I don’t know how much you remember—”
“Your injury?” I ask.
He nods.
“I remember.”
“Yeah, well, that was my plan. I was going to play for as long as my body held out, and then I was going to figure it out. By then I’d have enough in the bank that I could do whatever I wanted. But of course, that didn’t pan out.
“The coaching stint?”
He looks at me and I nod.
“That was just to help with tuition. I’m almost done with my degree now.”
“That’s great, Freddy.”
“Thanks,” he says with a genuine smile. “I’ll have more options with that. I’ve also had some other opportunities come up, ones that won’t help me with my career, but might be a heck of a lot of fun in the meantime.”
“That sounds great.”
He nods and grins as he slows for another stoplight. He turns to me. “The way I see it, I’ll land on my feet. I’ll be fine. But Derek? If he loses this—hell, if he loses you? He’s not going to be okay. He won’t come back from that.”
I look at my hands, my fingers woven together over the top of my belly.
“But he didn’t leave it alone,” I say, leveling him with a glare.
He doesn’t look at me. “What makes you say that?”
“Freddy,” I say.
He sighs and rakes his hair off his forehead through his fingers.
“You’re going to have to ask him about that.”
It’s as much confirmation as I need.
“I’m not going to tell you what to do,” he says, pulling into the intersection on the green light. “I mean, I would never presume you would listen. But to me, it was worth it to give him another chance. I don’t know how much he’s told you about his marriage or his ex-wife…”
“Enough,” I say. “We did the genetic testing.”
“Right,” he says. “The miscarriages? That was awful. But what happened to her with the depression really fucked him up. He’s never said it in so many words, but I think the reason he hasn’t had a relationship since then is because he’s afraid of hurting someone like that again.”
I frown at him, the shock in my expression obviously clear by the way he winces.
