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When I wake, I'm on the couch with a stiff neck, a bad back, and a pounding head.
The sun streams through the floor to ceiling windows that overlook the backyard and glistening blue pool.
My limbs ache for me to dive in and ease the stiffness with the warm w
ater, but the chance of Mom being home and coming out to try to talk to me makes it a little—or a lot—less appealing.
A groan rips from my lips as I push up until I'm sitting on the edge of the couch.
Dropping my head into my hands, I think back to the message I found sitting on my cell yesterday morning from Mia.
She wanted to know my plans because the asshole was away.
Typical that the weekend I take off is the weekend he also fucks off.
Karma really is a fucking bitch.
I want to feel bad about what happened between me and Mia. I should feel at least a little remorse, but I feel nothing.
Well, that's not true. Just thinking about her makes my chest tighten. The pain of her lying to me about who was on the other side of her dorm door is still fresh.
Why lie? What was the point?
We both knew what we were doing was wrong. It's a little late for her to worry about protecting me now.
If she were going to do that, then it should have been the night we first met.
But she didn't. She let me get close, and she allowed me to see her beauty.
I sigh, pushing from the couch and going in search of painkillers. Finding half a packet of Advil, I throw two back with some Gatorade I grabbed from the refrigerator.
I stare at the main house, wondering what the chances are of sneaking in so I can change. Hell knows I used to sneak in and out of that place like a pro back in the day.
Needing to do something other than spend any more time cooped up in here and hiding like a pussy from my mother, I swing the door open and step out into the warm morning sun.
I slip through the back door, moving as silently as I can and finding that remembering the noise spots is a little like remembering how to ride a bike. Those little creaky patches are ingrained in my brain, and I move on instinct.
I don't look around my old room. There are too many memories of a life I fucked up. I'm way too hungover to deal with those regrets right now. Instead, I rush toward my closet and pull out some workout clothes.
I shed everything I'm still wearing from two days ago and pull them on before making the journey—once again unnoticed—to the back door.
Pushing aside my hangover and the marching band that's taken up residence in my head, I take off down the driveway and out onto the sidewalk, taking the route I always used to.
As I run, I focus on the movement of my limbs and the rhythmic pounding of my feet on the sidewalk. For that small amount of time, everything else ceases to exist. I can imagine that my life is still here, that I still have football and a future that I crave. That I didn't fuck every single thing up.
I might have lost it all and been forced to move, but really, nothing changes. Because I still end up screwing everything up.
I've chased and touched the one person in that godforsaken town that I shouldn't have, and eventually, I'm going to pay the price for that. And something tells me that when that mistake catches up with me, it's going to make what Ace Jagger put me through look like child's play.
I run until my lungs burn and my muscles quiver with the need for rest. But I don't slow to a walk until I hit the beach.
My feet sink into the golden sand as I step down onto the beach I used to spend so much time at as a kid.
The tide is out, so I keep walking until the ground hardens beneath me and I get to the ocean's edge.
Slipping off my shoes and socks, I carry them in one hand as I begin walking along with the water lapping at my feet, just absorbing the familiar comforting sounds of the crashing waves and families enjoying themselves.
I'm lost in my own world, watching the waves when I sense two people in front of me.
