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JJ nods along. “If you think she has feelings for you, too, don’t you guys owe it to yourselves to give things a try?” he asks, ever the damn optimist.
I want to tell them, and myself, that there’s a good chance Willow isn’t interested in me, but something stops me. Memories of our kiss dance along in my mind, a ghost of her lips against mine lighting my skin on fire. Maybe I would believe all she felt was just physical attraction, just lust—but I’d seen the look in her green eyes before she pushed me away. I saw the acceptance of the kiss in her eyes, and the panic that sets in when you do something that feels right in the moment, but you keep telling yourself was wrong.
My gaze goes to Caden and I ask him, “What do you think, bro?”
My friend is silent for a moment before he lifts his chin. “I think you better figure out what you want. Is it just a hookup to get her out of your system, or a true relationship? Because she’s the one who would be putting her job and reputation at risk, and one reason isn’t worth it, but the other one might be.”
Leo and JJ both nod along in agreement, and my jaw begins to ache dully at how tightly I clench it after Caden’s words that ring too fucking true. A hook up is nowhere near worth Willow potentially muddling her image as a sports journalist, no matter how badly my body seems to crave hers.
But am I that much of a selfish bastard to consider a relationship—my first one in years—as a way of justifying Willow putting her job, her reputation, at risk?Wouldshe want a relationship with me?
DoIwant a relationship? Am I ready for one?
I think of her. Of her soft hair and bright eyes and those damn dimples that deepen in her cheeks every time she smiles. I think of the sound of her laugh, I swear I can hear it echoing in my head, and my chest tightens inexplicably. Willow has an effect on me that I haven’t felt before, pulling reactions from my body that are more than just the blood rushing to my cock. The fact that it’s more than just a physical attraction for me says a lot, and that’s what is tripping me up.
But if Willow is pushing me away, there really isn’t anything else I can do, is there?
***
The pulsing throb on the right side of my head is mild, but the nausea and dizziness that accompanies it is enough to have me walking off the field and sitting down with the rest of my teammates. A water bottle is thrusted into my hand by Coach Scott, and I down it before keeping my head bowed and eyes shut to avoid the bright stadium lights.
The cheers from the audience are sharp in my ears, but I try to drown them out and focus on my breathing. It’s difficult not to clench my jaw in frustration, because the tightness of it will do nothing to ease the migraine, but my aggravation pulses along with the familiar pain. It has been a while since I have had a migraine attack in the middle of the game; while they are mild, they’re enough to make me lose my focus during a game, and the intense physical activity only further exacerbates the migraine. So, it’s better if I walk off the field and let someone else take my place then risk letting the nausea or dizziness take over and cause me to either throw up or pass out on the field. Neither are ideal options.
The sweat clings to my body, and I feel a bead of it run down my temple as I sit leaning forward, resting my arms on my thighs and keeping my head low. I don’t doubt people will be wondering why I’m not playing, but at this point, I have become an expert in avoiding answering questions that inquire about it. I have no interest in letting the public know about my migraines; not because I’m embarrassed about them, but because when you let them know about any kind of health problem you have, they start viewing your performance in spite of your issues, not despite them. Any fumble, any mistake you make is chalked up to whatever problem you may be facing, and while no doubt it can be a valid reason, it still feels invalidating towards your own achievements as an athlete. And I don’t want to deal with that shit.
“The fuck happened to you?” I recognize Buchanan’s voice from somewhere next to me. There’s no concern in his voice, just nosy curiosity.
“Fuck off,” I mutter. His voice sure as hell doesn’t help my migraine.
“Maxwell.” I look up through one squinted eye at Coach Scott standing over me, lips pursed, and eyebrows pulled into that typical frown. His voice is low, only meant for me to hear. “Go inside. Take your meds. Rest.”
My jaw clenches momentarily, the pressure from that zinging right to my temple, and I hold back a wince. I hate having to go into the locker room, especially when we aren’t even done with the first half. Ihateletting my team down, being unable to pull my own weight, even if it happens rarely. It’s enough to let the guilt and anger fester.
But I don’t argue with the coach. If I don’t take my meds now, the mild pain might turn severe, and that isn’t a risk I’m willing to take. So, I give a firm nod and grab my helmet, lips pursed as I head through the tunnel leading from the field and go back inside. There are a few personnel lingering in the halls leading toward the locker room, but I keep my gaze on the ground in front of me, pissed off and in pain.
The locker room is empty when I arrive, only turning on the single light toward the far end of the room so it doesn’t hurt to keep my damn eyes open, the rest of the room otherwise dim. As soon as the door slams shut behind me, I approach my cubby section and toss my helmet inside with more force than necessary. It thuds against the back of it and bounces onto the floor, and I don’t bother picking it up as I dig through my duffel and snatch up my prescription medication. After I take it, I shed off my shoulder pads before getting rid of the pads under my pants and replacing them with athletic shorts.
There’s a chance I can play in the second half, but when a migraine hits, it can last for hours to days, and if I want it to subside, it wouldn’t be smart to get back on the field for an intense game because it would only worsen it. So basically, I’m benched, and it’s fucking annoying.
I hear my phone emit a ding from my duffel, and I already know who it is when I pull it out and see a text from my mother.
Ma:Why aren’t you playing? Did you get a migraine?
I exhale sharply, knowing I can’t lie to her.
Me:Yeah. It’s mild, but Coach told me to head inside.
Ma:Smart man. I’m sorry you can’t play, honey. But take care of yourself, please.
Me:I will.
I drop the phone back in the bag and grab my towel, wiping the sweat off my face and neck as I sit down on the bench opposite my locker. The medication has started to do the trick, the pulsing sensation dying down—or maybe I’m just telling myself that it is so I can fool myself into believing I can play again. I don’t bother turning on the TV in the locker room to tune into the game. I can hear the muffled echo of cheers from the stadium from the tens of thousands of people in attendance.
I bow my head again, elbows resting on my thighs as I rub the side of my head with my hand, letting my eyes fall shut. I’m not sure how long I stay like that for, but I do hear the distinct sound of the door opening, and when I force myself to look up, I genuinely wonder if I’m seeing things.
Willow lingers in the front as the door falls shut behind her, fingers wringing together with green eyes trained on me. I stare at her in mild disbelief, taking in the skin-tight jeans on her toned legs and the fitted black sweater that hugs her. Pink colors her cheeks, and I feel a pulse rush through me that has nothing to do with my migraine as she gently bites down on the corner of her lip.
“I, uh…” Her throat works as she takes a few steps forward. “You walked off and, uh, I was—”
