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My hand, the one that so gently caressed him a moment ago, flies to my lips. My eyes feel like saucers in my face.
Slater Jones kissed me.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, unable to get a handle on my cascading emotions. “I have to go.”
I grab my things off the stool and fly out the door without a second glance. The trembling increases as I step into the elevator. Fleeing is probably an overreaction, but nothing in my twenty-eight years prepared me for his kiss.
As the elevator doors slide closed, I realize I didn’t even tell him about Kelsey.
FOURTEEN
SLATER
Yesterday, I kissed Ellie.
I told her she could put her hands on me, and then I leaned forward and pressed my lips to hers. Even though it was brief, it was achingly good…which only makes me feel worse.
I don’t know what I was thinking. I don’t know what she was thinking.
Or do I? Running away can’t be a good sign.
I’ve been cautious and careful with my personal life for years, putting all my focus on football, but I can’t ignore what happened.
I can’t ignore what I wanted to happen.
I like Ellie.
I drop my head into my hands.
She hasn’t reached out to me, and I haven’t contacted her, either. I hope this is one of those times where not talking makes the situation less awkward. That happens sometimes, right?
I laugh hysterically to myself, because no, not talking is not going to make this less awkward.
I stretch my aching muscles and return to my workout. I want something that requires physical and mental focus, so I step up to the highest box in my home gym for the tenth, or maybe eleventh, round of box jumps. I bend my knees and go for it.
My toes barely clear the side, but I land balanced. My legs feel like jelly.
Maybe another set of box jumps will have to wait. I need a break, so I head to the kitchen to refuel.
I’ve been resisting the urge to binge on junk food for the second time this offseason, and instead have been re-establishing a strict diet. The lack of pizza, cookies, and beer make mealtime about as fun as a three-hundred-pound lineman knocking me to the ground.
I settle on a protein shake, and since I’m already wallowing, I decide to watch the film from my worst game. I rewatch it at least once a year because the eight interceptions are hard to believe—even though I was there. Nothing is quite as painful as reliving it, but I keep going back to try to make sense of what happened. Just like the last time, and the time before that, it’s as horrible on video as it was in person.
When I finish, I follow an hour-long yoga video to try to restore my Zen. Then I take a shower and crawl into bed.
Weights. Cardio. Yoga.
Exhaustion is the only reason I sleep.
I’m still in bed the next morning when my phone rings. I grab it off my nightstand.
It’s Cam. I can’t avoid my agent, so I answer.
“I haven’t heard from you in a couple of days. You doing okay?” he asks as soon as he hears my voice.
“I’m fine,” I respond with a sigh. He worries, and I appreciate it, but it’s not like there’s much to tell—other than the fact that I stupidly kissed the woman he sent to check on me, who also happens to be his sister-in-law. I’ll be keeping that to myself.
“I’ve been doing a ton of conditioning.”
