Hot Damn(78)

“If you miss me so much, you shouldn’t have fired me,” I snap back.

Oops. Not a good way to talk to your boss. He’s not my boss anymore though. So what is he going to do? Fire me again? I grin to myself at the joke, an expression that’s probably more of a skull-like rictus than anything else.

“That was all a misunderstanding.” He sounds even more awkward now. Embarrassed, even. Good. He should be. “We looked into the accusations against Roger, and he’s been let go.”

I let out a snort of laughter. It’s not very ladylike, and it’s not very polite. I don’t care. “Too little too late, don’t you think? Besides, I thought you said it didn’t matter who posted the picture, that I was some kind of horrible slut-machine for even taking it in the first place.”

He’s silent for a moment. In my mind’s eye, he’s turning bright red with mortification as I point out the hypocrisy he’s exhibiting. Then another thought occurs to me, and my boss’s discomfiture is no longer as amusing.

“We’ve reconsidered our stance. We want you to come back. Will you?”

“No,” I say, my voice like ice, and hang up the phone.

I pull up my texting app and stab letters on the keyboard. Stop fucking around with my life.

It’s not long before Austin answers. It’s far less satisfying than I thought it would be to picture him lurking by his phone, just waiting for me to deign to speak to him.

I’m trying to fix what got broken.

Just stop it. I can take care of myself.

You don’t have to. I’m here. I’ll be with you.

Oh my God. Seriously? I almost fling the phone across the room, then realize I’m not done. You’re not here. You’ll never be here. We’re done. Quit trying to fix my career.

A long pause. I picture him mulling over his phone keyboard.

Finally: We’re not done. I refuse to accept that.

Well, you’d better get used to it, sweetheart. Stop texting me or I’ll call the cops.

With that last admittedly empty threat, I do throw the phone across the room. I hear it thump on the carpet and am quietly relieved that it didn’t hit the kitchen tile. I don’t want to talk to Austin, but I don’t want to have to buy a new phone, either.

It continues to buzz. Once, twice…four times. Six. Then it falls silent.

Good. Shut the fuck up.

It rings. I ignore it and wrap my blanket tighter around me.

There’s a nagging tug of guilt at the back of my mind. The championship game is coming up next week. I heard in passing—okay, I was watching ESPN—that Austin’s suspension was lifted because Roger didn’t press charges. Last I saw, Austin was very close to playing form. I wonder if his doctor has cleared him. That was our goal all along—for him to be able to play in the championship. Is he going to make it?

“Why do you care?” I mutter.

Why do I care? Or, if I don’t care, why do I seem to be thinking so much about it?

I shake it off. I have more important things to think about than a man who ruined my life and now refuses to stay out of it. Still, getting Austin in shape for that game was our shared goal. My hope of proving myself worthy of staying employed in an incredibly competitive profession. Not that there’s much hope of that now, but if he’s ready to play, and if he’s successful, it’ll vindicate me, at least in my own mind.

Which is why, when I finally manage to get up to make something for dinner, I turn on the TV to watch the football league reports on ESPN. It’s not to see Austin on TV, that’s for sure. It’s just to see if my work was successful.

Or at least that’s what I tell myself.



After a few days of feeling sorry for myself, I realize I’m bored of sitting around the house doing nothing. It’s time to take control, get organized, and start looking for a job.

Less than a month ago, I never would have dreamed I’d be in this position. Then, I had a great job and a potential boyfriend. Now? What do I have? A big bunch of nothing, mostly. I doubt anyone in the local physical therapy community is going to want to hire me after what happened. Hell, considering the national visibility of Austin’s case, I might be shit out of luck throughout the continental US.

I have to try though. Even though I know the news has spread and there’s probably not a practice in town that would touch me with a twenty-foot pole, I start looking for employment.

I make a list of every job I can find online that looks like it would be even close to fitting my qualifications, then I add a few that don’t. I even take a quick jaunt to the grocery store to pick up a newspaper. They still have classifieds in those, right? Apparently they do, because I find a half-dozen more possibilities in the back of the local paper.

Armed with my list and a spreadsheet on my computer, I start making calls. To my surprise, no one hangs up in my ear as soon as I mention my name, and a few people actually sound interested. When dinnertime rolls around, I’ve got three appointments for phone interviews and four people who’ve asked me to follow up with them in a couple of days.

It’s like a weight has lifted from my shoulders. I feel lighter, happier, less like I hate myself and everything about the world. Maybe my career hasn’t totally landed in the toilet after all. I whip up a grilled cheese sandwich and flop on the couch to relax and watch a little television.

I forget that I left the TV set on ESPN, and when I flick it on, there’s Austin. At first I think he’s addressing reporters from the stadium, then I realize he’s out in front of his house. My thumb moves to change the channel, but then I stop.

Austin looks so sad it makes the middle of my chest knot up. He’s standing on his porch behind the rail, using it as a lectern, more or less. It’s a calculated pose; it reminds me of a president speaking from the Rose Garden or the Oval Office.

He’s certainly laying on the drama now, with his sad eyes and the backdrop of his house. I roll my eyes but immediately feel bad. I don’t want to admit it, because right now I’d rather just forget his football-playing ass completely, but he looks sincere. Almost painfully so.

A reporter is holding a mini tape recorder up close to Austin’s face and is in the middle of asking a question. “…so how has the rehab gone? Are you going to be playing in the game on Sunday, or will you be watching on the sidelines?”

Austin is silent for a few moments, as if he’s trying to decide what to say. Or as if he’s trying to hold back the emotion that might come out with his words. I’m not sure which, but I find myself blinking rapidly, my own eyes going hot.

What is going on with him? Did he hurt himself again?

I’m a little lightheaded suddenly, flashing back to Mason announcing that he would have been ready to play again if his physical therapist hadn’t been completely incompetent.

Finally Austin looks straight at the camera that’s pointed at him. “I’m ready to play,” he says. “But I’m not going to.”

“What the fuck?” I say it out loud, and on the TV the reporters’ voices rise, repeating the sentiment. Several of them even repeat the actual words, and since this is live and they all have microphones in front of them, there’s no way to censor it.

Austin waits until the initial shock dies down. It doesn’t take long; they’re all beyond anxious to hear what he says next. So am I.

“I’m quitting. Retiring. I’ve had some down time, and that got me to thinking. And now I realize there’s way more to life than football. I want to enjoy that part of my life before it’s too late.”

He leaves some space for the reporters to ask questions, but nobody seems to have anything ready. There’s some mumbling, some confusion, and then finally one of the female reporters says, “What exactly do you mean by ‘that part of your life?’”

Maybe his mother’s passed away.

My breath catches at the thought. I’d liked her.

“I have a date on Sunday,” he says quietly. “A date with a girl I’ve finally realized I’m in love with. I can’t live without her, and if I have to walk away from the game to keep her, then that’s what I’ll do.” His eyes lock on the camera. “I hope you’re out there listening, Doc.”

He turns, and all the reporters start yelling after him. “Who is it?” “What’s her name?” “How long have you known her?” “Are you really quitting football?”

He answers none of them. He just walks back inside the house and closes the door.

I can’t breathe. Is Austin serious? He’s really quitting football to be with…

Me. To be with me. He couldn’t have meant anyone else when he said “Doc.” Other people watching the broadcast will think he means the team doctor, or someone else who’s been working with him. But I know exactly what he means.

Hands shaking, I turn the television off, grab my keys, and head out.



In addition to the people I know are waiting in front of Austin’s house, there’s a group of reporters camped out just outside the gate into the complex. I have to slow the car down to about two miles an hour to keep from running over people. The security guy at the gate recognizes me, though, and waves me through, and the same time shouting back reporters who try to sneak in while my car passes onto hallowed ground.