The Hot Shot(60)

"Let's spend them at the stadium," Charlie says.

Charlie doesn't like living on the edge. With a sigh, I heave myself up. "Fine. Let's go win us a football game."

Charlie stands too, turning off the TV with the remote. "We'll work on your enthusiasm levels in the car."



* * *



I'd like to think I'm a good actor. But apparently, my performance today  is lacking. Despite digging deep and pulling out all the enthusiasm I  can muster, as soon as it's halftime and we've received all the  instruction we're going to get, Jake plops down next to me on the bench  and elbows my ribs.

Pads keep me from feeling much but it gets my attention. "What?"

He takes a bottle from a passing ball boy and squirts water all over his  head before looking me over. "You've been playing better than you ever  have."

He's right; I'm the best I've ever been. Each time I go out on the  field, I become a machine, playing as if I have something to prove. The  sad truth is, I am trying to prove something. Not to myself. It's for  her. Always for her.

But in the twisted way of things, with every win, I feel worse, the  distance between me and Chess bigger. Because what the fuck am I really  proving here? That she and North were right? That she was just a  distraction? That I don't need her?

I do. I fucking do.

"Thanks for letting me know," I say to Jake, as if I don't care. "I appreciate the pep talk."

He gives me a sidelong look, but keeps a smile on his face. We might be  in the relative privacy of our locker room but someone is always  watching when we're in game mode, and neither of us wants to spook the  team. "Wise ass. You're playing great. But you have dead eyes."

"Not liking the direction of this pep talk, Ryder." I swipe a bottle  from a basket near me and take a long drink. "Did Charlie put you up to  this?"

"He noticed it too?"

I look over the locker room as if I'm on top of the world. "Now is not the time."

"Your avoidance game is killer. It's never the right time."

My smile aches at the corners. "Well, it certainly isn't fucking now."

Guys are milling around, some getting their limbs stretched by the  trainers, some hydrating. We've all got our game face on, counting down  the minutes before we go back out.

North sits his ass down on my other side. "What we talking about?  Winning? Because I love winning. It's, like, better than losing, you  know?"

"Easy there, Nuke LaLoosh," I mutter.

He winks. "So?"

Jake leans past me. "Manny's girl has decamped to New York, and he's depressed. But he doesn't want to talk about his feelings."

"Fuck me." I groan, ducking my head under the pretense of putting my bottle down so no one can see my grimace.

"Your girl left you?" North sounds surprised.

I don't know why, since he all but pleaded with me to see the light and  concentrate on my career. And since I really don't want to fucking hear  that again, I simply blot my face with a towel and speak past it. "We're  thinking things through while she's on a job."

Every man knows that when a woman has to think about things it isn't good. North is no exception. "Sorry to hear that, man."

"You?" An incredulous snort escapes me. "Seriously?"

He gives my thigh a slap before he stands. "If it's responsible for that dull look in your eyes, then yeah."

"Told you," Jake says. "Dead eyes."

North shakes his head as if he's disappointed in me. "When did I ever  say anything about being miserable? If she makes you happy, then work  the rest out." With that, North trots off.

I stand as well, wanting to pace. No, really, I want to chase after  North and smack his head. But I don't. I put my hands low on my hips and  pretend I'm watching the clock count down. "That fucker lectures me  about focus and now he's sorry."

Jake gets to his feet and mimics my pose, all smiles and "we're fucking  owning this game" on his face. Then he turns, his shoulder pads blocking  out the rest of the room. Sweat and water bead on his face, his eye  black is smeared. "Screw North. He doesn't know you for shit. And you're  right; I don't want to talk about this either. I'd rather be exchanging  high-fucking-fives and or spewing a ‘Win one for the Gipper' speech.  Because we're here. In the playoffs."                       
       
           


///
       

He leans in, his voice low and intense. "The fucking playoffs."

He doesn't have to tell me what that means. Every football player  understands where this road leads. I open my mouth to talk, but he  doesn't let me.

"You should be ecstatic. Instead, you're a walking sack of misery."

His words hit like a physical blow to my gut. I grin my teeth against  the urge to yell. Not just yell but to scream and rail, because fuck it  all. I've done everything I could to get to this moment. Including  letting Chess go, and this is what he has for me?

Jake faces my rage without flinching. "I'm not trying to bust your balls."

I glare, unable to keep my happy face. I don't trust myself to speak.

"Call her," he says. "Plead, beg, whatever the hell you have to do to get her back, so you can snap out of this funk from hell."

My reply comes out so sharp, it's almost a shout. "She thinks … " I take a  breath, and lower my voice. "This isn't on me, all right? She made  everything complicated when it should have been easy."

"Easy?" Jake makes it sound like a bad word.

"Yes, easy. She's worried about the future. That we'll eventually want  different things. That one day I'll resent her and want some model wife  instead." I throw up a hand. "As if I'd want anyone else but her."

Jake's brows lift. "Wife, huh?"

Heat flushes my neck. "When you know, you know."

"Does she know you know?"

I blink back at him.

Jake huffs, glancing around to see if we have time, before zeroing in on  me again. "Did you say, ‘I don't give a rat's dick about having anyone  else.'"

"A rat's dick?" I choke on a laugh.

He rolls his eyes. "Did you tell her you love her, you moron?"

Behind us, Coach yells for guys to huddle up.

The sad truth embeds itself like glass in my throat. "It might not be a matter of me loving her."

I regret the words as soon as I let them out. It's easier to pretend  that I walked away. Admitting that I might not be the man Chess  ultimately wants hurts so much I can't breathe past it.

Jake stares me down. "They don't call it risk because it's safe. Tell her anyway."

He gives me a slap on the shoulder pads and walks away.

I follow, my mind set. I'm going to lead my guys and win this game. I  don't need Chess to succeed at football. Whether she's in my life or  not, I am who I am on the field.

It's off the field that I need her. And I'm going to find my girl and prove that to her too.





Chapter Twenty-Three





Chess



* * *



James and Jamie take me to an Irish Pub in lower Manhattan. It's cozy  and wonderfully warm, especially after walking six blocks in the icy  wind to get there.

"I can't feel my fingers," I say rubbing my hands together.

"We should have taken the subway." Jamie's nose is bright pink.

"The walk was bracing," James insists. "And you two are wimps."

Jamie takes off her fogging glasses and wipes them. "Pretty sure someone  was whining about frozen balls in danger of falling off and shattering  on the pavement."

"That was a vivid description," I add. "Maybe you should check your pants, James. Make sure everything is accounted for."

"My balls have already checked in." James unwraps his scarf and leads us through the crowd. "And they're demanding a drink."

"You talk to your balls?" I ask with a laugh.

"All guys do, Chess. Have I taught you nothing?"

"I thought they talked to their dicks."

"They're kind of a package deal, darling."

We settle into a booth by an empty stage. James snuggles up next to  Jamie, and I'm left by myself on the other side. Again comes the  horrible, internal coldness running along my side. I don't mind sitting  alone. I've done it for years. But I can't shake the feeling that I'm  not whole. I'm missing a part of myself. And it's annoying. Another  person can't complete me. I do that for myself.

"So who has final say," Jamie asks James. "Balls or dick?"

James settles back into the booth and rubs his beard in contemplation.  "Hmm. Dick can definitely act alone. He's been known to perk up and want  to investigate a situation, while Balls are shriveling and shouting  ‘run away, fool!'"

"That's because balls have a sense of self-preservation," I say,  shrugging out of my coat. "Dick is basically a brainless knobhead."