Three.
I gave our opponent multiple opportunities to take the lead in this game, and thank God for our defense. We were so close to this game ending differently, and it would have been my fault. All. My. Fault.
I feel as if a thousand pounds have landed on my shoulders and a hundred pairs of my teammates’ eyes are turned toward me. It’s very overwhelming. To say I’m embarrassed . . . well, that word doesn’t accurately describe how I feel.
“What are you doing?”
My eyes briefly flit to Lexi. She’s standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame. For some reason, I find I can’t look at her. It’s been this way all afternoon, since I met her in the family room after the game. I’m grateful she came for me, but—though I hate to admit it—I wish she hadn’t.
None of my teammates spoke to me after the game. Hell, they weren’t speaking to me during the game. I sat on the bench, looking at replays, and they all kept a wide berth. Even Reid and Jack kept their distance, and all that did was piss me off. At the time, I didn’t understand why, but I sure do now.
“Looking at films,” I mumble, as if she doesn’t already know what I’m doing.
“How long have you been doing that?” she asks. In my peripheral vision, I see her cross her arms over her chest.
“I don’t know, a few hours.”
When we got home, I immediately retreated to my room to be alone. Since then I’ve looked at films, run on my treadmill, looked at more films, took a long shower, and then ended up back here, where I am now, reviewing films. As if I haven’t tortured myself enough, I’ve been reviewing the last four games, and sure enough, like a beacon light, I stared too long in each of those games, with each game getting progressively worse. I may as well have announced loud and clear to the Jaguars today, Hey, watch me. I’ll nonverbally tell you what our next play is. I’m so angry with myself.
“Okay, well, how much longer do you think you’ll be doing this?” she asks.
I did come up for air once, and I sat with her just long enough to scarf down the shrimp, pineapple, and avocado dish she made. It was good, although I barely tasted it. I just want to be alone right now.
“I don’t know. A few more hours.” There’s a bite to my tone, and I can’t bring myself to care. Clearly, she sees I’m doing something that’s important to me. Besides, she’s a big girl; if she insists on being here, I don’t need to entertain her.
“All right. What time do you think you’re going to head to bed?” I can tell she’s irritated, but she’s trying to keep it at bay too.
“I don’t know,” I snap. “Does it matter?”
I keep my eyes on my glowing screen and not on her. I know it’s rude, but whatever. Can’t she see I just want to be left alone? Can’t she see I’m not in the best of moods? Can’t she see internally I’ve having a meltdown of epic proportions?
“I guess I’m just trying to figure out why I drove down today if you didn’t plan on spending any time with me.”
Spend time with her?
Is she serious right now? Did she not see how I played today? I do hear what she’s saying, and I know she isn’t trying to be selfish or needy, but given where we are in the season and the shitshow I keep putting on game after game, I don’t have time for her. It makes me even angrier that she doesn’t realize this.
My chest, which has already felt like it’s being crushed with stress, now feels like it’s going to cave in and implode. My hands move to the edge of my desk and tighten around it. I know none of this is her fault and I’m doing my best to not take it out on her, but she needs to take a huge step back right now and think objectively about what I need and what I need to be doing.
These next two weeks, every minute is going to be spent preparing to play the Saints and nothing else. I’ve never gotten this far into the season, and as if it isn’t exciting enough to be playing the conference championships, we are only two games away from fulfilling every professional dream I’ve ever had. From the moment I first held a football, it’s all been leading up to this, and I can’t be distracted. Not right now, not by her, not by anyone.
Time suspends as neither of us speaks. I know she’s waiting for me to say something, but I don’t know what, and I don’t know how to do so without coming across like the biggest dick on the planet. She hasn’t done anything wrong . . . or has she? Hearing people whisper behind my back that the Jarvie jinx has struck again—maybe they were onto something this whole time and I was too blind to see it. I know, right now, just thinking this is crazy, but I feel crazy. I feel like I need to look at every single aspect of my life and figure out what is happening to make things go wrong.
“One thing, Bryan. Tell me one thing.”
One thing.
My gaze shoots up from the monitor to her. Her hair is pulled up on top of her head in a mess, and she’s wearing a long-sleeved gray T-shirt and cutoff denim shorts. She looks casual and beautiful like always, but all I can focus on is that she’s standing in the doorway and I feel trapped inside. This room, which is a nice-sized space, suddenly feels small, and I just can’t breathe.
One thing—it’s what we used to say to each other to open conversation, to give insight into what’s going on in our head. It’s like she’s pushed a button with those words, like she’s turned a key. The tension under my skin and in my chest—it becomes even tighter than it already was. I feel like I’m suffocating, and as much as I don’t want these words to come I out, they have to. I need them out of me more than I’ve ever needed anything, and with that thought, they burst free from my lips.
“I can’t do this.”
Shaking my head, I let out a long-overdue sigh and feel that pressure crumble with the absolute truth. I thought I could do it. I thought I could finally balance being with her and being the best I am to my team and to myself, but I can’t. It’s too hard.
“What do you mean you can’t do this? I need you to talk to me.” Her irritated tone is now combined with one of distress.
How do I talk to her? I don’t want to talk to her—I don’t want to talk to anyone. How do I tell her to leave me alone until this is over? It will hurt her, I know that, and then what? What about next year? This is my job; this is what I do. I’ve willingly dedicated my whole life to this, and I can’t do this again. I can’t go through the constant chatter from my teammates and industry people. I can’t go through any more side glances as I pass by, and I certainly can’t deal with more talk of her putting a jinx or spell on me. It was a stupid comment but one that suddenly doesn’t feel so stupid anymore.
I know I am the best quarterback in the league, and I hate that people have started to doubt that. It’s time for me to remind them why, up until a few weeks ago, they thought I was too. I’ve always been unyielding to social and outside pressures, and I’m not about to stop now. I’ve always followed my gut instinct, and it’s never steered me wrong. I have to listen to it; it knows what’s best.
“I thought I could, but it’s too much. I’m in over my head, and I need to focus on the game. Just the game.”
Heat flares in my veins as my blood courses through them. Endorphins are firing as I feel this sense of control I’ve been desperately trying to grasp wash over me.
She shakes her head, and a piece of her hair falls over her face. “But you are focusing on the game. I’ve watched you.” She takes a step into the room, and I lean back in my chair to put the distance back between us.
“Clearly you haven’t been watching close enough, because apparently I’m not focused, not like I should be. This”—I wave my hand back and forth between us—“it isn’t working. I feel distracted. There’s too much going on, and I need to be one hundred percent committed to this”—I point to the screen—“not this”—I point to her then back at myself.
Her head tilts slightly as she stares at me. “I see.” She stands up straighter, lengthening her spine, almost taking on a defiant pose. “Again, I have watched you, and whether you want to believ
e it or not, I understand what’s on the line here, Bryan. I understand what this means to you. I always have, probably more than any other person in your life.” She pauses and takes a breath to calm herself. “I guess I’m just trying to figure out what this has to do with me. Did I do something wrong? I thought . . . I thought we were in this together.”
Together. Are we in this together? If we were, she would know that right now, together means with my team. I can’t be worrying about her, her feelings, when we’re going to see each other, or how much time I’m going to have to commit. I need to commit everything I have to my team. They’ve earned this just as much as I have. For the past six years, they’ve been my family, and I owe them.
“Lexi, I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t know what you want to hear. I feel distracted when I need to focus. You are distracting me. You’ve been distracting me and it shows. Everyone has seen it, and I can’t have them questioning and doubting how I’m going to perform. No one has ever questioned my work ethic, my dedication, or talent before. I need things to get back on track.”
She drops her head and bites her bottom lip. It rolls in between her teeth as she stares at the carpet, her chest visibly rising and falling as she’s breathing harder than normal. I expect her to fight me, to argue; that’s always been who she is. She runs off emotions, but in this moment I watch as her shoulders fall forward, and I know I need to end this.
“Look,” I say to her. She raises her eyes to meet mine, and even from across the room, I can see they are glassy. “I tried. I did. I tried to balance having a relationship with football, and it’s not working. At the end of the day, when you strip away everything, I’m just a man who has no idea what he’s doing, no idea what’s supposed to happen next, and it makes me feel out of control. I don’t know how to live life like this. I live a very structured life, and I want to live like this. It’s who I am, who I’ve always been. This is what I do. It’s what I’ve done for what feels like forever, and I love it. I love football.”
“I know you love football,” she replies firmly. “I’ve watched you love it from day one. I know who you are, and I’ve always known this. Why do you think I don’t understand? Why do you think I don’t get it?”
“You don’t get it. If you did, you wouldn’t be asking me these things. Hell, you wouldn’t even be here if you did. You make pies out of your kitchen—so simple. I have to lead an entire team, the front office, and the fans. That’s millions of people. To be this, to be me, football has to come first. Football does come first. It always has and always will. It’s the love of my life. That is what you don’t understand.”
The expression on her face drops into an unreadable mask and her lips softly close, but her eyes widen slightly as she stares at me and blinks.
Wrapping her arms around her body, she breaks eye contact and looks around my office, really studies it. I watch as she takes in the walls, which are covered with awards and articles about my career. I know she’s finally connecting all the dots. Being the greatest at what I do, it means everything to me. It’s what I strive to achieve day after day, and the only way to do this is by being alone. Maybe not forever, but definitely for now. I should tell her I’m sorry. I should tell her we can talk later. I should tell her so many things, but I don’t.
“Okay, Bryan,” she says quietly. The fight I thought I was going to get is now gone, and her glassy gaze is aimed toward the monitor on my desk.
The silence between us becomes tangible, and I feel it pushing us apart with each breath we take.
Turning, she moves to leave, but then she stops in the doorway and looks back at me one last time. More of her hair has fallen onto her face, and my heart thumps harder in my chest to the point of pain. I know this is it. Once she’s gone, that’s it. I have no idea where we’ll go from here, if anywhere.
The pools of water that have formed in her eyes slowly begin to drip down her face, and as she takes in a deep breath and whispers the words, with one little sentence, she stops my heart and slays me in two.
“For what it’s worth, you are the love of mine.”
Avocado-Pineapple Shrimp Salad
THE SUN IS brutal today as I push my sunglasses up higher on my face and pull down on my sun hat to block more of the light. It’s not hot out—in fact, it’s quite lovely—it’s just so damn bright. There’s not one cloud in the sky, and I find myself feeling slightly bitter that the world can be so happy and so beautiful while I’m sitting here feeling as if a piece of me has died and left a gaping hole inside of me. I feel hollow.
The sun hat shifts back to where it was, and I let out a deep sigh. I’m calling it a sun hat, but the way Marie had us dress for this weekend, it feels more like a Kentucky Derby hat. It’s festive and pretty, over the top. It’s too much for how I’m feeling but enough that we look great in all the photos that are being taken with us in our hats and Firefly Kitchen T-shirts.
This weekend, we’re at the annual Kumquat Festival, which is held a few towns over. It’s a festival we’ve been coming to for years, one we look forward to. With over two hundred white tent vendors, food trucks, local entertainment, and children’s activities, it’s one of the largest in the area and one of the most attended. This year, though, if I had gotten my way, I would have stayed home and Marie would have come by herself. To say the idea didn’t go over well would be an understatement, and after the holiday gift guide, the organizers have used us as a marketing selling point, so we’re front and center—not that we mind. This is huge exposure and a great way to promote local businesses and local farmers, but having to be sociable is killing me.
It’s been a week and five days since I spoke to him, twelve of the longest days in the history of mankind.
I didn’t stay at Bryan’s house the night he broke my heart. Instead, I quietly packed the few things I had brought and left. He didn’t come out of his office, didn’t even so much as mutter goodbye, and I haven’t heard from him once, not even to see if I made it home okay, which I did, though it was through an endless amount of tears.
It’s not that I expected him to call. After all, he’s made it clear what his priorities are right now, and I’m not one of them—mostly likely never will be. It’s a humbling feeling, even for the strongest person, and it’s left me feeling incredibly inadequate.
I hate that I’ve let another person have this kind of effect on me, but he wasn’t just another person; he was mine. Well, I take that back—he wasn’t mine, but I was his. I gave him everything of me I could, even when I didn’t have it to give. I thought I was being what he needed, but apparently not. He just needed me gone.
“Would you stop frowning? You’re going to scare away the customers,” Marie chastises underneath her breath while she realigns a few of our jars that have been moved from people picking them up.
We didn’t bring any pies with us today. One of the main treats to have at this festival is kumquat refrigerator pie, and it’s not one we make. So, our table is filled with our different pie fillings, a few different jams and jellies, honey, and kumquat salsa.
“I can’t. I think my face is permanently frozen this way, just like my heart.” There’s a bitterness in my tone, one that won’t seem to go away.
“Oh my God. Dramatic much?” She glances at me with annoyed yet sympathetic brown eyes, the dark braid of her hair falling over her shoulder.
“I’m serious. It’s like it physically pains me to smile,” I tell her, wishing she could understand. I get it; I do. To her—to the world—we weren’t together that long, maybe two and a half months at the most, but for me, it’s been a lifetime. I’ve lived a lifetime of wanting him, loving him, and dreaming about him, and now it feels as if the dream is over. My dream didn’t come true, and it hurts.
“You can, and you will. Suck it up, buttercup. There’s plenty of time later for us to drown your sorrows.” A huge smile splits across her face as she waves to someone down the row.
Drowning my sorrows sounds divine. A
nother feature of this festival is the kumquat cider beer, and it’s delicious.
“Hey, y’all. How’s it going?” We turn and see Sharon walking our way.
Sharon has been a friend of ours as long as I can remember. GiGi was good friends with her family, and it’s because of them we are here today. Sharon’s family owns Kumquat Growers, the nation’s largest producers of kumquats and kumquat products since 1912. Kumquats are the little golden gems of the citrus family and are the perfect fruit for vegetables, meats, marinades, marmalades, and salsas. In fact, our biggest seller this weekend is the kumquat salsa, which is made with kumquats from a mixture of our trees and Sharon’s.
“How’s it going over here?” she asks, full of smiles.
“It’s going well. Lexi here has been in more photos this morning than she was all three days combined last year.” Marie laughs at me, and my frown deepens.
“Well, she is a local celebrity, and she’s dating our beloved quarterback.” Sharon beams.
It seems everyone here knows about Bryan, and I haven’t corrected one of them yet, haven’t said we’re over. It’s too hard, and quite frankly, it’s no one’s business. The thought of having to answer questions of Why? and Oh, what happened?—I just can’t, and don’t even get me started on the looks of pity. Those will be front and center, and I feel enough pity from myself. I have zero interest in receiving it from other people.
“Is he ready for this weekend’s game?” she asks.
“I think so. From what I hear, practices have been brutal”—thank you, Sports Network—“and he’s been watching film nonstop.” I know this is the truth, because he watches a lot of film. All. The. Time.
“You tell him we’re all rooting for him and can’t wait to watch our team play.”
“I will.” I force out a kind smile. “I know he appreciates all the support he can get.”
Last Slice of Pie (Starving for Southern Book 2) Page 18