When Stars Burn Out

by Carrie Aarons

  But it isn’t all hot girls, fast cars, and piles of cash. Athletes at this level work fucking hard. Cutting food out of our diets, forgoing families because it’s just too tough to form attachments when you’re on the road this much. Keeping your ear to the ground, wondering every second if you’re going to get benched or cut.

  And then there is the physical demands it puts on you. I work out seven days a week, sometimes three or four hours a day. And on top of that the massage and physical therapy I do, and keeping my body in shape is basically a second full-time job.

  That’s why I’m in Freedom Park, getting ready to sweat like a beast with one of my teammates.

  “What have you been doing in your spare time around Charlotte, my dude? Good to be back?” Connor fist bumps me and begins to stretch, both of us waiting for Anthony.

  He’s one of the older guys on the team, a cornerback who I train with a lot since our positions are opposites on offense and defense. An easy going southern gentlemen from Tennessee, Connor is just good to talk to and have a beer with. He’s confident without being cocky, which is a rare gem in this league and frankly the only kind of player I want to surround myself with these days. I’m too old to kick it with the newbies trying to prove something.

  “Not much, man … just trying to hit all of the amazing restaurants that have popped up since I left. And I’m working with Wish Upon a Star, they paired me up with the Gunter family, you might have seen Ryan on the sidelines at last week’s game?”

  “Oh, yeah, awesome kid. So sad, though, man … why does life have to be such a cold bitch? And speaking of cold, but sexy as hell, bitches, that’s why Demi Rosen was down on the field on Sunday.” He nodded as he bent over to touch his toes, stretching his hamstrings.

  “You know Demi?” I try not to look too eager.

  Anthony walks up as Connor continues. “Man, everyone knows Demi. The finest lady in the entire city of Charlotte, and she’s locked up tighter than a clam protecting its prized pearl.”

  “What does that mean?” I stretch an arm over my head.

  “What’re we talking about?” Anthony shakes my hand and nods at Connor.

  “Demi … Shaw here just met her for the first time while taking on a wish kid.”

  Anthony begins to unpack his bag on the grass; a few weights, some resistance bands, stopwatch and mats. “Oh, she’s great, really does a wonderful job for those families. And my wife is just crazy about her. But yeah … she is kind of cold to newcomers. If you’re thinking what every other guy in the locker room usually considers when it comes to Demi, I’d drop that idea now. According to Lucy, she doesn’t date.”

  Hmm, so she was single. But apparently, liked to stay that way. Is it wrong that I get just a little excited that the flowers in her office weren’t from another man?

  “Damn shame too, that girl is wife material.” Connor shakes his head.

  Once we’re done stretching, Anthony details the circuit training we’re going to be doing, each round of reps broken up by two minutes of full-out suicide sprints in this grass. We start, the workout surprisingly intense for being done in a sunny park. It’s nice to get out of the weight room, I rarely do workouts like this nowadays.

  Around the third time I cut and turn to sprint and touch the line during suicide drills, a sharp pain rockets through my knee.

  “Fuck!” I let up, hopping up and down as one does when pain radiates through your leg.

  “You okay?” Anthony rushes over, his whistle still in hand. I think he’s a strength coach and trainer because he loves it, but I also think he secretly loves to be a slave driver.

  Connor stops too, and I hate the sympathetic looks they’re both giving me. I stand there, shaking off my knee and trying to put pressure on it. It feels okay, not like anything popped, but I’m cautious.

  “Yeah, just a little sore. My old bones aren’t what they used to be.” Except that it’s not just sore.

  If I’m being truthful with myself, this is probably my last season. I’ve denied it for as long as I can … but dammit, I can’t even run a couple of sprint drills. With two rings already in the safe in my house, I was hoping to add a third before I was put out to pasture and retirement. It has to happen this season, or I don’t think I’ll be able to stand up on that winner’s podium ever again.

  “Take it easy, Shaw, I don’t need you tearing something else on my watch.” Anthony’s gaze is suspicious, and he probably knows I’m downplaying the pain.

  I nod, promising to do so. But all three of us know it’s now or never, and I’m sacrificing my body in whatever ways necessary to add that final victory to my personal record sheet.

  One of the best things about the place that Cheetah’s management set me up with is the rooftop deck.

  Most guys in my profession are happy at a loud sports bar, on the golf course, or partying in some VIP nightclub. But me? I’m a “sit and watch the stars” kind of guy if there ever was one. Growing up in the small wharf town my parents settled in in Rhode Island, my brother and I established a routine from an early age.

  Almost every night after dinner, we’d take our lawn chairs and set them up on the dock behind our house, the water occupying the small inlet of the Atlantic Ocean we lived on lapping at the tiny beach of our property. We’d sit there, as kids drink apple juice, and shoot the shit as the stars lit up the sky. Over the years, friends were added, and when high school and college hit, so was alcohol. But after everyone left, and it was just me and him or another few close friends, we’d sit on those lawn chairs and talk about life.

  Sitting up on the roof deck of my apartment now, watching the stars twinkle as I sip from a bottle of beer, only reminds me of one thing.

  My parents at home on the shores of Rhode Island.

  I hope that they’re doing the same thing right now, sitting up there among the stars. I hope they’re not in pain. That they are hand in hand looking down on me as I stare up thinking about them.

  Five years ago, their lives were taken way too early by the same sea that we sat by as kids. They shouldn’t have gone out that day, the weather report had been spotty at best. But Mom was feeling like an afternoon sailboat ride, and Dad never could say no to her.

  When the coast guard found their boat, they told us that our parents didn’t stand a chance against the storm. The waves were too great, and even though my father had been an expert boatsman, there was nothing he could have done.

  Having to identify your parent’s bodies … that was a nightmare you never got out of your head.

  Their deaths changed me as a person. Where I was once social, I tended to stick to small groups or simply be alone nowadays. Partying and women held no interest for me anymore, and it had been a long while since I’d taken a female to bed. I kicked myself every day for not giving my parents what they wanted most; me, settled and happy with a family. Hell, how they had wanted a grandchild to dote over.

  When the sea had taken my parents, it had also taken my ego. A little bit of my spark. It made me realize, even if I’d had a great relationship with my mother and father, just how important spending time with family was. All of the other stuff was just minutiae. It meant nothing if you didn’t have people in your life that you loved.

  And so, as I gaze up at the many galaxies, the noises of Charlotte after dark down below me on the street, I can’t help but regret not finding the time to fill my life with more people I loved.

  Ten

  Paxton

  Ryan cringes as the needle goes into his arm, turning his little face away, but I watch the entire time.

  The room I sit in, in the Charlotte Children’s Hospital, is filled with kids under the age of twelve receiving chemotherapy treatments. I want to fucking scream, my internal rage meter so high that I have to dig my nails into my palms as my hands form fists.

  Who the fuck made it possible that innocent children could get diagnosed with cancer? It should be illegal, immoral, impossible. I want to grab these doctors by the
coat and demand a cure.

  But, knowing none of that will help, I just sit beside Ryan and discuss passing plays while holding his hand, the poison dripping into his veins.

  Before my parent’s accident, I probably would have just been a one and done kind of guy. Let the kid come to a game, escort him around, give him a jersey. But … that was the last half of my life. This was a new half, sliced in two by the definitive event of their passing.

  If seeing me, talking to me, hanging out with me, was going to make Ryan feel better, then I was going to spend every spare minute doing that for him. This kid, so brave and spunky, deserved whatever he wanted for having to go through this shit. And I was going to give whatever that was to him. I sure as hell had the money, and I had the time. And besides, he was one awesome little dude.

  “Want to play Go Fish?” Ryan moves the deck of cards his mom put on the table between us.

  “Are you going to let me win? Because if so, I’m not sure I want to play,” I tease him.

  He giggles. “Yeah right, I’m gonna kick your butt!”

  I wink at him. “I was hoping you’d say that.”

  We play a couple of hands, Ryan wincing every so often and having to pause because he feels nauseous.

  About an hour into sitting with him, Demi walks through the door.

  And stops completely short when she sees me. “Oh, I didn’t realize … I didn’t know you’d be here … I can come back …”

  She’s lost her head seeing me here, of that I’m sure. It makes me sad but amuses me. She has no idea how to act around the asshole who left without so much as a goodbye. But she’s flustered, which means she still feels something for me. Even if it’s deep hatred.

  Her hair is always the first thing I remember, falling down her back in long golden brown waves. It used to smell like sugar cookies. She’s dressed down in jeans and a simple long sleeve. Even though she looks like a hot librarian in that business wear I’ve seen her in twice now, I find I like her even better like this. She’s more approachable than the formidable persona she now embodies as the CEO of Wish Upon a Star.

  Yeah, I looked her up before and after working with her. Her company is one of the most successful businesses in all of Charlotte, and the second most successful nonprofit that helps provide wish fulfillment to sick kids. She built it on her own back, and she takes crap from no one, while still maintaining that cheery disposition. Seriously, that was a line written about her in an article.

  “Hey, Demi! Want to come play Go Fish with us?” Luckily, the seven-year-old sitting next to me doesn’t understand the emotions flying between her and me.

  That makes her snap out of the death stare she’s currently giving me. “Of course!”

  For the duration of Ryan’s treatment, the three of us play cards, and Demi teaches Ryan how to play poker. By the end of it, he’s hustling us both. It’s funny, I had no idea she knew how to play poker that well.

  Then again, I don’t really know a thing about her now.

  Ryan falls asleep after, and the nurses let us know that we should probably let him rest.

  We walk out into the hospital hallway, awkwardly moseying side by side.

  “So, bye,” Demi says at the same time I ask, “Would you like to grab some dinner?”

  The shock on her face at me proposing to have a meal together is palpable.

  “Why would we have dinner together?” The malice in her tone has me taking a step back.

  I hold out a hand. “Look, Demi, I know what an asshole I was back then. And I’m really sorry for that. I’ve thought about calling you a hundred times in the last decade or so to apologize.”

  “What a surprise that you didn’t.” Sarcasm drips from her tongue.

  Damn. I realize I did a number on this girl. But I didn’t realize she’d still be hating me for it. Not that I can blame her.

  “I know you won’t believe me, but I’ve changed. Life hasn’t been as kind to me as it was when we were in college.”

  Demi looks away, crossing her arms over her chest. “Says the professional football player who makes millions a year.”

  “Money doesn’t buy you happiness, of that I’m sure,” I mutter.

  That makes her gaze swing back to mine, those big brown eyes searching my soul.

  “Have dinner with me. Let me make at least a small portion of what I did up to you.” I’m acutely aware that I’m begging.

  I watch as she fights with herself internally, but finally she blows out a big sigh. “Fine. But I’m picking the place.”

  Demi chooses an Italian fusion bistro with beer on tap from Sicily and flatbread pizza that smells like heaven.

  Dinner is … awkward at best. I ask questions mostly, and she gives me one-word answers. At times, there are such painful silent gaps that I cringe and stuff way too much bread in my mouth. I’m going to pay in cardio workouts for a week after consuming this many carbs.

  Our dessert comes, a piece of cobbler for me and a cappuccino for her. I never could say no to southern desserts, and I might as well indulge. I’m old and washed up now anyway, if you listen to the reporters.

  “You never told me why you do what you do.” I try to stay on a neutral topic, show interest.

  Because I may have been a jerk back then, but I’m very interested in getting to know her now.

  Demi considers me, and I’m worried she’s just going to phone in her answer. But then she speaks some of the most inspiring words I’ve ever heard. “I think of each one of these children as a precious star. One whose life on earth may be short, but their time floating around that great, big mystical universe is far from over. They may be burning out for us, we may soon be unable to see their shine, but they will always be here, looking over us when the night sky comes to life.”

  And that’s when I realize that I’m such a fucking fool. Have been one for ten years. Because I never got to truly know Demi, and there is clearly so much more to this woman than I ever allowed myself to learn.

  I’m a goddamn moron, and regret and self-hatred kick me in the gut. How could I have been so blind to look past a woman who would have that kind of outlook on death? Who would willingly get to know innocent children who were fighting the most horrible of diseases. Most people would throw them a sympathetic look and keep going, unable to cope with the sheer sadness their lives hold.

  But she … she sits with them at treatments long after their wishes are fulfilled. I have a feeling she’s constantly checking up on her past families, as well as meeting new ones to make their children’s dreams come true.

  And the way she describes death … well, if it’s anything like that then I hope my parents got to experience it the way she thinks of it.

  “That’s … that’s beautiful.” I have to swallow down my emotion.

  Demi looks at me, her expression guarded as if she’s wondering if I’m mocking her. But, I’m not. We haven’t seen each other for eight years, and while the accident was reported on since I was already famous when it happened, there is a good chance she has no idea that my parents died.

  Honestly, I never opened up enough to even tell her much about them. I was too busy calling her at three in the morning for a quick fuck.

  “I’m sorry that we never talked more, back then. I was an idiot college kid, and I should have treated you better. We really could have gotten to know each other.”

  I’m surprised when Demi chuckles, but when I meet her eyes, they aren’t sweet. They’re cutting, bitter, scrutinizing.

  “I did know you, Paxton. Your birthday is March eleventh, you grew up in Rhode Island and played every sport under the sun before landing on football. I think you have one brother, although you never talked about your family much. You prefer Sam Adams over any other beer, can kick the crap out of anyone in a karaoke competition, and are actually quite good at math even though you’d never admit that to your buddies back in the day. You washed your sheets in Tide only, I’m not sure why, but it was the only detergent ever i
n your closet. You like Crest toothpaste and hate cologne unless it’s so mild you can barely smell it. I did know you; I took any morsel you were willing to disclose and stored it away just in case someday you decided to want me for real. Then I’d be able to do all of those girlfriend things for you, know the things partners were supposed to.”

  Shock and agony ring out in my veins … I’m a fucking prick. I go to apologize profusely, but she cuts me off.

  “Don’t bother, it’s about ten years too late. Just know that I did know you, and you couldn’t bother to even learn my middle name.”

  With that, she gets up from the table and turns on her heel. A second later, she’s marching back. Without a word, she throws a few twenty-dollar bills on the table.

  That burns. Because this woman thinks so lowly of me that she won’t even let me buy her dinner to make up for the years of mistreatment I made her endure.

  Eleven

  Demi

  Why had I done that?

  Eight years. Eight perfectly fine years, I’d gone without an utterance of his name. It had been at least three since I’d stopped picturing his face at least once a day. I was good, I was stable.

  And then I had to go and be a masochist, sharing a meal with him and melting when he talked. I could feel myself slipping, right there in between our entrees and dessert. That’s why I had to put him in his place, to put my head back on straight.

  Because what I’d said was true. I had studied him, catalogued every piece of information he’d been willing to give me. I knew him inside out. And he hadn’t known me, not one bit.

  He’d been the reason I couldn’t fall in love with anyone else, not when I’d been so rejected for so long by the one man I’d loved blindly. Even when someone had loved me faithfully, with all of my flaws, I couldn’t give enough to make it work.

  I thought about Zachary … something I hadn’t done in a while. four years ago, when my meddling yenta of a mother couldn’t stand me not bringing someone to Hanukkah anymore, my parents set me up with the son of a woman from their synagogue.