“I could sue you for this, you know?” she screeches at me.
I shrug my shoulders again and allow a smile this time. “So, sue me.”
She glares at me for a moment. “This isn’t over.” She points a finger at me before she turns on her heels and stomps off.
I don’t doubt for a second that it’s not over. It’ll take a while before she fully gets the message. But if I keep ignoring her, she’ll eventually get it, and I’ll finally be free of her and the hold she’s had over me my whole life.
“That was awesome.” Jenny picks the bags up and comes inside.
I shut the door behind her and take one of the bags from her hand.
“And a long time coming.”
“I guess.” I shrug for the third time in minutes. Guess I’ve turned back into a teenager.
Jenny stops in front of me, and then she reaches out and touches my arm, her kind eyes staring into mine. “Awesomeness aside, are you okay?”
“No.” I give a sad smile. “But I will be.”
“Yeah, you will.” She wraps her free arm around me and hugs me, the safe, sweet, familiar scent of her Angel perfume soothing me.
Even though I’m being hugged by one of my favorite people in the whole world, I can’t help but wish that it were West here, hugging me.
thirty-two
West
“You wanted to see me, Coach?” I stick my head in the open door of his office.
“Yeah. Take a seat, West.”
West. He never calls me West. Always Oakley. This can’t be good. I have this momentary panic that I’m gonna be traded.
Shit.
My heart starts to beat rapidly. I’ve been off my game this week in training. I know I have.
I knew letting Dillon go would be hard. I just didn’t realize it’d be this hard. I’m not sleeping properly. She’s everywhere in my apartment, like a ghost. I can still fucking smell her there. Every time I close my eyes, all I see are her tear-filled eyes. I hurt her. I fucking loathed hurting her, but I knew it had to be done. I can’t be the man she deserves. If we were together, I’d just end up hurting her, way more than I did last week.
And ultimately, nothing really ever lasts. People hurt each other. They leave. They die.
I walk into his office, closing the door behind me, and take the seat across from him at his desk.
“You want something to drink?” Coach asks me.
He’s offering me a drink. I’m so done. Fuck, I don’t want to get traded. This place is my home. These guys are my family. Shit, Coach Ackerman has been more of a father to me than my own father ever has been.
I lost Dillon. I can’t lose them too.
But you didn’t have to lose Dillon. You chose to push her away. It’s your fault that you’re both miserable.
“Water.” I clear my croaky throat. “Water would be great.”
Coach goes over to the fridge he has in his office and pulls out a bottle of water. He hands it to me and then takes a seat at his desk.
In the silence, I unscrew the cap from the water bottle and take a drink. He doesn’t start talking until I put the bottle down on his desk.
“How do you think training went for you today?”
“Good.” Shit. I screwed up at every turn. He knows this, so I don’t know why I’m lying. I sigh and slump in my seat. “Shit. I was shit.”
“Yeah, kid, you were.”
He doesn’t mince words. It’s what makes him a great coach. He won’t pussyfoot around with his players. You’re screwing up? He tells you. I’m just hoping my last week’s performance isn’t giving him a reason to push me out the door. He might like me. We might get along great. He cares for his players and their well-being. But the team’s success comes first and foremost to him. And if my game is on the downslope—which it is—when it should be better because I’m in my prime right now, he’s gonna worry about that. I’m just praying that a week’s worth of fuckups hasn’t changed his view on my playing ability. I know the higher-ups like the revenue that my name brings in, but if Coach wants me gone, then I’m gone.
If I get out of this office with my ass intact and my name still on the roster, I swear to God that I’ll figure my shit out. I won’t let my private life interfere with my game anymore.
This is what I get for getting too close to Dillon. I have no one to blame for the way I’m feeling right now or the way I made her feel. It’s all on me.
“Look, West.” He leans forward and rests his arms on his desk, linking his hands. “I’m not one to beat around the bush, so I’m just gonna say it.”
Fuck. This is it.
“You need to get that girl back.”
Huh. What?’
“I’m probably crossing some line here, but this needs saying. You’re a good player, West. You’ve always been a good player. Reliable. You train and work hard. But I knew there was more in you, a greatness that you were holding back. I tried to get it out of you for years, and I’d see glimpses of it on the field. You’d pull some amazing shit out of nowhere, and then I wouldn’t see it for another four or five games. That greatness, those moments … they’re the only reason I’ve kept your ass on this team. Mainly because I figured, one day, you’d let go of whatever shit had been holding you back, and you’d explode onto the scene like you were always meant to. But honestly, lately, I was starting to get doubtful. Then, that shit in the press happened. Not your finest moment, but we’ve had worse than a player snorting a little coke at a party when he was a punk kid.
“You went away on that trip, and when you came back, it was like a switch had been flipped inside of you. You came on the field, and you were fucking here. That’s why I pushed you all so hard that first day. Because you were flying and I wanted to see what was gonna come out of you.
“You fucking showed up that day, Oakley. And every day after that. Your game was at the level it was always meant to be. The rest of the team and I were pissing our pants for the season to start and to get you out there. Because if you kept going that way, then no one and nothing would stop you.”
I know I was playing better after I got back. I felt better. Sure, Coach and the team were passing me praise, in line with where I was fucking up, but nothing that seemed out of the ordinary. I had no idea that I had been playing at my peak best.
“That all stopped a week ago. When your girl went home. And, yes, I know she left. I keep track of my boys’ private lives. What happens out there affects what happens here.” He taps his finger on the desk. “It’s not a fucking coincidence that she left and your performance took a nosedive into the shit pit. You ain’t even good anymore, kid. I’ve got rookies out there who can outplay you with their eyes shut.”
“Gee, thanks, Coach.”
“It’s the truth, and you know it. You want your ass kissed? Then, get yourself to DC and spend some time listening to those bullshitting politicians because you sure ain’t gonna get your ego groomed in here. Your daddy could be Jesus himself, and I’d still be saying the same things that I’m saying now. And that girl was good for you, Oakley. I don’t know what you did to fuck it up—and I know you fucked it up because aside from the game, the one other thing us ballplayers are good at is fucking up our lives.” He lets out a sigh.