But it didn’t mean it didn’t sting, that I didn’t realize especially as I got older how much her cycle had fucked me up, too.
“Chart Day is just around the corner,” I finished after filling her in on how camp had been going so far. “So, we’ll see.”
“You’ll make the team, baby,” she said without hesitation. “And you’ll start, and before you know it, you’ll be signing a multi-million-dollar NFL deal and buying your mom a big mansion on the beach.”
I smiled, the vision she’d had for me one I’d heard a thousand times. It was born when I was young, from the time we realized I actually had some pretty decent talent in football. I could still remember her sitting me down after a game when I was twelve, still wearing my dirty uniform and cleats. She made me look in the mirror and she stood behind me, her hands on my shoulders and eyes locked on mine in the reflection as she said, “You’re never going to have the struggles I’ve had, Clay. You’re going to be rich.”
“Speaking of football, did I tell you Brandon used to play?” Mom asked, jolting me from the memory. “He was the starting quarterback of his high school team.”
My smile was flat, the sign for the coffee shop coming into view as I rounded the university courtyard where students were spread out on blankets, smoking vapes, laughing, and enjoying the evening.
I wondered what that felt like, to actually have time as a college student instead of having every waking moment consumed by a sport.
“I’m sure we’ll talk all about it at Christmas,” I said. “I gotta run, Mom. Another meeting.”
“At this time of night? They keep you busy, don’t they?” She chuckled. “Well, I love you, baby. Call me later this week to catch up.” She paused. “Are you… have you seen Maliyah?”
Ice thickened in my veins at the sound of her name. “No.”
It was salt in the wound, the reminder that it wasn’t just me hurting from our breakup — but our families, too. We had been together so long, through so much, that I knew my mom viewed Maliyah like a daughter.
They were closer than we were sometimes, bonding over things I knew I’d never be able to because I wasn’t a woman.
“Well,” Mom started, but then she thought better of it, letting a long pause linger before she said. “Just stay focused on football. Everything else will work itself out.”
“Love you, Mom,” I managed.
“Love you. Oh, and—”
Before she could ask anything else, I ended the call, pausing for a brief moment of silence and relief outside the front door of the coffee shop. The evening breeze was warm and pleasant, the last bit of summer clinging to the still-green trees.
I took a deep breath, hating how anything more than a sip of oxygen anymore made my chest burn. It had ever since Maliyah walked away from me, after I’d realized that this was my new reality.
It had already been a long day. The absolute last thing I wanted to do was get an ass chewing for not being Mr. Sunshine on camera.
But if it was ordered by Coach Sanders? I didn’t have the option to bail — not without endangering my starting position.
So, with a final sigh, I pushed through the glass door, a small bell above it chiming my entry.
Rum & Roasters was one of the only bars on campus, likely because it was civil and low key in comparison to the bars off campus. It was never crawling with wasted, underage college students toting their ridiculous fake IDs, but rather comfortably full of upperclassmen who were old enough to drink and preferred to have a quiet evening of conversation or live music rather than grind on the dance floor.
Their loss.
Still, there was something comforting about it as I pushed inside the dark space, the smell of old books and candles and coffee overpowering any alcohol being served. It was a lot more pleasant than the stench of the bars I preferred to frequent, and I had to admit it had a vibe.
Some guy played acoustic guitar on a small stage in the corner, singing softly along with the sound, but he kept the volume low enough that everyone seated at the dark booths and candle-lit tables could have conversation around it.
I stopped at the bar, scanning the tables in search of Giana. Something in my gut churned at the sight of a couple making out in one of the corner booths, but I skimmed past them quickly, eyes darting around until I found the person I was looking for.
Candlelight and shadows battled for territory on Giana’s serene face, her eyes wide and soft, lips turned up into a crescent smile. She had a comically large mug of some sort of foamy coffee drink cupped between her small hands, and she sipped it from time to time as she listened to the music.
And she was really listening.
Her legs were crossed, still swathed in those modestly sexy tights she had on earlier, and her little foot bounced along with the tune. It wasn’t one I recognized, but she quietly mouthed along with the lyrics, her eyes fixed on the musician.
And when he looked up from his guitar and caught her stare, she flushed so fiercely I could see the crimson even in the dim light of the bar. She quickly tore her gaze away, looking down at her coffee and biting back a smile. By the time she glanced back up at the guy on stage, he had moved on, winking at a couple girls seated close to the stage.
Curiosity had me smiling, and I strolled over to her table, not stopping until I was directly between her and the guy with the guitar.
She blinked when I interrupted her view, like she was surprised to see me, like she’d forgotten she’d even invited — no, demanded — me to come. She startled, nearly spilling her coffee as she sat it down on the table, adjusted her glasses, and stood.
“You’re here.”
I cocked a brow. “Wasn’t I supposed to be?”
“Well, yes, but I—” She covered her surprise with a smile, waving her hand before she gestured to the chair opposite her. “Do you want a beer or something?”
The look I gave her was answer enough, and she tipped a finger up to the waitress walking through the crowd.
The waitress wasted no time in asking me for my ID, and fortunately, I had a pretty stellar fake — thanks to Kyle Robbins. That was about all he was good for outside of being too good of a tight end for me to hate him more than the amount you might hate an annoying little brother.
Once I had my IPA in hand, Giana propped her elbows on the table, steepling her fingertips together and facing me.
“Thank you for coming.”
I nodded.
“Look, I don’t want to be a nag, and I certainly don’t want to be here, working after sunset, any more than you do.” She paused to swipe a curl out of her face, and I realized then that she’d loosened the bun it had been tied up in all day, letting the wild gold and brown and blond strands frame her face like a halo. Her cheeks were peppered in freckles, her lips plump as she pursed them. “Can we just agree to go over this quickly, figure out the solution to our problem, and get some much-needed sleep?”
“What problem do we have, exactly?”
“Oh, other than you nearly biting the head off of an ESPN reporter?” She shrugged, pulling her laptop out of her bag and propping it on the table between us. “Not much.”
“She was a nuisance. They all are.”
“You didn’t seem to care last season when they were running all your tape and talking about how you’re the next Ronnie Lott.”