The Winner Takes All (Complete Collection)

37. Zombie Days

37

ZOMBIE DAYS

Beck

What in the name of Joe Montana’s powerful arm is that unholy twittering at this hour on a Saturday morning?

I roll over and pull my pillow over my ears. I haven’t heard that sound in...

Oh. Right.

I haven’t heard the birds sing in two days because I spent the past two nights at Jason’s house.

But last night, I slept alone. As I’ll be doing for the rest of time.

With a miserable groan, I push up in bed, rub my eyes, and glance at the window. My love life is over forever, and my backyard neighbors are tweeting Beethoven’s freaking “Ode to Joy” out there, which is just rude.

The birds flutter past as if they’re spreading news from nest to nest. I peer out the window to get a better look. A yellow birdhouse is upended in the yard, like Dorothy’s home when it landed in Oz.

Ah, hell. I can’t repair my own sorry situation, but I can help Portia fix that. Even if the birds are insensitive A-holes.

I drag my pathetic ass out of bed, pull on shorts and a T-shirt, brush my teeth, and run my fingers through my hair. After sliding on flip-flops, I trudge to the door. I should be grateful. Jason and I escaped unscathed. I should focus on moving on. But mostly, I’m sad.

I walk around the home to the small yard in the back and discover I’m not alone. There’s a well-built guy bent over the birdhouse, his muscular back rippling through a thin red T-shirt. He straightens to his full height and turns, blinking when he sees me. He’s tanned, toned, and all guy-next-door. His sun-streaked golden hair is a little long like he can’t be bothered to cut it on the reg.

He shoots me a welcoming smile. “Hey. You must be Beck. I’m Bryan. Portia’s son.” He gives a chin nod in lieu of a handshake since he’s holding the birdhouse.

“I am. Nice to meet you,” I say, lifting my hand to wave. Funny that Portia wanted to set him up with me. This dude probably has no trouble finding dates up and down Los Angeles.

“You too,” he says, and I hesitate because I came out to help Portia, but her son beat me to it, so I’m no longer needed.

But I could be more social starting now. I’m not interested in a single soul other than Jason. But I don’t have to be Mister Anti-Social, nursing a broken heart.

I gesture to the birdhouse in his arms. “I saw it had fallen and was coming down to pick it up. But I have to work on my speed when it comes to saving birdhouses.”

He rolls his eyes but with humor. “I’m speedy because I’ve been too well trained. When Portia banged on my door five minutes ago, I had flashbacks of high school,” he says as he heads over to the post where the birdhouse belongs. “I never got up in time for school, and she was always shouting at me to get out of bed this second . Which is kind of what she did this morning when she saw the carnage.”

“She likes her birds just a little bit,” I say drily as he gets to work reattaching the wire to the hook at the top of the house.

“‘Like’ is an understatement. Her birds and her Renegades are her big loves,” he says, testing the strength of the wire. “I believe her words a few minutes ago were the birds are watching over Beck. Get out there now, Bryan! I know my place in the pecking order,” he continues. Meeting my eye with a grin, he raises his free hand as if measuring a spot well above his head. “Renegades up top. Which means you’re on that level too.” Then he lowers that hand as far as he can. “Then, everything and everyone else.”

I laugh for a few seconds, but my laughter disappears quickly with the unexpected reminder—that the Renegades and their fans are my priority. The fans don’t want me moping for the other quarterback.

“Everything okay?” Bryan asks.

Ah, shit. I quickly clear my expression. “Yeah. I’m great,” I say.

He shrugs apologetically. “Sorry if that was pushy, man.”

My brow furrows. Why would he think that? “It was nice.”

“Cool, cool. My mom’s a shrink. I’m used to her asking are you doing okay all the time.”

Portia’s a shrink? I had no clue about her job beyond landlady, but shrink makes perfect sense. “Now that you say it, that tracks.”

He smiles like he’s proud of her. “She’s a Tarot-card-reading, candle-loving, Renegade-rooting, rainbow-flag-waving therapist. God bless her.” Bryan walks past me and claps my shoulder. “Good to meet you, Beck. You’re having a killer season. Keep it up.”

He heads around to the front door and goes into Portia’s home. From the second-floor window, she waves, bright and buoyant.

All is well in the pecking order of her world.

I’d do well to remember the pecking order of mine. My job is to throw the football.

That’s why I moved to San Francisco. To lead this team, not to fall in love. Besides, football makes me happy, so I’m going to embrace the fuck out of it.

The next day, I do my job on the field, shutting out everything else as I lead my team to victory.

I’m happy, but not as happy as the last time we won, and I celebrated with the guy I now miss so desperately.

On Monday, I can’t avoid seeing him.

Wish I could because there’s no way being near Jason will help me move on. But it’s time for Monday Morning Quarterback, so I better put on my happy face when I walk into the studio.

He’s in his chair already, and the second I see him, my heart thunders. I long for him. His smile, his eyes, his big, warm embrace, his blue shirts that are the color of a sapphire.

I give a chin nod. “Hey, McKay.”

“Hey, Cafferty.”

I settle into the chair and fight like hell to keep my eyes on Megan’s animated face. I ball my hands into fists as we talk about the game. I focus all my energy on keeping still, so I don’t lunge across the soundboard, kiss the breath out of Jason, and say fuck it, let’s find a way .

When it’s time for the two-minute warning segment, Megan whips her head toward me. “Any tips for Jason on his game?”

It’s like the day I met him again, only this time it’s not social anxiety tripping me up. It’s a broken heart. I don’t have any energy left to zing him on-air. “He played well,” I say tonelessly.

Her brows shoot up, and she stares at me wordlessly. Yay, me. I’ve surprised the queen of surprises.

But Jason is never speechless. He leans a little closer to his mic. “Some days, it’s hard to rip apart the other QB when he had such a stellar game,” he says with a cocky grin.

But he’s not cocky.

He’s helpful. He wants the show to succeed. He wants us both to look good. I can see that in his eyes. The guy wants to make everything better. But he can’t make me better. Not this time around.

On Thursday morning, we’re in a warehouse studio in the Dogpatch district, doing the ad for Ding and Dine. Just my ex and me, standing in front of a green screen, shoulder to shoulder, scowling like we hate each other, except when it comes to food delivery services. The food app wants customers to believe the only thing these two rivals could possibly agree on is the awesomeness of Ding and Dine.

Well, I do like the app. Jason used it that morning to get me coffee. My heart wheezes painfully at the memory, but I shake it off. It’s just a food app. It was just coffee.

With a forced smile, I deliver the line Nadia fed us the other day. “Service so good even archrivals can agree,” I say to the camera.

Jason grins too.

“Fantastic! You even looked like you liked each other at the end,” the videographer remarks as she gives a thumbs-up.

Great. We’re aces at pretending. Fan-fucking-tastic.

When the shoot mercifully finishes, I want to bolt. The longer I stay in Jason’s orbit, the greater the chance I’ll blurt out I miss you so much, and I can’t stand being this close without touching you.

But there’s no playbook on how to fake an archrivalry with your ex. So I go through the motions for Ding and Dine, thanking the camerawoman and the producer, then I change out of my team jersey and into a red shirt. I walk out with Jason, eyes front, poker face on, pretending I’m not aching inside.

When we hit the parking lot, and we’re alone, he clears his throat. “So, good game the other day.”

I hazard a glance his way. “Yeah, same to you,” I say. Then I register what he’s wearing. His sky-blue shirt. I remember the day he gave me a ride in his Tesla, how I confessed I knew all his shirts, and a wave of nostalgia clobbers me.

Then it drags me underwater when I fast-forward to the Ultimate Player Auction in a few more weeks.

I’ll see him then too.

He’ll be looking impossibly handsome in a suit. Maybe he’ll even gaze at me like he’s doing now, with longing in his eyes.

How the hell will I handle being at the auction with this man?

“I have to go,” I say, then I get in my car, drive home, and slump onto my beanbag.

I fiddle with my phone, scrolling through my contacts, hunting for a name, a friend, or someone to talk to. I can’t reach out to Carter, and I’m not close enough to any of the other guys on my team.

But then I slide past my last text exchange with Rachel from a month ago. I’ve been a bad friend. I shoot her a note, asking how she’s doing, but she doesn’t reply in kind.

She calls, and I answer it quickly, desperate for a friendly voice.

“Hey there,” I say.

“Hey. It’s been a while. How’s everything going?”

I could bullshit her, or I could spill my guts. Easiest decision ever.

“Not well,” I say, so tired of faking it.

“Oh sweetie, what’s wrong?”

I get up, walk around my home, and serve up my sad, bruised heart. I don’t tell her Jason’s name, but I tell her enough.

“And now, I feel like a zombie,” I say at the end of the tale of my secret romance. “I’m worried this breakup is going to make my anxiety spiral in a whole new way.”

That’s it.

That’s what’s freaking me out. My anxiety over... my anxiety.

I feel weirdly better having said that out loud. “I want to get through this breakup. I just don’t know if I have the right breakup playbook for a guy like me.”

“Maybe you don’t, but someone else does,” she says and shares some more ideas.

The rest of the afternoon, as I make lunch and putter around my apartment, I think about what Rachel said. But I don’t have to stew on it for too long.

I may have learned how to manage my anxiety flawlessly when it comes to my job. I’m mostly able to handle it when faced with the media. But I definitely need help when it comes to, well, to love.

And I have a resource mere feet away.

I leave the house, head up the stairs, and knock on Portia’s front door.

As I wait, I catalog my emotions. I feel surprisingly calm like I’m stepping into the right choice. This is what I need.

She answers a few seconds later, her curly brown hair swishing over her shoulders. “Hey, Beck. How are you? Do you want to come in?”

“I do,” I say, then once I’m in her home, I draw a deep breath and find the guts to speak. “I struggle with anxiety. I need to find a therapist to talk to. I was wondering if you could help me find someone good and trustworthy.”

She beams. “I can.”

Portia calls in a favor, and my first appointment with Rosemary is the next day. After an hour of talking and listening, I’m worn out, but the good, workout kind.

It’s a welcome feeling, even though it’s painful too.

I see her again the next week, walking in with amazing news. “I’m taking my team to the playoffs,” I say, doing my best not to bounce off the walls. I’m still flying.

She grins devilishly. “I know. I read the news. I’m a Hawks fan, but I’m happy for you ,” she says. “How do you feel?”

A few nights ago, my teammates showered me with sparkling cider when we clinched. I felt out-of-this-world elated. “Like I delivered on the promise of the trade.”

Her eyes sparkle with happiness. “That must have felt wonderful. You faced huge expectations.”

I scrub a hand over the back of my neck, still taking in the immensity of the accomplishment. “Now I just have to finish the job with a ring,” I say drily.

But Rosemary doesn’t want to dwell on the postseason road. “Can we talk about your brother?” she asks gently.

My throat tightens in a tangle of knots. “Okay,” I say, wary.

“How does it feel that you can’t tell Griffin you’re going to the postseason?”

I expected her to ease into the topic, not push me into the emotional deep end. I fight hard to hold back tears; I’ll lose it if I let go. “Awful,” I choke out.

“I can imagine,” she says softly.

I’m not sure I want to dig any deeper than awful , but I also didn’t walk through her door to back out.

“Can we talk more about it?” she asks.

I buckle up and do the hard thing.

For the next forty-five minutes, we talk until I’ve gone through a box of tissues.

When I’m wrung dry, she folds her hands in her lap and takes off her glasses. “Beck, it’s possible this loss has amplified your anxiety at times. You may not even be aware of it, but the trauma has likely heightened how you react to some uncomfortable situations,” she says.

I replay the night at the bookstore with this fresh insight. I hadn’t felt that itchy in ages, like I wanted to escape from my own body. “A month ago, Jason asked me to go to this bookstore event. Just as friends,” I begin, then tell her what happened. “Do you think it was related?”

“I think you can get trapped into a cycle of negative thoughts. I think you’ve had a lot of changes and triggering events in your life in the last two years. The loss of your brother, moving to a new city, taking on a big, new job, falling in love in secret.”

I laugh humorlessly. “Guess that is a lot. But do we have to talk about my past and my childhood and shit like that? I don’t want to go all Freud. I want to figure out how to live in my present.”

“We can if you want, or we can talk through your negative thoughts in certain situations and how to challenge them.”

She goes on to explain more about cognitive behavioral therapy.

I feel brighter with every sentence she speaks like I’ve sipped from a cup of possibility. She’s a magician, and she just pulled off the prestige. I had no idea this therapy existed. I thought I’d just talk about my past. I don’t mind that, but I do better with tools and exercises. I like a playbook. That’s what she’s offering.

“I want that. I can do that. I’m very good at practicing things.”

Rosemary smiles. “I’m not surprised.”

When I leave, I’m already excited to return next week.

The following week, she’s the first person I tell the latest good news. The Hawks are going to the playoffs too, and when I watched my rival’s game from my beanbag the other night, I went full fanboy when I saw the final snap. “I’m ridiculously excited for Jason,” I say when I sink onto Rosemary’s couch. It’s a relief to tell someone without hiding what I mean.

She smiles sagely, staring at me through cat-eye glasses. “Have you considered telling him that?”

“Will that help me?” I ask curiously.

“What do you want it to help you with?” she asks, turning the question back on me.

I mull that over, thinking out loud. “Will it help me get over him? Will it help me manage my nerves? Will it help me to be human?”

“Which one do you want?”

I sit with the question for a minute, trying to picture the outcome of each throw. But this isn’t football. It’s life, and it’s love, and it’s the guy I still have big, messy feelings for.

“I’m happy for him, so I want to tell him. That’s the kind of guy I want to be. I’d rather be that guy than the one who can barely handle being around him,” I say.

Time to stop running away when he’s near.

In a few more days, I’ll see Jason at the auction, then the next morning, we’re doing an extra edition of Monday Morning Quarterback, a playoff preview.

I’ll have plenty of chances to tell him I’m happy for him. I just need to find the right way to do it.

But it’s not that easy, and that’s why I’m here. “I’m worried it won’t go the way I want it to,” I admit, feeling safe.

“Then let’s work through some scenarios,” she says, and she takes me through my worries about the worst-case scenario versus the potential reality. Then she gives me homework, asking me to write down the anxious thoughts as they come to me so that we can work on replacement thoughts for them.

“Since I know you like homework,” she says with a wry smile.

“I do,” I say, then she says she’ll email me some worksheets.

I leave that session exhausted once again. With Rosemary, I feel like I’ve started running a marathon. I’m at mile one, but I’m determined to finish all twenty-six miles. And maybe more after that, even if it hurts.