Chapter 17 Vince #3
My father had arranged a meeting with Mitchell, the GSU scout who knew him personally.
They’d played together back in the day, and Dad thought maybe he could salvage something from the wreckage of my recruitment.
I didn’t want to do it this way, that I would rather be considered for my talent, not connections, but Dad wasn’t hearing it.
I went along with it to avoid adding to my list of failures.
Losing prospect scholarships had bumped up to first place in that list.
We met at the Marriott downtown, the same hotel where Mitchell was staying during his scouting trip.
I was walking through the lobby with my father, heading toward Mitchell’s room, when I saw him.
Adrian.
Coming out of one of the rooms, shirt wrinkled, hair messed up, checking over his shoulder like he expected to be followed. He was gripping what looked like a folder tight against his chest, knuckles white, glancing around like he was making sure no one noticed.
My blood turned to ice.
He didn’t see me. We were a few feet away around the corner, but you could see everything outside the rooms on that side. He was too focused on something in his phone, probably a text or call. But I saw him, saw him straighten his clothes, saw which room he’d come from.
The same room Mitchell was staying in.
My father went very still beside me, clearly taken aback by what we were seeing. We watched Adrian hurry toward the elevators, and something died inside me.
Because suddenly everything made sense in the worst possible way. The timing. The way he’d approached me in art class. The kiss that had felt so spontaneous, so real.
What if it wasn’t?
What if Adrian knew exactly who I was, what I was worth, who my father knew?
What if he’d been playing a longer game than I’d ever imagined?
I’d known him to be more like a free spirit, someone who flirted easily and moved through life without much of a plan.
But seeing him there, in that hotel, looking like he’d just finished some kind of business…
It painted everything in a different light.
Before I could do or say anything, I ran toward the stairs in the opposite direction. I never made it to the meeting with Mitchell. I would have punched a total of two guys in a week.
My dad went ahead without me, but the meeting went nowhere. He told me Mitchell was distant, making it clear that GSU had moved on. My father was furious.
That night, I tore my room apart until my knuckles bled and my throat went raw.
The tears came hot and silent, burning tracks down my face while I sat on the floor surrounded by wreckage, fists clenched so tight my nails cut into my palms. I swore on everything I had that I would never let anyone make me feel this small again, that I would never be stupid enough to believe someone could actually want me.
I didn’t ask Adrian about it. I was too caught up in my perception of the truth. It made me bitter, cold, and closed off.
When he called me, I didn’t answer. I managed to avoid art class and other extracurricular activities. When he cornered me at school the Monday before graduation, I looked right through him and kept walking.
I saw the confusion in his eyes turn to hurt, then to anger, then to something that looked like acceptance.
But I was too caught up in my own hurt to care, too convinced that I’d been played by someone who was better at this game than I’d ever be.
Maybe Dad was right. I lost focus. I got too distracted.
I just needed to go back to the time when things were exactly as they were, before Adrian.
The gossip died down eventually. Some other scandal took its place as it always does in high school. But the damage was done to my reputation, future, and ability to trust my own feelings.
I didn’t go to prom or graduation. The scandal had spread beyond just kissing a boy and punching a teammate. Parents were talking, and administrators were involved. It was easier to disappear than face the whispers and stares.
Dad pulled strings, got me into a prep school back east. A fresh start, he called it. A chance to rebuild.
I took it. I took the scholarship to a smaller program, then worked my ass off to transfer up. I made it to the NFL through sheer stubborn determination and a refusal to let one painful moment define my entire life.
I dated cheerleaders, models, the kind of women who looked good in photos and never asked difficult questions. I built a reputation as a dependable, clean-cut athlete, the kind of guy brands wanted to sponsor, teams wanted to build around.
Safe. Predictable. Straight.
“Vince!” Trevor’s voice cuts through the memory. “You’ve been out there for almost an hour.”
I look down at myself, my eyes a little blurry, unsure if it’s from the splashes of water or from something else entirely. With the pain in my chest, I feel it’s definitely not seawater. I climb off of the jet ski and join them.
“Sorry. Just thinking.”
Lance, Trevor and George are standing on the sand, three of them watching me with the kind of concerned expressions usually reserved for interventions.
I wade back to shore. “It’s complicated.”
Trevor tips his head, eyes narrowing like he’s weighing the word. “We’re not here to drag it out of you, mate. Just know we are here for you, yeah?”
I know I have good friends. I just don’t have the strength to relive the past and talk about it as if it didn’t happen this past week, and in the past ten years.
Who am I kidding? This could have happened in my previous life, and it would still trickle down to whatever present life I live in.
The sun is setting now, painting the water in shades of gold and orange.
It’s beautiful in a way that makes my chest ache, because Adrian would have loved it.
He would have found a way to capture not just the colors but the feeling, the way the light seems to hold promise and endings in equal measure.
The worst part is knowing that somewhere in L.A., he’s probably sitting in his apartment, convinced that nothing’s changed, that I’m still the same coward who chose reputation over love, safety over truth.
And maybe he’s right. Maybe that’s exactly who I still am.
The thought follows me all the way back to my room, where I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at my hands, the same hands that threw that punch ten years ago, that pushed away the best thing that ever happened to me because I was too afraid to believe I deserved it.