35
Nash
The banging just wouldn’t stop. I pressed a pillow over my head, but it barely dulled the sound.
My skull throbbed like it had its own pulse, each beat ricocheting behind my eyes.
I groaned, though it didn’t do a damn thing to make me feel better.
My mouth was dry, like I’d spent the night chewing cotton balls.
What the hell was that banging coming from? My neighbors were an older couple who split their time between Georgia and New York, and I couldn’t even remember the last time I’d seen them. There was no way they were banging on the wall like this.
I rolled over onto my stomach, pulling the comforter over my head.
The banging continued.
Every move sent a sharp spike through my head.
Why the hell had I started drinking again last night?
It hadn’t dulled the pain; it had only made it worse.
Not that that had stopped me. Pity parties for one had become routine the past few days despite me being in big trouble with the coaches.
And I was well aware that I couldn’t afford another screwup.
I was suspended. It didn’t get much worse than that before a team cut you loose.
A glance at the clock told me it was 7:00 a.m. Way too early to be awake on a Saturday when I didn’t have practice. The banging hadn’t let up, and I groaned as I dragged myself out of bed to find out where it was coming from.
“Fucking stop,” I muttered to the empty room.
I grabbed the joggers I’d left on the floor and yanked them on before shuffling into the hallway. It took me a few seconds to realize the noise was coming from my front door, which was strange since very few people had access to my floor.
My pulse kicked up—maybe it was Kennedy?
I quickened my pace and swung the door open, only to come face-to-face with my brother.
“Isaac?”
“What the fuck, Nash?” Isaac hissed, shoving past me into the apartment. I stumbled back, catching myself on the wall.
“I’ve been out there for almost five minutes. I was about to call security to break down your damn door. I thought you were dead in here or something.” He let out a sharp sigh, glaring at me.
“Sorry. I was sleeping.”
“Yeah, I can tell. Rough night?” His tone dripped with sarcasm.
“If you’re here to lecture me, you can leave.” I gestured toward the door he’d just barged through.
“You think I flew here just to give you a lecture?” he shot back in his bossy big-brother mode. “Although if I’d known you were in this bad of shape, I would’ve come sooner.”
“Whatever.”
I turned and started down the hall toward my bedroom, not interested in hearing another speech about what a screwup I was.
“You reek, man,” Isaac called after me. “Go shower while I make coffee.”
“I’m going back to bed.”
“No. We need to talk.” Something in his tone made me stop. “You need to get your head on straight, so go shower and sober the hell up.”
“What’s going on?” I asked, turning to face him. The look on his face only made my stomach clench tighter. Something was wrong—really wrong. “What are you actually doing here?”
“I’ll tell you as soon as you smell a little better and clear your head of those alcohol fumes clogging your brain.”
It had been years since Isaac had used that tone with me.
Back in high school, I’d heard it plenty—usually after I crashed one of his parties or flirted with his girlfriend just to get under his skin.
But it had been a long time since he’d talked to me like that or looked at me like I was a mess. Like he pitied me.
I turned on the shower, letting the water run cooler than usual while I brushed my teeth. Maybe the shock of cold water would help clear my head. I’d moved from beer to scotch last night. Bad decision.
After a ten-minute shower, I changed into a pair of jeans and a T-shirt and made my way into the kitchen, where Isaac sat at the actual dining table.
That told me we were about to have one serious conversation.
There was a cup of coffee in front of him, and another across from him beside a plate of whole-wheat toast.
I slid into the chair and wrapped my hands around the mug, taking a long sip before meeting his eyes. I didn’t have to say a word. The second he saw he had my attention, he started talking.
“Maybe you should eat something too. It’ll help sober you up.”
I rolled my eyes but grabbed a piece of toast anyway. Isaac didn’t say another word until I’d finished it—then he dropped the bomb.
“I saw Kennedy.”
My head snapped up. That was the last thing I’d expected. “You did?”
“Yeah.” He nodded once. “We had dinner last night.”
“Last night?” I straightened in my chair, my eyes going wide. “She’s in town?”
“No. I wasn’t here last night either,” he said, glaring at me. “I took the red-eye from LA.”
“Fuck, Isaac.” That got my full attention. “What’s wrong? Is she okay?”
“No, Nash. She’s not okay.” He shook his head slowly, disappointment flickering in his eyes. It only made the knot in my gut tighten.
“What is it?” My voice was sharper now, demanding. “What’s wrong?”
“You, Nash,” Isaac snapped. “What the hell have you done to her? That poor girl is barely holding herself together. She’s so thin—seriously frail, thinner than I’ve ever seen her. She’s working nonstop, and she looks absolutely exhausted. I’ve never seen her like this.”
The words hit me like a punch to the gut. My chest tightened, and I couldn’t stop the rush of guilt that came with it. Kennedy, frail? I knew she worked hard—too hard—but imagining her bright-blue eyes dull, cheeks hollow, made my stomach turn.
I should’ve pushed harder. Should’ve made sure she was okay.
“What did she say?”
“Nash . . .” Isaac let out a long sigh. He leaned back in his chair, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth. He was stalling. I could see him debating how much to tell me.
“Isaac, please,” I urged. “Just tell me. Where did you see her?”
“She came to my game last night. Approached me as I was leaving the field. I almost didn’t recognize her at first. Fuck, Nash . . .”
“Just fucking tell me what’s going on!” I shouted, the panic roaring inside me, hands gripping the table so tightly my knuckles were white.
“She was in the hospital.”
It felt like my heart stopped. “Hospital?” I whispered. “When?”
“About a week ago.”
“Why?”
“Stress-related. High blood pressure . . .”
High blood pressure. I imagined her alone, not telling anyone, carrying everything on her shoulders. Tears stung behind my eyes.
“Fuck.” I pushed off the table and got to my feet, the chair scraping back with a sharp sound. “Does she know you’re here?”
“No, she doesn’t know I’m here. Nobody fucking knows I’m here, and I’ll get in a shitload of trouble if the bigwigs find out I flew to New York overnight.”
I nodded, running a hand over the back of my neck. He wasn’t wrong. I knew better than most how little tolerance the league had for rule-breakers.
“Kennedy probably wouldn’t approve if she knew either,” Isaac went on, his voice like steel, “but I don’t give a shit anymore.
You two are so fucking stupid. I can’t just stand by and watch you screw up the most important relationship you’ve ever had.
” His gaze locked on mine, pinning me to the spot. “Go to her, Nash. Immediately.”
My shoulders sagged under the weight of it. I wanted to. God, I wanted to. But reality came crashing in.
“You know I can’t. I would if I could, but my first game back is Wednesday night. If I’m not at practice tomorrow, my career’s over.” The words tasted bitter, like an excuse, but it was the truth.
“I know,” Isaac said evenly, “but I’m telling you that you have to. Go today and come back tomorrow morning.”
“Damn.” I started pacing, dragging a hand through my hair.
The thought of seeing her had my chest twisting, equal parts longing and dread.
But there was always the possibility that she wouldn’t see me.
Isaac was right, though. I needed to at least try.
“Can I go after the game on Wednesday? That way I can at least show management I’m making an effort? ”
Isaac didn’t blink. “Do you love her, Nash?”
What? My steps faltered. My brother, of all people, asking me that?
“What the fuck,” I snapped, though my voice was rougher than I’d meant. “You know I do. I always have.”
“Then you have to go to her. You have no choice. I already booked our flights. Plane leaves at ten.”
I glanced at my watch; it was close to eight, which meant we had to leave in the next few minutes to make it to the airport. My stomach tightened.
“Shit.”
“I know,” Isaac said, his tone clipped, “so you better listen—and listen good—because once I’m done, you’ll be running out that door.” He tilted his head toward the front door.
“What?” I stopped pacing, turning to face him fully. “There’s more?”
“She said she tried to call you, and you never answered the phone.”
The words hit like a slap. “When?”
“When she was in the hospital. And a few times after that.”
Of all the times to turn my phone off. Damn it. Guilt flared hot and immediate.
I’d never hated myself more.
“Fuck! What happened to her?” I shouted. “What the hell is wrong with her, Isaac?”
Isaac’s eyes softened. “She had a miscarriage, Nash.”
I would’ve been less surprised if he’d slapped me across the face. The words didn’t even register at first, but when they did, my mind started to race. She’d had a miscarriage.
My chest constricted as the words repeated in my head.
“She was pregnant?” My voice sounded foreign.
“Yes.”
A thousand thoughts detonated at once. She’d had a miscarriage? When had she gotten pregnant? How far along was she? Why didn’t she tell me? How could I not have known? And then, like a cruel afterthought: How had it happened? We’d used birth control.
“She never told me.” My gaze snapped to Isaac, like somehow this was his fault, like he was keeping something from me. “Why didn’t she tell me?”
“She didn’t know.” Isaac’s voice softened. There was sympathy written all over his face, but it didn’t make the words any easier to process. “She collapsed one day at work and ended up in the emergency room,” he finished.
The room blurred. I stared up at the ceiling, blinking hard, trying to push the tears back.
“How far along was she?”
“About ten weeks.”
“Fuck . . .”
The weight of it pressed down on me. Ten weeks. And she’d been carrying all of it, alone.
She’d been so stressed, working herself sick, shutting me out, running from .
. . what? From me? From us? God, I should’ve gone to her.
I should’ve seen how much she was struggling instead of letting my own frustration get in the way.
Instead of stewing over unanswered texts, I should’ve shown up. Forced her to talk to me.
“I’m sorry, Nash.”
“Yeah, me too.” My voice was flat, but inside everything was in an uproar. “I just wish I knew what it was that made her stop responding to me. Just like that. I would’ve been there for her if she’d let me.”
“She didn’t explain everything that’s been going on between the two of you, but it seems it had something to do with an Amy?” Isaac’s eyes narrowed as he studied me. “Who is she?”
“Amy?” The name caught me off guard. I frowned at him. “She works for the Empires.”
Isaac’s head tilted, but he held my gaze. “Kennedy seems to think you had an affair with her. Did you?”
“What? No.” My head snapped back, the accusation stinging even though it wasn’t true. “I thought we cleared that up a long time ago.”
“She didn’t go into details, but something about Amy answering your phone.”
“Answering my phone?” My brows pulled together. “When the fuck did she do that?”
And then it all made fucking sense.
My mind snapped back to that night before the Men’s Advantage magazine release. Amy had had my phone. I’d been sure I’d left it in my pants pocket, but then the pants were gone, and so was the phone. And then that night at the bar—Josh with his phone, taking pictures.
Everything lined up like puzzle pieces falling into place. And it made me sick.
“Josh fucking Sampson,” I snapped, the anger sparking hot and fast all over again. “There hasn’t been anyone since Kennedy.”
“Good,” was all Isaac said.
I stalked over to the cabinet, grabbed the bottle of pain relievers, and tossed back a couple without water. My head still throbbed, but it wasn’t just the hangover anymore, it was everything piling on at once. Kennedy. The hospital. The miscarriage. And now this.
I headed toward the bedroom, Isaac right on my heels.
“What about her, Isaac? Has she moved on?” I asked, grabbing my duffel bag from the floor and shoving the dirty laundry I’d left there aside.
“No, I don’t think so, Nash,” he said carefully, “but she seems heartbroken about this whole thing.”
Heartbroken . . . The endless hours she spent at work too busy to eat, constantly on the move. The weight loss. All of it was just her way of coping. And I’d missed it.
I blew out a heavy breath.
But Isaac wasn’t done.
“She’s moving like she’s in a fog, Nash. She’s got a one-track mind right now—working and trying to stay sane. You need to help her.”
I couldn’t hold it together anymore. I broke down and sobbed in a way I hadn’t since I was a kid, right there in front of my older brother. Kennedy had been pregnant. Pregnant with my child. I would’ve been a father.
Our baby.
The words tore through me like shrapnel. A beautiful child, conceived out of nothing but love. Kennedy had had to endure that loss alone while I was over here drinking like an idiot, throwing punches, acting like my world had fallen apart while hers actually had.
What an absolute asshole I’d been.
I knew Kennedy’s patterns. She ran away when she was scared or hurt. That had always been her response. I should’ve never let her go without an explanation. I should’ve fought for her. For us. I should’ve gone after her, should’ve made her talk to me, should’ve been there when she needed me most.
“It’ll work out,” Isaac said quietly. He slid an arm around my shoulders, pulling me in tight. I clung to him like a lifeline, letting the grief rip through me, allowing myself a couple of minutes to just feel the devastation. Then I straightened, wiped my face, and reached for my phone.
The screen lit up when I turned it on for the first time in days, missed calls and messages staring back at me, but I didn’t bother with them. I had calls to make.
It was time to go get my girl.