Chapter Twelve
Braden
I was keyed up when I made it home later that night.
Usually on media days, I was drained. I’d come home and face plant on the couch. But this? This was like I’d played a game — a close one.
Like we’d come back from a thirty-point deficit to win the whole thing.
My blood was buzzing, pulse humming in my ears as I hung my keys by the door and stepped out of my sneakers. I slid my sock-covered feet right into my slides next, making my way to my kitchen and pouring a tall glass of ice water.
I downed it.
And still felt no relief.
Call her.
It was a stupid thought, just like it had been stupid to text Emily at all today. I knew better. I knew the rules, the risk if I broke them.
And yet…
I hadn’t been able to resist.
And seeing her round that corner in her cheer uniform, that white fabric painted on her curves, the Seahawks logo on her chest, the hair and the makeup and those long, toned legs beneath that skirt…
It was enough to drive me to madness. And it had.
My stomach was too knotted to eat anything, so I grabbed a protein shake from my fridge before walking out to my back patio. I had a perfect view of the lake, the sun setting just beyond it, painting the sky a bright golden shade that danced with the incoming blue of dusk.
I flopped down in a chair, pulled my phone out, and called Dad.
“Hey, son,” he greeted warmly. I didn’t have to see him to know he was smiling. “How’s it going?”
“I need advice.”
“Your mother is usually the better one at that,” he said with soft amusement. “But she’s with Ginny in the bathroom for a shower, so I’ll try my best to compensate.”
I smiled. Mom was so great at showers and baths with Ginny. She had a way of making it fun just like she did for us when we were kids. One of my first memories was of her filling our bathtub with so many bubbles that they spilled over the sides.
She never cared about the mess. Only the memories.
“Have you ever been tempted by something you knew would lead to consequences, but you couldn’t walk away from?”
My father paused for a long moment. “Are we talking about drugs?”
Technically? No. Metaphorically?
No comment.
“No,” I answered.
“Gambling?”
Define gambling, because with a risk and reward here…
“No, Dad. Nothing dangerous like that.”
“Okay,” he said after a moment, considering. “It’s kind of hard to go off the vague language, but if it’s not dangerous to your health, I guess my next question would be — what do you think you could have with this thing that you don’t have now?”
I sipped my protein shake, thinking.
“Spontaneity,” I answered carefully. “Fun.” I thought of Emily’s deep brown eyes, of her dazzling smile, the way she loved to press my buttons. “Joy.”
“Mm, well this thing doesn’t sound so bad.”
“It’s not. But I can’t have it.”
“Why not?”
“It could jeopardize my career.”
“And you’re sure it isn’t drugs?”
I chuckled. “Promise, Dad.”
He made a noise like he was pondering, a deep hum. It reminded me of when he’d pretend to be torn on whether or not to give me and Ginny ice cream when we asked.
He’d made that same sound on the last day before Ginny’s diagnosis, a day that was brazened in my memory forever. We’d run up and asked to blow fireworks off, and he’d made that deep hum before giving in. Those Roman candles and sparklers had lit up my sister’s face all night.
We had no idea how bad her cold was, that it would end up being something that changed the course of all our lives the very next day.
“Well, I know how important football is to you,” Dad said. “And I know that you have bills to pay as an adult.”
The weight of those words settled heavy on my chest, all the things I’d carelessly forgotten rushing back to the surface.
“So, I guess if I were being a responsible parent, I’d tell you to do whatever it takes to walk away from this thing. Practice self-discipline. Get on your mat and lock into the present moment.”
Dad was into yoga and meditation just like I was. He was the one to teach me. When things got too heavy, he’d always pull out his mat and ground himself. And after that summer, I found myself setting up on the floor next to him, desperate to find some sort of peace.
When I’d learned how freeing it could be to let your thoughts go, to break up with anxiety and focus on what you could control… it was life changing.
I’d practiced daily ever since.
“But if I were your friend,” he continued. “I think I might tell you to weigh the risk and the reward, and if you can have this thing and not put anyone else in danger, and get away with it… well, maybe it might be fun. You deserve some fun. Some… spontaneity, as you said.”
I smiled, even though he couldn’t see me. “Thanks, Dad.”
“Did I help?”
I sighed then, chugging the rest of my protein shake. “I don’t know if anyone can help, but you gave me space to be heard. And that’s enough.”
“You sound stressed, son.”
“A bit,” I admitted.
“What do we say when we’re stressed?”
“Is that Braden?!” Mom called in the background.
“Hi, Mom,” I called in return. I knew my dad had me on speakerphone. He and Mom acted like the regular version of their phones didn’t work.
“Hi, honey! Oh, Ginny says hi, too! We love you! Everything all right?”
“It’s great,” I said.
“Dad said you sound stressed. Are you stressed?”
I laughed. “A bit, but I’ll be okay.”
“What do we say when anxiety creeps in?” she prodded.
My smile was genuine then, and I wished I could cross the distance in a second to be there in the chaos with them, to feel the warmth of that home and their arms at the same time.
“What’s the best that could happen?” I said, reciting our family mantra.
“What’s the best that could happen,” Mom and Dad echoed.
“Everything is fine,” I promised them. “I was just calling to say that I was thinking of you guys.”
“We’re always thinking of you,” Mom replied.
And my heart swelled before it twisted painfully.
Because I couldn’t say the same.
Not when I’d been ready to risk everything I’d worked so hard to give them in the heat of the moment.
By some miracle, I managed to keep my distance from Emily for the rest of the summer offseason.
It wasn’t that I didn’t see her. Any time we were both at the stadium or a community event together, it was impossible not to see her.
It was also impossible not to stare, not to dream, not to fucking pant at the memory of her hand on my cock and her breath in my ear.
I still wasn’t sure how I’d survived that moment of weakness in June, how I’d managed to walk away from her when all I’d wanted was to push her against that wall, hike that dance skirt up, rip through those tights and the shorts beneath it and plunge my cock so deep inside her that those breathy teases of hers would turn to moans.
I’d wanted to mess up that perfect lip gloss she’d been wearing, wanted those perfect strands of hair out of place because of me.
I’d never wanted anything more in my life — a fact that scared me almost as much as the reality that I’d almost given in.
But somehow, I’d restrained myself.
Maybe it was the fear of getting caught that had my feet moving before my brain came back online.
Maybe it was that I realized when the fog cleared how fucking stupid I was being, how careless.
Maybe it was divine intervention, whatever deity that did exist throwing my teammates into that hallway at that exact moment to remind me what was at stake.
Whatever the case, that moment of almost getting caught had felt like a bucket of ice water to the face.
I’d cursed myself the rest of that night, given in and fucked my hand to the thought of her in the shower, and then cleansed myself of her as best I could with a long yoga and meditation session the next morning.
It may have been futile, trying to erase her completely, but at least I could mute her magic enough to think a bit more clearly.
Now, it was the last preseason game of the season, and if anything had helped me regain my focus, it was the fast-approaching date of our first regular season game.
This was it. Year two in the NFL.
And I had a lot to prove if I wanted to stay here past my rookie contract.
I had my headphones on in the locker room, my pregame playlist thumping in my ears as I wrapped my left ankle.
My teammates moved around me — taping, smearing eye black under their eyes, some laughing and joking around, others locked in and focused with their own headphones on.
There wasn’t quite the same pressure with a preseason game as a regular season, but that was really only true for those of us who knew our spots were safe.
There were rookies here desperate to cement their spot, and I could feel the energy wafting off of them — nervous and excited and ready to prove themselves.
My phone buzzed on the bench next to me, and I swiped my thumb across the screen, unsurprised to find the group chat I had with the guys popping up. Only this time, it wasn’t a text — but an alert that Holden had started a video chat within the group.
I clicked the button to join, Holden’s face popping up first before the rest started filing in one by one.
It was a tradition we’d started when Holden went pro the year before the rest of us did.
He’d graduated a year ahead of us and went off to North Carolina while the rest of us played our final year at NBU.
Before every game, we got him on a video chat to check in and see how he was feeling — and more than anything, to razz him and make him laugh a little bit.
Nothing helped you play better than loosening up, and a video chat with your best friends was the perfect way to achieve it.