CHAPTER TWELVE
Lucas
I close the door and let the quiet settle.
It’s the good kind. The kind that wraps around you after a long day and asks for nothing in return. I drop my keys on the counter, toe off my shoes, and exhale like I’ve been holding my breath since I stepped onto the field this morning.
There wasn’t much for me to move in other than clothes and personal effects, so at least I don’t have to worry about unpacking my apartment. I left most of my things in storage in California just in case this doesn’t pan out.
My phone buzzes in my hand.
Unknown number. But I sure as hell don’t need a name to know who it is.
“Heard you’re back in town. You know the invitation is always open if you need to relieve a little stress.”
Claire.
A flash of blond hair. Easy laughter. A woman who knows exactly how to make an evening disappear . . . and how to fill it too. Without pressure. Without expectations. Just heat and familiarity and shared understanding that nothing lasts longer than it’s meant to.
For a split second, my memory tempts me.
And then, completely uninvited, another woman flickers through my mind. Brown eyes. A spine held together by sheer will. Gratitude swimming in her eyes but pride strong enough to make her not gush over it.
Then reality hits me with a cold blast.
I’m thirty-four with a shoulder held together by stubbornness and surgical miracles. I’m here on a contract that’s built on conditions and contingencies. I’m here to prove something to myself—more than anyone else.
I stick to my self-imposed, preseason rules.
No distractions.
No detours.
No flings that could cause either of those.
I lock my phone and set it face-down on the counter.
Not tonight, Claire.
I grab the playbook from my bag and spread it open on the small dining table. The pages are already dog-eared and have my notes scribbled in the margins from earlier.
I’ve spent almost every waking moment since signing the contract memorizing the Rebels offense. New system. New language. Same game.
I read until the words blur, then close it and reach for the resistance bands to do my evening rehab exercise routine. Slow. Controlled. Intentional.
Will Emery change the routine? More like she’ll adjust it. Refine it. Push me so that when I kick ass on the field she can hang her reputation on my success and prove herself to be right.
I hook the band around my foot for resistance and work through the movements I could do in my sleep.
My teeth clench as the familiar burn hits.
Not pain but more of a reminder of where I’ve come from, how hard I worked to get here, and how I’m not giving up while I still have a few good years left in me.
When I’m finished with the quick routine, I grab an ice pack from the freezer, fasten it over my shoulder, and sink onto the couch with a groan. The first days of camp always hit hard. It doesn’t matter how much work I put in during the offseason, my body always feels it.
My phone buzzes again. I almost ignore it. I’m comfortable and would rather not move. But I get up and welcome the call.
“Hey,” I answer on the fourth ring.
“Look at you,” my brother Brendan says. “In Texas. Is it true what they say? Is everything bigger there?”
“Don’t care.” I grunt. “Day one almost took me out.”
He chuckles sympathetically. “Just like it always does. You good?”
“Yeah,” I say and mostly mean it. “Still getting the chance to play so I can’t complain.”
“Well, you could. I mean, it’s me. I know you better than anyone. And right now, I know your shoulder is probably aching like a bitch, and you’re questioning why you didn’t just slip quietly into retirement.”
I fall silent, my little brother’s truths hitting a little too close to home.
“Your silence says everything,” he murmurs.
Tears sting my eyes. I fucking hate them and blink them away, but the burn in the back of my throat still remains. “This is all I’ve ever known, Bren. All I’ve ever loved. It’s not that easy.” My voice breaks and my free hand fists.
“I know,” he says quietly. Compassionately. “But you’re so much more than football. There’s so much more to life than football.”
I scrunch my nose and run a hand through my hair. It’s not the first time I’ve heard those words, but they’re so much easier to hear, to say, than to believe when this is all I’ve ever known. To think of a life of anything else is absolutely terrifying.
Garrett Manring ghosts through my mind, but I push the thoughts away. The reminder of what I fear not welcome.
“I know there is,” I say. “I’m well aware of it, but . . .”
“But if you think about it, plan for it, you’re willing it to happen.”
“Something like that. Being part of a team is all I’ve ever been. I don’t know . . .” I sigh. “I know I’m burying my head in the sand and the time will come, but I don’t want to think about it yet. I’ll make the roster. I’ll play the season out and then finally sit down and figure out what’s next.”
Brendan doesn’t respond right away. No doubt he’s surprised by an actual acknowledgment of a life after football when normally I blow it off.
“I’m proud of you,” he finally says. “And you know that I’d be proud of you if you never touched the field again.”
“I know and appreciate that more than you know.” I adjust the ice on my shoulder. “How’s the fam? Jenny good? Zack growing like a weed?”
“Yep. All good on this front. Work is crazy. Jenny’s job is busier than shit. Zack . . . he’s getting to such a fun age.”
“Looks like it by the pictures you sent the other day.” I smile at the thought of them. “You’ll have to come out to a game sometime.”
“Plan to.” He pauses and I already know what’s next. “Talk to Mom or Dad?”
I shake my head before I say the words. “No. And that’s fine.”
He hums. “Yeah. It probably is.”
We talk about nothing and everything—logistics, football, old stories that make us laugh. His voice in my ear reminds me that I’m not alone in this, even when it feels like it.
Starting with a new team is always rough and lonely for a bit. As a returning player, you know who shares your values, who you can joke with or confide in, and who’s just down for a good time. With a new team, you have to double-think everything because there aren’t any relationships formed yet.
Serious first world problems, I know.
And while Bren might give me shit if I voiced how lonely it feels, he keeps the conversation going as if he somehow already knows, and I’m grateful for that. For him.
We hang up and the apartment feels quieter. Empty. The loneliness hits hard and fast and for a split second, I think of picking up my phone and texting Claire.
A quick bout of sex isn’t going to fix shit, but hell, it sure would fill the fucking void for the night.
With my phone in my hand and the ice pack now in the sink, I clean up, kill the lights, and as I pass by the front door, I hesitate.
Just for a second.
I lean forward and glance through the peephole. The hall is empty. The door across the hall is closed.
I snort. Don’t even think about it, Hale.
She’s as off-limits as Claire is. Even more so.
And yet I give it one more look before crawling into bed and letting the day finally catch up with me.
Tomorrow’s coming fast.
And I need to be ready.