Chapter 12 Ian
TWELVE
IAN
Practice does nothing to ease my anxiety. I replay the drills in my mind, recalling how each pass was shaky. I played shitty as fuck.
My teammates gave me understanding nods afterward, but it didn’t help. The coach sighed, delaying the inevitable discussion I expected as he exited the field.
Nothing seems to yank me out of the debilitating funk, and trying to push aside that fateful moment only ricochets it back stronger.
Roman slaps a hand on my shoulder, squeezing in encouragement. “It’s okay to have a bad day. We all need some time to process.”
Day, not days. I jerk my chin in acknowledgment. Picking up my duffel, I dread the hospital visit. Seeing my friend lying there despondent guts me.
In my car, thoughts weave in my head, creating a dark, poisonous web. Fuck, I am the captain, and I need to get my shit together. I have a responsibility toward my team.
My phone rings, blaring through the sound system. I press the button on the steering wheel to accept the call, and my mom says, “Hi, honey, how are you?”
“I’m okay. On my way to visit Levi.”
A muffled cry has me gripping the wheel tighter. “My poor Levi. I want to visit him, but I can’t take a few days off.”
“He understands,” I grit out, loathing the unjust situation.
“And you?” she asks softly.
“I’m holding up.” Barely.
“It’s okay if you’re not. He’s more than your best friend.”
Yes, he’s family, and I can’t do anything to help him. It’s me who put him there.
I grit my teeth, trying to push that negative thought away, but it’s there, lingering.
“I am at the hospital, Mom. Say hi to Dad.”
“I will, and hug Levi and Amelie for me.”
I’ve had several injuries over the years, but nothing bad enough to be hospitalized.
The smell of antiseptic and dread clings to my nostrils as I pass through the impersonal halls.
Amelie pushes a button on the vending machine, taking out a coffee cup.
I approach her, and she takes a small sip. “His grandparents are here.”
My sister hasn’t left his side, and I know Levi has an issue with that. He has done everything to help her be independent. Knowing him, he hates that he’s the reason she’s not going back to her bakery. I don’t need to ask her how he is, her sigh says it all.
Tears well up in her eyes. “I can’t do a thing. Seeing him so lost is a level of pain I didn’t know I could feel.”
I hug her to my chest, and we cling to each other.
“I feel guilty. I wanted him more for myself. I can’t believe I am this selfish and now…” she gulps, tears streaming down her cheeks.
A bead of cold sweat gathers at my nape. “It’s not your fault.” It’s mine.
We wait outside his private room, and she whispers, “He’s withdrawing from me.”
I can’t let him do that. Losing her would hurt him even worse. He needs to hold on. It will get better. It has to. My argument is weak as fuck. For guys like us, football is all we know.
“Just give him more time. You know he loves you,” I say, pacing as if I could outwalk the turmoil.
She offers a tiny nod and chips at the plastic cup. “He told me I should go back to Seattle, tend to the bakery. As if I could.”
“He doesn’t want to burden you.”
She rolls her eyes, mumbling, “He’s lucky he’s in the hospital or I would have lost it.”
Our conversation halts when his grandparents walk out, a despondent look slipping over their features. Greeting each other, we talk for a bit.
Inside his room, I face the same image that unbalances me. Him lying in a hospital bed, leg trapped in that unyielding cast. But there’s a minor change in his apathetic features. His facial features strain, his face might crack.
“Hi, man,” I give, gauging his mood.
“Hi.” Short, clipped, not helpful.
“Don’t push Amelie away. You lost football, you don’t have to lose her too.”
“You don’t get it. No one fucking gets it,” he raises his voice, chest panting.
I reach his bed, but his eyes stay pinned on the wall.
“So, what are you going to do, huh?”
“I don’t fucking know. I don’t want to talk about it,” he grits out.
Silence follows as heavy as the dreadful diagnosis.
I drop into the chair by his side, and he stares ahead, intent on digging a hole in the wall. “Don’t you have better things to do, like practice to win the big game?”
“That doesn’t matter right now,” I grumble.
Amelie walks inside, and tension curls around the air. It’s suffocating.
She fusses around him and a muscle tics in his jaw. I see the biggest hurdle in their relationship playing before my eyes, and I can’t do a thing but watch the train speeding down the track right before it crashes.
“Mom says hi,” I offer, but the silence prevails.
After a few minutes of the tension-filled quiet, I stand up, sighing. “I’ll come back tomorrow.”
A heavy weight sits on my shoulders as I leave. Wanting to forget my sorrow, I make a stop at the grocery store on my way home. I buy a bottle of whiskey, pissing on all my discipline. But I need something to ease this damn pressure. Maybe numbing myself for a bit will smooth things out.
Splayed on the sofa, the game plays on a loop. I tip the bottle back and gulp down the amber liquid. When I place it down, it’s a quarter empty.
I already know my performance will be even worse tomorrow––hungover at practice, but I can’t find it in me to care.
Keys jingle in the door, and when Lilly enters, looking like my dream woman, I groan. Another thing I wish I could change is having her. But I can’t. I take another swig.
Her eyes widen as she reaches me. She raises a brow, eyeing the whiskey bottle as if it personally offended her. Fuck if it doesn’t put a smile on my rigid features.
She cares, struggling to decide how to proceed.
I let the knowledge soothe me. A friend is there when you fuck up big time, but doesn’t berate you.
It’s in the rules. Us being friends is the better option, even though I hate it.
But like this, I can have her. Not having her would devastate me.
The thought alone slams my heart into a corner of my battered chest.
“How bad is it?”
I take another gulp in reply and slam the bottle on the table, causing the liquid to ripple just like my insides.
Lilly takes a hard look at me and the bottle. Shaking her head as she walks toward me, she pushes the bottle out of reach. “Ian, I’m sorry for what happened to Levi, but I am worried about you.”
Leaning back, I shut my eyes for a moment as if wanting to blind myself to the ongoing ordeal. “No need. I’m fine.”
She sighs, studying my face. “Bullshit. You’re the most disciplined person I know, and you just drank a significant amount of whiskey. We’re friends, right? And friends tell each other stuff.”
I remain silent, not because I don’t want to answer her, but because I can’t make order of my thoughts.
She follows my line of vision, gasping as my pass plays on repeat.
“You think watching this over and over is helpful?” she screeches at the TV.
When silence meets her question, she mutters, “Masochist.”
“Oh, that I am,” I say ironically, voice thick with frustration.
Her hand moves to the remote, but I am faster. “No.”
“Fine, let’s see this entertaining pass repeatedly.
” She makes herself comfortable next to me.
“Oh look, there are two players open, but the defenders will tackle them almost immediately. And you knew that. Levi and you have a telepathic connection, and he’s the best wide receiver not on the team, but in the country.
You did not fail your friend, you played like the quarterback. It was an accident.”
I pick at my cuticles. I know she’s right, but that doesn’t make me feel better.
“You’re suffering from PTSD, Ian.”
Reaching over to grab the bottle, I grip it and snark, “Is that your professional opinion?”
She yanks the bottle from my hand before I can even bring it to my mouth. “You don’t need this shit,” she says and marches into the kitchen, where she pours the contents into the sink and tosses the empty bottle in the trash, eyeing me intently. “Don’t push me.”
Her feistiness and putting me in my place does things to me I can’t even explain.
Returning, she takes my hands in hers. “That was a traumatic event. Dealing with it requires time. Even professional help.” She sighs, adding, “You’re being stubborn.”
“Am not.”
She rolls her eyes at me. “Tell me what you need.”
What I want from her would be a selfish desire. It would be about alleviating my hurt.
“Okay, then let’s get you to bed.”
“Will you stay tonight?” I ask, not bothered that I sound needy.
Her features soften as she nods.
In the bedroom, she picks up my discarded T-shirt and goes into the bathroom.
I flop on my king-sized bed, with my arms crossed behind my neck.
When she comes out, all thoughts vanish as my eyes trail along her bare feet.
She looks sexy as fuck and all mine wearing my T-shirt that hits her mid-thigh.
Fire blazes through me, burning me up. I swallow hard, trying to contain this incessant desire.
She climbs into bed, slipping under the covers while I want to slip my hands under the shirt and touch her everywhere. It takes every bit of control to restrain myself and not give in, knowing she could make this perpetual ache bearable. If I only were a weaker, more selfish man…
She rolls on her side, and I mirror her position. We stare at each other until our lids grow heavy.
“I like this,” I whisper.
She kisses my cheek. “I like this too.”
You feel like home. With that scary yet comforting thought, I fall asleep.
Waking to my nagging alarm, I peel my eyes open to find that she’s not next to me. Groaning, I shut off the alarm and go in search of her.
She’s on the phone. The kitchen island looks like a crime scene, food carnage everywhere. There are at least a dozen eggshells, leaving sticky trails all over the counter.
“It’s been two minutes,” Lilly says, annoyance clear in her voice.
“Girl, it’s an omelet. Just flip it over and when it’s a nice brown, it’s done,” Kat sighs in the speakers.