Chapter 28 TJ
The lie I told her keeps swishing around my brain. Okay, it wasn’t a lie exactly. It was more of an intentional misleading. When she asked if it was always like that, I told her no. I saw it flash across her face that she thought I meant I hadn’t enjoyed myself.
I let her believe that.
I let her believe that every touch of her smooth, soft skin was not going to stay seared on my fingertips forever. That’s my cross to bear. I knew going in she couldn’t give me more. I don’t deserve more.
Yet I couldn’t help but tease her at brunch, and for the few hours afterward when we walked around the Strip, taking in the sights.
I couldn’t stop touching her. A brush of the arms here.
My hand on the small of her back there. All too soon, I have to report back to meet up with the team, while Ophelia and Rachel are on their own to get to the airport.
We’re flying back on different airlines out of different terminals from the girls, which sucks.
I would have loved to spend that overnight flight with Rachel leaning against me.
Instead, she’s waiting in Terminal One, while I’m a mile away in Terminal Three.
I’m playing with fire, and we all know how that turns out.
I’m going to have to be more careful. I just need to put some space between us.
The duration of our flights won’t be long enough, but it’ll be a good start.
I’m glad Rachel and Ophelia ended up on the same flight.
Rachel shouldn’t be alone after last night.
Last night.
It was a mistake. A huge mistake. I’d one hundred percent do it again in an instant.
It would have been better to never know what she tastes like, what she feels like, than to know I can never have her again.
Even if she wanted more, which I know she doesn’t, what do I have to offer her?
A career that could be over at any moment?
No other appreciable skills beyond looking pretty for the camera?
I don’t even know how to take care of myself.
Rachel needs—no, deserves—someone who can take care of her, like my dad takes care of my mom, and how my mom takes care of us.
The only thing I could offer her is loyalty, but that seems weak, considering my only source of income would be from taking my clothes off for other women to ogle my body. Somehow, that doesn’t seem so loyal.
So friends it is. It’s going to be hell. It’s going to be torture. It’s going to be my reality. I’m the one stupid enough to catch feelings for her. It won’t be the first time in my life that I have to pay for my stupidity. It won’t be the last either.
See what I mean about Rachel deserving better?
This trip has completely and totally messed with my head. My brain hurts from thinking so hard, trying to find an answer that will be right for everyone. How I’m going to support myself after my soccer career. How I’m going to make my parents proud. How I’m ever going to be enough for Rachel.
Sitting at the gate, waiting for our plane, I stare at the phone in my hand, as if it’ll provide me with some magic answers. ClikClak, with its wealth of knowledge, does not have any solutions. Crew Benequista drops into the chair next to me.
"Waiting blows," he says. "I hate this part."
I glance over at him. This is his first away game with the Buzzards. "This’s got to be nicer travel than what you had in the reserves."
"Oh, yeah. This is a lot better. But I wish we didn’t have to waste so much time traveling. Like, we’re here in Vegas for four days, but we only got to party one night. This part sucks."
"Yeah, well, you get used to it. The final two rounds of the playoffs are here in Vegas, so if we can get our shit together, maybe you’ll get some of your Vegas partying in then."
"Were the playoffs awesome last year?"
Jesus, he’s like an exuberant puppy dog with boundless energy. "How old are you?"
"I’m twenty."
Christ, I knew he was young, but I had no idea how young. "You’re not old enough to party. You can’t even go to the casinos. And the playoffs sucked last year because we lost."
In every national championship game, one team goes home a winner, but one goes home a loser. We were on the big L side.
"But you got there, man. We’re gonna avenge it this year. This is our year. I just know it."
Oh, the unbridled optimism of youth. "Yeah, well, you’re gonna have to step it up then. Brandon Nix was our leading scorer. You’ve got big cleats to fill. So it’s on you to pick up the slack if you even wanna make it out of the wild-card round."
His eyes narrow as he nods. "I know. I’m working on it. I’ve been following some of your training videos to do in my downtime."
My training videos? "Dude, those are thirst traps for the ladies. They’re not meant to guide you."
Crew shrugs. "Maybe. Maybe not. I’ve picked up a few different exercises. Or different ways to combine things for a more efficient workout. I like the way you explain what you’re doing. Helps me know what I should be feeling. You ever think of being a personal trainer?"
I have to laugh at that one. "Nah, I just know what I’ve been taught over the years. There’s no big secret."
"I hope you’re right, and I hope I figure it out soon, so we can have a shot at it this year. I hear Entay’s retiring, so this year might be his last shot."
I’ve heard the rumors about Callaghan retiring as well. CC has been getting more time in goal since the Global Games, so it’s probably not as much of a rumor as it is an inevitability. It’s yet another reminder that I need to figure out what I’m going to do with myself when my soccer days are over.
If I can figure out what I want to be when I grow up, then maybe, just maybe, I’d be in a position to be able to date Rachel. I have to get my life together before I could even consider asking her to take a chance on me.
In the meantime, I’ve got to keep feeding the algorithm that is my current cash cow.
Hopping up, I swipe open the app. "Hey guys, let’s make a video.
" There’s a collective groan. "All I’m gonna do is ask you who on the team is the …
" I search my brain for something—anything—that will get views and laughs.
"For who has the best pregame playlist."
By the time I’m done interviewing my teammates, the consensus is that Merriweather Hayes has the best pregame playlist. Maliq Miller got an honorable mention, and Andy Bracer was voted to have the lamest playlist. We board the plane, and I spend a large chunk of the flight editing the video.
I should be trying to sleep like most of my teammates are doing, but there’s something fulfilling about taking raw footage and turning it into a polished video.
Not bad multitasking while cruising at 40,000 feet above the country.
We arrive, and while I’d like to wait for Rachel, the bus isn’t going to wait for me. I’ll call her as soon as I get home. She should be on the ground by then. I wonder what her arrangements are for getting home.
I should have asked her. I should have made sure she was okay. That she was taken care of. As soon as I get on the bus, I’ll text her.
Except the minute I’m on the bus, fatigue sets in, weighing my eyelids down like sandbags.
One second later, we’re pulling into the parking lot where our cars have been for the better part of the week.
Even though everyone is talking and jostling me, I can barely keep my eyes open long enough to stand up.
I struggle to my feet and shuffle down the aisle.
I have never felt so tired in all my life.
"Doyle!"
I can’t even figure out who’s yelling my name. I feel drunk or drugged or something.
Coach Janssen shakes my shoulder. "Doyle? You alright?"
I nod, my eyes threatening to close again. "A little tired."
"You sleep on the flight?" he asks. "Don’t tell me you didn’t."
The time changes are hard enough on our bodies. We’re still practicing and training. We need sleep. I committed a cardinal sin by not sleeping on my flight. "I was stupid, I know. I got involved in a project."
Coach calls over one of the training staff to drive me home. I’d argue, but I’m too tired. I don’t remember getting home. I don’t remember walking into my place. I remember nothing until I awake with a start in the fading evening light.
My watch tells me it’s almost six p.m. I feel like I went on a bender last night. All I did was stay up for way too long after a night of barely any sleep because of Rachel.
Rachel.
I fumble for my phone, but it’s dead. Shit.
My bags are sitting neatly next to my door.
I have no recollection of carrying them in.
Probably because I didn’t, according to the note on my counter.
Apparently, Berat brought me home. My car is still at the facility.
He didn’t want me panicking when I couldn’t find it.
I feel like a moron. How could I have been so stupid as to stay up for that entire flight? Just so I could do what? Make a stupid video? Because I wanted to try something new? Because I wanted to make content that didn’t involve me stripping down?
My phone has enough juice to power on. There are no missed calls or texts from Rachel. My mom, yes. She always wants to know if I got in okay. But nothing from Rachel.
I can’t believe that after everything, she wouldn’t at least text me.
The first text goes to Ma, who responds with a string of texts, using all shouty caps, dressing me down for worrying her like that. She finally stops her rant with a threat to pick me up from all my games and travel to make sure I get home safely.
Thirty-two years old, and my mom is still treating me like I’m twelve.
She means well. She loves me, and this is how she shows it. I’m lucky to have her. Some people don’t have caring mothers in their lives. People like Rachel. I can’t even imagine what that does to a person.
I can’t hold out anymore. I’m texting her.
Me: You get in okay? I got in trouble for not texting my mom when I landed. I didn’t sleep on the flight back, so I passed out on the bus. One of the trainers had to drive me home.
I wait. Nothing.
Me: Please tell me you’re okay.
Me: Rach?
Okay, now I’m starting to feel like my mom, panicking that she’s not okay. Pacing around my apartment does nothing to make me feel more calm. Neither does incessantly checking my phone to see that she hasn’t yet responded.
I can go over to her place and see if she’s there. Except I don’t know what apartment she’s in. What kind of friend am I?
I could go over and be like that guy from that movie who holds a boom box above his head and plays music until she comes out. Chicks seem to dig that.
Minutes tick by. No response. Then it’s an hour. Then it’s two hours. I’m going out of my mind. I haven’t eaten since the snacks on the plane. My body doesn’t know if it’s day or night. I certainly haven’t worked out today. None of that matters.
All I can do is worry that she’s not okay. I send a text to Xavier to see if Ophelia made it back home. She did.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
Out of desperation, I look up Oh Crap on ClikClak. There haven’t been any posts today. I hit the bio and follow the links to their website. There’s an emergency after-hours number. I startle when the voice is Rachel’s, only to realize it’s a recording.
"Thank you for calling Cramer-Romero Associates Pumps. You have reached the after-hours emergency line. This is for true emergencies only. If you are having a true emergency, please leave your name and number, and someone will get back to you within the hour. If it is not an emergency—in other words, if you don’t have sewage backing up into your house—please call again during normal business hours. "
"Hi, this is Tyler—TJ—Doyle. I’m, uh, a friend of Rachel’s.
I’m her neighbor, too. Um, well, we were just out in Vegas together.
Not together-together, but she was there to see me play a game.
Anyway, I haven’t been able to reach her since I got back, and now I’m worried she didn’t make it home.
So, um, have you heard from her? Can someone let me know if she’s okay? Please?"
As soon as I disconnect, I feel like an absolute moron. Who calls the family business and leaves a message like that?