Caught Looking (Mango Bay #2)

4. Chapter 1

Sloan Three Months Ago

As I lie on the turf, I already know what they’ll say about me. It doesn’t take a genius to know that in the eyes of most NFL players, I’m meek, fragile, and this was a matter of time.

I’m no stranger to the swing of the pendulum. One day I’m the best thing that’s ever happened to football, an inspiration to young girls everywhere, a badass with a mean kick—the next, I better watch out, because the NFL is not for the weak.

“Sloan, where does it hurt?” the trainer asks, trying not to move me.

“Everywhere, but I can’t—” I take a deep breath, trying to talk through the pain. “It’s my ACL.”

“You don’t know that,” he tries to reassure me, but he’s wrong. I’ve never been so sure of anything in my life.

“I do,” I grunt through gritted teeth.

The paramedics come rushing the field, and the scream that leaves my mouth when they try to move me is a sound I don’t recognize.

“You need to breathe, sweets, I don’t want you passing out on the way to the ambulance,” one guy says, trying to console me, but I’m not in the mood.

“Don’t call me sweets,” I glare in his direction.

The next three hours are a blur of hospital gowns, the smell of antiseptic, a cold table, and emergency surgery to try to salvage my career.

When they place the anesthesia mask over my face and I start counting backwards, I hear the doctor say, “MRI suggests it’s a complete tear.”

“No, no, n—” I try to mumble, but the heavy feeling of sleep takes over.

“I can do it myself!” I yell at the therapist as she tries to help me step between the metal bars placed on either side of me for support.

“You don’t want to—”

“Push it?” I interrupt her. “I’m not. I’m trying to take a step, if that’s pushing it, we have bigger problems.”

I’m never this mean. I hear myself—the brash tone I use, but no matter how many silent conversations I have with myself about the way I want to show up during this time, the words just come out harsh. It’s only been a few days, but I convinced myself I’d heal faster, be stronger.

I’ve never been so wrong.

“I’m sorry. I just—”

“No need to apologize, this is a lot.” She smiles at me, but despite her cheerful look, I can tell she’s annoyed. I don’t blame her, I’d be annoyed too if I was trying to help someone who treated me like shit.

When I get back to my hospital room, all I want to do is take a nap, until I see him. Nothing makes me happier than seeing Tanner. He makes everything better.

“Hi,” I smile.

He smiles back at me.

“Do you want to come sit with me while I order some food before I take a nap?” I ask, patting the bed, and it’s then that I realize his hands are trembling by his sides.

I crease my brow and look at him, but he won’t make eye contact.

“Tanner?”

He looks up, and the words that tumble out of his mouth as if he’s lost all control of them sting. “I can’t do this anymore, Sloan.”

My mouth drops open and I just stare at him.

“What?” The one word is the only word I finally manage. My tone heavy and disbelieving, because surely I heard him wrong.

“I was planning on talking to you the day you got hurt, after the game.” He pauses and walks closer to the bed, “But then everything spiraled and it wasn’t the time.”

I scoff, “Oh, but now is?”

I can’t believe this is happening. I would have never seen this coming in a million years. We live together.

He waits for me to continue, but I have nothing else to say—my hands shake and tears prick my eyes.

“I can’t support us both, and I don’t know what’s going to happen with your career.”

“Ha,” I laugh, trying to play this off like it’s not ripping me apart. But it turns out his inability to keep his story straight is making it a little easier to fight the tears. “Nice try, you just said you were going to talk to me before I got hurt, so what’s the real reason, Tanner?”

“I met someone.” These words knock the breath right out of me.

Again. My mouth falls open.

“We met when I was in Seattle for work, and she’s exactly what I’ve been looking for. Tall. Blonde. Motivated.”

I cut him off, “So me?” I almost growl. “You found a different version of me?”

“She’s brilliant, no one owns her, and—”

He looks at my face and stops talking, which is smart, because if looks could kill—he’d be six feet under.

“No one owns her?” I shake my head, what the fuck does that mean? “Leave.”

I don’t even wait for him to explain. I don’t care. I just need him to fucking leave, but he doesn’t he just keeps fucking talking.

“She’s moving here in a week.” That makes my heart stop beating, but I force myself to recover quickly. He doesn’t get to see me break.

“You met someone, or have been fucking someone? Because someone you just met doesn’t move for you.”

My motions are forced, and even my fingernails feel heavy as I turn the TV on and pick up the phone to order my food. He stops talking and takes my dismissal as his cue to leave, but when he closes the door behind him, I fall apart.

It hits me in pieces, not all at once, like my body can only take so much at a time. I’m sitting here, stitched together, monitors humming, my pain already measured and managed by strangers. I think I’m at the bottom of what a human can feel. Then the realization comes.

He cheated.

He waited. That’s the part that hurts almost more than the act itself.

He lived with me. He slept next to me. He watched me leave for work, watched me come home, watched me trust him without armor.

Tanner let me build days on top of a lie.

And when my body was at its weakest—he decided that was the moment I deserved the truth.

I stare at the ceiling and feel stupid for how much I’ve loved and trusted him blindly with my life, my career.

Every memory starts to rot at the edges.

The mornings in our kitchen, the casual way he touched my back as he passed, the safety I thought I had.

I don’t know what was real and what was performance.

Then the heaviest brick falls… He’s my boss. He owns me. Owns my career, makes every decision for me, and the worst part—I’ll have to see him every day. What was I thinking letting him manage all of my off field logistics, interviews, and manage me?

A memory appears out of nowhere, and it makes my heart race.

He played me.

“I love you,” I said as we laid on the couch watching a game that would determine if my team would make it to the playoffs.

“They won!” He jumped up ignoring my words.

Distracted by the fact that I was in fact one step closer to the Super Bowl clouded the realization that he never said it back. Not then, not after we celebrated. Never.

“You’re going to be so busy, babe. Let me take some things off your plate.” He kissed my temple. “Let me manage you, it’s not a good idea to stay unrepresented, we could tackle the fame together.”

It seemed too perfect, and looking back, I should have known something was up when he pulled the contract out of his bag.

“I love you,” I said again, consumed by ?excitement.

“You too.” He smiled, laid a quick kiss on my lips, and handed me a pen.

I can’t scream. I can’t leave. I can’t even curl in on myself the way I want to because my body won’t let me.

The betrayal has nowhere to go, so it spreads.

It settles in my ribs, my throat, the space behind my eyes.

I feel humiliated and abandoned and furious, all at once, and I have to lie here and take it.

I keep my eyes fixed on the door, half expecting it to open and my dad to step through, ease my pain. But the silence lingers, and I know that reality isn’t waiting on the other side.

I thought the hospital was where I would heal. Instead, it’s where I break wide open.