CHAPTER 25 BEN
“Fuck, Olson!” Jack yells at me. “It couldn’t have landed any better between your hands!”
I suck. Whatever. I get it.
We’ve been scrimmaging for the past hour and I’ve missed blocks and missed catches.
We all have shit games. We all have shit days.
But so far, this has been a shit week, and it’s a damn bad week for that to happen considering everything that’s at stake.
The only bright spot is that Eric Scott hasn’t shown up. Coach Bruce, the tight end coach, hasn’t mentioned anything about it, but he calls me over when I miss the third easy catch of the day.
“Graham, head in,” he says to Austin. He turns toward me. “What’s going on with you today?”
“Just having a shit day,” I mutter. “Happens to the best of us.”
“It can’t happen when you’re fighting for your spot, Ben. Austin has outplayed you every day this week. You want him to start?”
“Fuck.” I shake my head, even though I want to talk back. I want to remind Coach Bruce that we often use multi-tight end formations, and lots of times we have two of us on the field. I don’t say any of that, though. This is neither the time nor the place for back talk. “I’ll get it together.”
“Bennett fired Scott the day before camp for what he did to you,” Bruce tells me quietly. “Don’t make him regret getting rid of a perfectly good player when you’re not holding up your end of the deal.” He walks away from me to assess Austin’s performance, and I’m left to sit with those words.
Scrimmage is over, and we head inside to the conference rooms for position meetings. That means I get to sit with Austin, Charles, and Jimmy along with two guys from the practice squad, Marcus and Darryl. They’re all good guys, and I consider them all friends, even.
But that doesn’t change the fact that even though I’m the veteran player here—the one with the best history, the best stats—that we’re here for war. We’re battling one another for our spot on the field, our spot on the starting roster, to hold onto our place on the team.
All that should be my focus.
Instead, I’m thinking about her.
I’m always thinking about her.
I should’ve tracked her down before she left for California.
I should’ve been honest with her about what Tatum was doing to me.
I shouldn’t have brought it on myself to try to protect her without filling her in on all the details.
I can’t change what I did, but I can change who I am going forward.
“Congrats, Bruce,” Charles booms as he walks into the room. “You got any pictures?”
My brows dip as I try to figure out why Charles is congratulating Bruce.
He pulls out his phone and shows Charles a picture.
“Put it on the screen, man,” Charles says jovially.
Bruce does it, and a picture of a tiny creature swathed in pink fills the screen. “Sophia Marie,” he announces proudly. “My first grandchild.”
Grandchild.
My chest tightens as I think about my own grandmother and the pride she must’ve felt when her first grandchild was born—namely, me.
I’ve written off children, which means I’ve written off grandchildren, too. Because I’m an only child and Chevy never had any kids, the family line ends with me.
There’s nobody to pass down our family traditions to—not that we have any, really, but Gramma’s singsong recipes die with me, I guess.
And that thought leaves me feeling more than a little hollow.
I never wanted to go through what I went through with Tatum again, and it was just easier to say no to the possibility at all than to potentially make myself vulnerable again. But maybe life isn’t about taking the easier road.
I can’t do anything about it right now, not in the middle of camp. Personal lives stop when the season starts, particularly during this month of hell.
But if I shift my focus to figuring out how to win her back instead of focusing on how I lost her, maybe it’ll help shift my whole attitude here at camp. Maybe my losing streak will shift into a winning one.
It’s the only chance I have left to hold onto my position and to give myself the hope I need to move forward.
I listen during meetings.
I push harder during workouts.
I go all out during scrimmages.
I prove my goddamn self.
And at night, when all is quiet and I’m supposed to be resting for the next day’s battle, that’s when I allow myself to think of her. To plot and plan. To figure out a way to win her back.
Because dammit, I love her. I want a future with her.
I want to give her everything she’s ever wanted, and if that means kids, then there’s nobody I’d rather produce them with than her.
There’s nobody I’d rather build traditions with and share recipes with and take photos with.
There’s nobody I’d rather make bets with for charity and plan the future of my gym with.
It’s her. It’s been her since the moment I first allowed myself a tiny touch, and every moment we shared since then has only confirmed it.
I don’t know if she feels the same way. I don’t know if she’s moved on with Cooper Noah and I missed my window.
But I have to at least try. Even just adjusting my attitude where she’s concerned has shifted my entire demeanor at camp. I’m not having fun, exactly, and having Jack jump on my ass at every mistake isn’t helping matters, but at least I’m starting to find my old habits again.
I’m starting to find myself again.
I was lost a long time, flitting from one shiny thing to the next, never really focusing in on anything except football. And then Peaches Dalton stepped into my life, and she threw it all out of whack.
Exactly where I liked it.
I didn’t know how much I liked it until I fucked it all up, and now I’m in season which means my window for getting to her is small.
I can’t do it during camp month. There isn’t enough time.
Next month will be busy, too, and our bye week this year doesn’t fall until the weekend of Halloween. It’s a long time to wait. She will have moved forward by then.
I have to at least open the door.
So on my last night in California before we head back to Las Vegas for the second leg of camp, I take a deep breath and send a text.