Page 44 of Near Miss

I say nothing, and he continues. “You might feel like someone stole from you, you might feel this innate need to protect what’s left, but sometimes the best thing we can do is open ourselves up. All those spaces that you think are empty could be full again.”

I smile, like I’m thinking about it. But I don’t have the heart to tell him that even though there’s nothing empty inside me, because your liver is actually this beautiful organ that can heal and regrow, I’m not sure when it was going about the business of healing itself, it ever bothered to heal me, too.

Beckett

The kicking net in the spare bedroom of my apartment takes up most of the back wall.

It was the one requirement I had of my real estate agent—find me a place with a spare room big enough for the net.

It would have been more practical if I’d bought a place with a yard or moved into a suburb like my parents.

But I wanted to be in the city. I had the money, and my real estate agent had the time.

He came through in the end, with a converted two-story loft in the west end with insanely high vaulted ceilings.

It’s stupid—but I’ve always felt like I can breathe easier in here. No expectations, no burdens to bear. Just me.

My family always joke that it’s harder to get a hold of me when I’m home, like it’s some funny thing, the exact opposite of what it should be. I grin when they say it, offering them a shrug—like it’s just me, Beckett Davis, who, despite being reliable and dependable, doesn’t take things too seriously.

But it’s on purpose. I keep my phone on do not disturb, and to the chagrin of my agent, I go hours without checking it.

Today, though, two things are taunting me, warring for my attention. The kicking net, probably going to fray or wear through soon if I keep sending footballs into the top corners and the middle.

And my phone, set to vibrate, sitting on an end table against the opposite wall, in between an empty protein shake and exercise bands I threw there after my workout.

It was a bit aspirational to turn on my notifications—the only person I want to disturb me probably won’t.

Even if she’s thinking about me the way I’m thinking about her—on a constant fucking loop—she’s not that kind of girl.

I glance away from the phone, swinging my arm up in line with the middle of the net before hinging my leg a few times.

It’s a visualization thing most kickers do. When I emerged as an accidental phenomenon with the stupidest skill set ever, my college coach sent me straight to a kicking camp and hired a kicking coordinator, which is something you rarely even see at the professional level.

But he believed in me, and I’m not sure anyone ever had before, so I bought into the whole thing. Visualization, mindfulness, stillness, yoga. You name it, I did it all.

It worked until it didn’t.

It’s not working today—every time I line up a kick, my knee comes into my periphery and all I think about is what the concrete floor of that closet felt like underneath it.

What it felt like to be on my knees for her. The point of her heel digging into my back. The sounds she made. How she tasted. How she felt around my fingers and how she might feel around something else.

What it was like for someone to trust me. The real me.

I swing my leg, my foot makes contact with the football, propped up on a stand instead of held in front of me by a punter, and it goes careening into the top left-hand corner.

If this were a game, it would probably be fair, but it might hit the uprights.

My quad twinges uncomfortably, and I pound a fist into it before palming my jaw. “This is fucking pointless.”

“What’s pointless?”

My brother leans against the doorway, arms crossed over his chest, looking at me expectantly.

I shake my head, not bothering to retrieve the football from where it sits in the corner of the net, then cross the room and check my phone again before conceding defeat for another ten minutes. “What are you doing here? You didn’t call or text.”

Nathaniel gives a shake of his head, nostrils flaring with an exhale. “Beck, you don’t answer. It’s always easier just to show up.”

“Oh.” I don’t tell him that I would have answered today, probably sprinted across the room to grab my phone in time in case it was someone else on the other end. “Sorry, I guess I didn’t hear you come in. I’ve been up here for a while.”

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