Page 3 of Bound and Blitzed

“Another champagne?” the bartender guesses.

“Give me something stronger, man.”

He offers an understanding, knowing look and pours me the same scotch that Grandpa’s drinking.

I take a swig of the amber liquid and enjoy the burn on the way down. Then, I turn toward the front of the room as a fork clinks against a glass.

My sister is holding a microphone and Cohen stands beside her, his arm around her waist, his hand on her hip.

“Hi, everyone!” Raia says, giving a little wave. The chatter dies down and all attention turns toward Raia and Cohen. “We want to thank you so much for coming tonight to celebrate with us.”

“It’s our bye week!” one of my teammates—I think Gage Gutierrez—hollers. “There’s no place we’d rather be!” Yep, definitely Gage.

The crowd laughs.

“True,” Raia agrees. “Cohen and I are so grateful to all of you for being such important parts of our lives.” As she continues to thank their families and friends, I note how close people huddle together.

Couples. Longtime friends. Family members.

I remain beside the bar, apart from the group. Always apart and yet somehow, viewed to be at the center of things.

It’s a strange feeling. A head trip really.

Everyone looks at me and thinks I lead this glamorous life. Quarterback for the Knoxville Coyotes. Avery Callaway, Sexiest Man Alive.

But in reality, I’m lonely. Some days, I’m just going through the motions. Most days, I’m fed up with my own bullshit.

Just once, I’d like someone to expect more of me.

Not in football or my career, but in life. Personally. As a man.

As I glance around the buzzing ballroom, I hate that none of those people are present in this space.

They all keep giving me a pass.

And I don’t deserve it. I haven’t in a long, long time.

I’m exhausted when I reach the front door to my condo building. Around me, downtown Knoxville bustles. The Uber driver stalls at the curb, and I lift my hand to let him know he can take off.

As he drives away, I watch the taillights of his Tesla grow faint. Dropping back my head, I stare up at the condo building. I live on the seventh floor and note how dark my apartment looks. I didn’t leave a light on. It’s not welcoming or beckoning. In fact, right now, I don’t want to take the elevator up and sit in the empty space. Alone.

Shaking my head, I try to brush off my mood, my restless energy. Instead of entering the building, I walk around the corner. There’s a neighborhood bar that’s never too busy or too quiet. It’s a hub for the locals who live in this area as well as a welcoming place to grab a pint for the random tourists that venture in.

I slip inside Sal’s Sports Bar and breathe a sigh of relief. I’ll grab a beer, watch whatever sporting match is on television, and let the chatter of strangers wash over me. Then, I’ll go home and crash.

I’m about to take a seat at the bar when I see her. Or, rather, hear her.

Her cell phone is pressed to her ear, and she speaks in clipped, rapid Spanish. Her tone borders on frantic and I note how her fingernails—short, clean, and unpolished—tap on the bar top.

Long, slightly frizzy curly hair. Blue-green eyes that normally brim with curiosity and right now appear panicked. A cute smattering of freckles over the bridge of her nose. And the most shapeless sweater I’ve ever seen hang off a woman’s frame.

It’s my stalker.

Chapter2

Valentina

“I askedyou not to get involved,” I remind my father, my voice severe.

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