Page 75 of Fumbling for Perfection

Same tone as her message. Nothing flirty. Nothing deep. Simple. Barely friendly, like her texts.

Two days later, she surprises me with another text.

PERFECTION: You’re getting lots of media coverage. Boston loves you. I’m glad things are looking up for you.

Professionally, sure. Personally, not so much. They’d be a lot moreupif she was back in my life as more than a kind of friend person.

ME: Thanks.

Not wanting to be a total dick, I add a second text.

ME: I hope you’re doing well too.

I toss my phone on my couch and head to the kitchen to make dinner. My new apartment is just outside the city, halfway to the stadium, so my drive is less than twenty minutes. It also means I’m twenty minutes from Riley, which is the separation I needed to keep my head in the game.

I’m doing a shit ass job at winning her back. Christ. I don’t have a fucking clue how to win her back. My ego’s been stomped on. Before meeting Riley I didn’t even realize I had an ego.

She’s sent two more toneless but somewhat friendly texts in the past week, and I’ve replied to both as a standoffish douche. Way to let her know how badly I want her back in my life.

I fucking suck at this. Chasing a girl. I can run over two hundred-fifty-pound linemen to get a fucking pigskin ball to an endzone, but I can’t even take one step in the right direction to run after the woman of my dreams.

I’m a fumbling mess and in desperate need of help. My teammates are decent guys, and some I may be able to call friends one day when I get out of my own head, but I’m not about to go to them for dating advice.

There’s only one person who can help me. Swallowing my pride, I pick up my phone and call my brother.

“Hey, Walker. You’re the talk of the town lately. I saw your mugshot on the side of a bus yesterday. Almost scuffed my Gucci loafers on the sidewalk.”

“That would have been tragic.”

“You’re telling me. Hang on a sec.” I hear muffled conversation, like Jackson is covering his phone while he talks to whoever is in the room. “Sorry about that. Crazy ass busy here.”

“You’re still at the office at seven?”

“No sleep for the wealthy.”

“I sleep.”

Jackson laughs. It’s rare that I say something that makes someone else laugh. Except for Riley. I used to make her laugh all the time. She’s the first person I felt I could be myself around.

“I won’t keep you if you’re busy.”

“You called for a reason, brother. What’s up?”

“It’s alright. You’ve got a lot going on. I didn’t realize you were still at work.”

“Ew. Don’t tell me you’re the passive aggressive type. Just spit it out. You okay? If you’re in trouble or need anything, or whatever, I’m here for you, man. I know we’re not close yet, but I want to be.”

It’s the first time anyone asked me that outside of football, and this weird fluttery thing goes off in my gut. It’s nice to be worried over.

“I, uh, it’s not really a phone conversation. Maybe we can get together for a drink or dinner or something.”

“Cryptic.”

“I don’t mean to be dramatic about it. I’ll be in touch another—”

“I’m going to be at the office until late. Catching up from my second honeymoon, but it was worth taking a week off in July. I don’t remember the last time I ate. I think it was today, but I’ve been in meeting after meeting. Why don’t you come by. Bring me sustenance.”

I’ve never been to Bankes Inc. and I never want to. Running into our father is the last thing I want to do.

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