Page 74 of Fumbling for Perfection

“Oh my word, Riley. Come see Lydia’s baby. Isn’t she the cutest?”

With a heavy sigh, I turn around and see Julie holding Lydia’s three-month-old baby girl. Her cherub cheeks and toothless smile has my heart twisting in my chest. Do Ineedto have a baby now? No. Not until I’m financially stable. But do I want one before it’s too late? Yes.

Which answers my question.

I’ll keep him in my life, but Walker and I can’t be anything more than friends.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

WALKER

The first week of training camp has been brutal, but my body welcomes the soreness. It’s the only thing helping to keep Riley off my mind twenty-four seven. Instead, I’m down to about twenty hours of her on my mind.

I haven’t seen her since I walked out of her office ten days ago. I had gone with the hopes of just being with her. Maybe taking a walk around the city. Grabbing lunch. Not that sex is off the table, but that’s never going to happen if she won’t even talk to me.

I’m sure I overreacted to her legitimate question.

Talk about what?

But it was another stab in the chest. I overheard enough of her conversation with the Kyle guy to know they were just hanging out, and he was offering some sound advice. I should be glad she has people to talk to freely. I would be, if I was one of those.

Instead, I have to have a reason for being in her presence. The few times I was invited into her inner sanctum, by Jackson no less, I felt like an outsider to their jokes, to their stories.

I wrap my towel around my waist and cross the shower room to the locker room.

“Good practice, man.” Declan Anderson slaps me on the back.

He’s young, but a damn good quarterback. The rookie earned his spot on the team this week, especially since Derek Tibbits threw out his throwing shoulder at the end of last year’s abysmal season. He’s still on the roster this year, but chances are he won’t be ready to start for another month or two.

“Keep throwing like you do and there’ll be no need for me.”

Dec laughs. “As if. Boston would strangle me if I never handed the ball off to you. You’re a fucking beast tearing through the D-line. Not bad for an old man.”

“Everyone’s an old man to you. Let me know when you’re ready to shave. I’ll give you some pointers.”

“Douche.”

“Old man douche to you.”

The rest of the team filters in from their showers, and typical locker room banter picks up. I’m not usually into it, preferring to listen in and observe rather than start it or be the center of it. Keeping my back to the room, I dress in shorts and a T-shirt and pick up my phone, noticing three missed text messages.

Like my social life, my messages are few and far between. When I see who they’re from, I can’t help the way my lip quirks. She must have unblocked my number.

PERFECTION: I hope preseason is going well and you’re enjoying your teammates.

PERFECTION: Sorry. That sounded stupid. I hope you’re doing well.

I reread her messages a dozen times. She didn’t ask me a question, so I’m not sure how to respond. Is this an olive branch? If so, it’s weak. I can’t let myself look too deep into her messages. They’re nice, formal, and almost friendly.

Cordial at most. Unlike the string of flirting texts from months ago. Because I seem to enjoy inflicting pain on myself, I scroll through our previous messages from when all was right between us. Or rather, I believed all was right.

I’ve forgiven her for the lies, and understand where she came from, but for once I believed someone was interested in me for just being me without an ulterior motive. I wasn’t the right person, the right son, for my parents. My fans adore me when I rush over a hundred yards and score touchdowns.

If I have a bad game, they toss me aside. It’s true with all athletes, not just me. Most can brush it off. I would be able to if I had something—someone—else in my life to hold on to. I want that someone to be Riley, but if I try to hold on to her, she’ll only push me away.

I wish she could forgive my words and trust me as quickly as I’ve forgiven her. My fingers hover over her text. It’s not in my nature to leave someone on read, so I type a quick reply.

ME: Thanks.

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