Page 88 of Catching Feelings

?CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

MILES

Three days. It’s been three fucking days since I’ve heard from Rowan. I camped out in front of her apartment all afternoon on Sunday, but she never returned. Neither Nash or Walker haven’t mentioned anything about her crashing at their places, which means she’s hiding somewhere, alone.

The last thing I want for her is to be alone. She’s hurting. Because of me. I never should have logged into that app and followed her. I never should have taken things as far as I did. I never should have hidden the truth from her.

But if I’d told her I was Adam86, no doubt she would have blocked me out of her life. Which is no different than what she’s doing now.

We got out of practice a little earlier today, so I’ve been pacing the parking garage by her work, waiting for her to exit. I can see her car, so I know she’s still here. When the garage is almost empty a little after seven, I figure she spotted me and took off on foot.

I hate that even more than her sleeping in some hotel room. I head back to my car and circle the streets near her office, hoping to locate her. After an hour of nothing, I head back to my apartment.

The guys have picked up on the change in my behavior, and I’ve blown it off as anything from having the shits to a toothache. I’ve forced myself to throw in a dirty joke every so often as well.

Trenton’s the only one to see through the façade. He cornered me after practice today and I almost came clean. It would be good to talk this shit out with someone, but that’s not who I am. I don’t put my problems on others. I guess Rowan and I are a lot alike that way, which is why I assume she’s holed up in a cheap hotel somewhere.

Fuck, I need to talk to her.

When I’m back in my apartment, I call her again, and once again, I chuck my phone across the room when she doesn’t answer.

Three more days go by, and as I’m packing for our away game, I send Rowan another text. My four hundred-eighty-sixth. Or something like that.

ME:Rowan. I’m so fucking sorry. You mean the world to me. Please let me explain. I never meant to hurt you. I feel so much for you, more than I want to say in a text or in a voicemail. Please, can we talk? Anywhere. My place. Yours. A coffee shop. The middle of Faneuil Hall. Ten minutes. Please, Row. I miss you.

When I reach the stadium, I put on my headphones and crank my music. I’m not normally the guy who has to shut out the world to get into the zone. My pre-game ritual is razzing the team. Telling stupid jokes. Asking my would-you-rather questions or other meaningless trivia. Anything to take off the game day jitters. Especially for the rooks.

Tennessee is a tough team, and their defensive ends are massive. I should be more focused on recalling each player’s strength and weakness, mentally preparing myself to shut off the outside distractors. But I’m not. I don’t.

Instead, I replay the message Rowan wrote to me—to Adam86—over and over again in my head. That, I have memorized.I trusted you with my innermost thoughts, and you never judged me. Thank you for that.

Trust. It’s the foundation for any relationship, even I know that. Trust and communication. Two things I royally fucked up.

The crowd in Tennessee is loud and rowdy. Normally I love when the opposing team tries to rile us up. I thrive on their taunting. Today, I couldn’t care less.

The first quarter is a bust. I drop three passes. One would have been a top ten on SportsCenter if I made it, the other two were passes a middle schooler could have caught. I was wide open. Dec threw perfect spirals into my hands.

I dropped them.

Dropped the ball on the field.

Dropped the ball in my love life.

“The fuck, Buck?” Dec taps my helmet. “Shake off whatever shit is happening. Keep it off the field. We need you. Block for Walker. Give him a hole.”

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