Page 57 of Tight End

I lean my head back and stare up at the sky. He’s pissed. Hell, everyone’s pissed. I really dug myself a deep grave with that press conference. If I’m being honest, it was more than just me going off the rails. Deep down, I guess I created that shitstorm to see who might find their way to me afterward. To see if there was anything real in the pile of crap I left in my wake.

Two people showed up.

Lane and Sam.

Yeah, they both wanted to throttle me. But they still confronted me.

They still cared enough to make the attempt.

I stand up from the bench and walk over to the railing. I lean over as far as I can go, stretching my back out.

Can I ever be fixed?

I don’t know. I’ve suffered too much, there is way too much baggage for anyone to want to bother wading through.

It’s safer for me to be on my own, away from anyone who can make me feel like shit.

I’ve had enough of that over the years.

But I need to find a way to make myself better on my own.

Because wallowing in this emotional dumpster fire isn’t cutting it.

I clench my fingers into a tight fist and look back at my phone.

I want to be better. At the very least, I want to be “okay.”

So I stab Ben’s number into the keypad because acknowledging my agent is probably a good start.

“Ben, listen?—”

“No, you listen, Brixton.”

His voice is strained and I can tell he’s somewhere in public because he’s not yelling even though he wants to be.

“I signed you because you were on your way to becoming a force to be reckoned with. Supreme talent doesn’t come along often and I saw that in you. But since Davis died, you’ve been a fucking disaster, worse every goddamn day.” His voice drops. “I mean, the surfing at Half-Moon Bay? In that water? Are you fucking trying to self-destruct?”

I close my eyes and blow out a breath.

Jesus Christ, people don’t talk to me anymore. They just lecture.

And I can’t blame them.

“No,” I say.

“Well, it sure as hell doesn’t seem that way.” He lets out a frustrated sigh. “I want to help you, but if you don’t start cooperating, I’m done and you’ll be on your own. As it is, I’ve been doing serious damage control since you walked out of that hotel yesterday. You have a chance to do some good at Play It Forward, just like we talked about. I suggest that regardless of whatever the hell happened between you and Sam, that you make your way over there and find a way to give back.”

“Kind of hard since I’m not an athlete. What the heck can I offer those kids?”

“You don’t need to be an athlete. You know football andhockey. I’ve seen you yell at the television plenty on the tour bus. You can be a sports fan who just wants to help. They have lots of actual coaches there to teach. You’re there for a different reason, for support.”

Support. That’s a first for me.

My phone bleeps with an incoming text and my heart jumps into my throat because I want it to be from Sam.

“I just sent you something,” Ben says. “So you can see what I’ve been dealing with and why you need to pull your head out of your ass.”

I pull the phone from my ear, click the link, and pound the top of the railing with my free fist.

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