Page 7 of No Take Backs

With unsteady hands, I exited my car and locked it before stepping toward my front door. I pulled out my keys, pissed off I’d let the rush and exhaustion of the individual workouts and media week push me to chase head.

“Dickhead,” I mumbled and entered my security code, opening the doors to my large home. I threw my car keys to the side, barely even checking they’d hit their mark on the console table, which was apparently some limited-edition, bespoke thing that I simply “had to have” according to the designer I’d hired when I’d bought the place. What once I’d thought was the height of luxury and maybe even class, now made me feel uncomfortable.

It was all bullshit.

The lies, the gossip rags, the empty existence I was living when not on the court. Everything about the game I loved. Hell, I could cream when I thought too long and hard about just how damn lucky I was to be living the dream.

I snorted as I tugged off my shirt, dumping it on the end of my bed. Basketball, playing professionally, playing in the big leagues, for shit’s sake, was “it.” It was certainly more than I’d ever dreamed of. But with the first week of workouts and media time done and next week another hit of hard yakka with group workouts before preseason games, a ball of unease formed in my gut.

Feeling heavy and sour, I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep smiling for the cameras—ones I avoided like the plague—or how much longer the dream job would be enough. Loneliness was a brute of a thing, and away from the court, it gnawed away at me like an incessant bug.

If I could spend fourteen hours a day on the court, I would do so in a heartbeat. I sighed at the thought, a genuine smile forming. Sure, I would be so tired and practically on my knees, but I’d be able to snatch on to the happiness, the adrenaline that sparked through me when we were playing a game.

Stripped and needing to find my breath, I slammed my eyes shut as I switched on the sprays to my walk-in shower. I knew it was just the media part of the week that always got my back up and that I was simply feeling sorry for myself. I reminded myself of that as the hot water, hotter than was comfortable, sprayed down on me.

Pro basketball had to be enough. It was everything.

I exhaled, turned the temperature down, and angled my face. Once the season kicked off properly and I was with the team, traveling from town to town, not knowing what day of the week it was, I’d feel better. I’d be content once again and in my happy place.

The problem lay in my downtime, which made it more frustrating that I’d let my need to have my dick sucked bring me down.

I angled my head from side to side and turned under the stream. I changed the setting of the fancy shower, and the water stung my muscles and the sensitive ink of my latest tattoo marking my left shoulder blade. I winced a little and shook my head at myself.

It was foolish to get inked up just before the start of the season, but last week it had been eight years since I’d left Australia, and the date had hit me hard. It usually did. A bender with some of the guys usually prevented me from thinking too hard about who I’d left behind.

This year, though, I’d felt the punch when I’d looked at the date. Guilt and self-loathing battled brutally for center stage. The numerous shots of JD and cola hadn’t helped break my funk. It had meant I’d rocked up to Wizard’s tattoo parlor, begging him to fit me in. I’d knocked back a coffee and a couple of bottles of water, pressing the fact I was sober enough to make the call. While Wizard had looked unsure, my desperation and pain had been plain as day if anyone looked hard enough.

A few hours later, I really had been sober. But more than that, I’d felt content, loving the escapism, the steady sting of the needle as it pierced my skin. While I didn’t have that many tattoos, I had enough that I recognized the escapism it offered and would perhaps one day get ink on more visible areas of my body.

As it was, the ink I had was all for me.

That night I’d walked away with a tattoo of a griffin with such beautiful artwork that every time I looked at the damn thing, I was terrified I’d fucking cry. And how ridiculous was that!

And now, with the bittersweet sting of the steaming water pounding into the fresh ink, I didn’t even overthink what I’d done wrong. There was no need for that. Every call I missed, every time I let down my best friend—the man who’d started to make my heart beat in the scariest of ways—and the too-many-times-to-count moments my callousness had left my sister in tears were ingrained in my skin. In my soul. They sometimes kept me awake at night and snatched at my dreams, leading them into shadowed despair that had me gasping for breath and hurting when I woke.

I attempted to shutter my thoughts, which led too often to Australia, especially in recent months, and focused on washing away the sweat from my too-close call. Once done, I dried off and headed to the kitchen to grab a light beer—the single one I could allow myself when training—before swiping up my phone and throwing myself on one of the chairs on the back porch.

Looking at the wash of moonlight across the large lake where the city curved in the distance, I opened the app store and hesitated before downloading Instagram. I’d deleted the thing about a year back, not wanting to risk the temptation of checking in with Amber where I knew she tended to hang out, but more specifically, I didn’t want to catch a glimpse of Nate. Doing so would have brought my homesickness once again to the surface.

It didn’t matter that more years than I was comfortable in admitting had gone by. Whenever I thought of Nate and now looked at the stunning griffin on my shoulder, longing and guilt slammed into me. The last thing I ever wanted to become was a martyr, but I was on the cusp of being one. I wasn’t sure I liked that look on me at all.

I barely dropped Amber a quick text, which I tended to do every Christmas, but she gave me nothing, no details beyond her doing well at school, which she’d just graduated from, and an update on Gran. Anything more I couldn’t handle, needing to protect my heart and my hide by effectively disappearing.

The knowledge sent a fresh punch to my gut. She’d graduated high school, and I hadn’t even congratulated her properly. It didn’t matter that my need to support Gran and Amber had almost equal weight to why I was here, so far away from home.

I wanted to give them the world. Wanted to pay back Gran for all that she’d done when she’d taken in my sister and me. That I had no regrets about. I knew that looking after them financially was one thing, but abandoning them by not being present was something I’d tried to make peace with. I wasn’t doing so great a job at that.

After three failed password attempts, I was finally granted access to the app. I scrunched my nose at the notifications, ignoring them all, and instead searched for Amber. Her name popped up immediately, and I hit her profile pic.

Images bombarded me, my gaze traveling from one to another with increased shock. That shock fluctuated, a flash of heat hitting my chest, morphing into white-hot anger alongside my curdling stomach.

My sister was fucking pregnant.

My mind spun, struggling to comprehend what I was seeing. I zeroed in on the image that had the red blurring my vision. Nate with his arm around Amber, his hand resting protectively on her stomach.

With a shaking hand, I clicked on the image, waiting to read the text.

@amberkicksarse: Final stretch and this hottie @nategriffin_ozis the best. #bestbabydaddyever LOL

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