Page 24 of Second Quarter Comeback
So how the fuck do I convince her I’m not that same stupid kid?
Back then, I thought breaking it off was the right thing to do. Camille was just finishing her freshman year. She wanted to do summer school, finish her degree in two years so she could get to med school faster. I was headed to New York. I had to show the Gladiators that I was so good, I could be their starting quarterback. Not just some back up to the back up.
My Pops warned me I was too young to be thinking about serious relationships. I listened, because, well, he was Pops. Football needed my full focus, and Camille had years of studying ahead of her. Asking her to uproot her life for me would’ve been selfish. Right?
But now, looking back, I wonder if I was just a coward.
No, Pop said it back then. People grow up. They change. And she would realize. . . but what if he waswrong? I love playing the game, but football is not my life. It’s not my personality. Yes, that’s what I let people think because it’s easy. I’m a portrait of the All-American quarterback they want to love. After I close the door though, I’m different.
And maybe, just maybe, I’m not the guy I was at twenty-one. But how do I explain that to her when she’s got me pegged as the same asshole who broke her heart?
What if I tried texting her? We can text, right? Except, does she even have the same number? I’ve changed mine at least five times in the past fourteen years. Shit. I could Google her, but that feels . . . creepy. Or I could call Jacob. He’s good at finding things—or people. That’s part of his job as my agent, right? Do what I need because he wants me happy. After all, I’m the guy who brings him the most money in his entire roster. And yes, I make sure to let my siblings know who’s best.
I hit Jacob McCallister’s number, and he answers after two rings.
“Finally,” he says, sounding exasperated. “Are you going to sign the contract with the energy drink company? They’re on my ass about it.”
“Nope,” I reply. “I already told you I’m not drinking that shit. It tastes like rat poison.”
“Do you even know what rat poison tastes like?” he fires back.
“I have a pretty solid idea after those cans you made me drink. I’m sure I still glow in the dark,” I grumble.
“You’re such a fucking diva, Crawford,” he says with a sigh. “When we started, you’d take any deal as long as they paid you.”
“Yeah, well, that was then,” I counter. “Now I know better. Get me Lotus or Ferrari. I’ll sign right away.”
“You’re a quarterback, not a race car driver,” he deadpans. “But I’ll see what I can do to get you more deals. Maybe I’ll get the other Crawford to take the energy drink deal.”
“Which one?” I ask, though I already know where this is going. He wants to play me against one of them so I’ll say yes. Instead, I divert his attention, “Greyson? He’d say yes to anything if you wave a check in his face.”
“He’s still in college. I’ll get him deals when he makes it to the big leagues—if he gets there this time,” Jacob mutters. And I hope he does, because not getting into any team at eighteen really fucked with him. The scholarships to all the Ivy leagues and Big Ten schools didn’t matter. He wanted to be in the league just like Dad and Kaden.
“So, if you didn’t call me to talk contracts, what do you want?”
I hesitate, then launch into the basics about Camille—leaving out the part where she told me to fuck myself. Twice. Jacob is silent for a beat before saying he’ll call me back in ten minutes.
Exactly nine minutes later, my phone rings.
“Okay,” Jacob says, his tone way too gleeful. “So, you want the rundown on Dr. Camille Ashby, MD, FPMRS. That’s Female Pelvic Medicine and Reconstructive Surgery, in case you’re wondering.”
“Seriously?” I ask, leaning back against the couch.
“Dead serious. She’s one of the most sought-after doctors. Not sure if she’s still practicing, but you can find her online under @TheHappyHooHaCoach. Her videos are not what you expect. She’s got tips for keeping things . . . tight.”
I blink. “You’re fucking kidding me.”
“Nope. She’s got over three million followers. And she’s making bank,” Jacob continues, clearly enjoying himself. “She’s running her own company, selling products, and get this—she’s got a book.”
“A book?” I ask, sitting up straighter.
“Yep. It’s about postpartum care,” Jacob says, and I hear a muffled voice in the background. “Noelle says her stuff works. She and her friends swear by her exercises. And I can tell you—ouch, babe. I wasn’t going to tell himthat.”
There’s a scuffle on the other end, and I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Jesus, Jacob. I didn’t need all that information, even when you didn’t say much.” Though good for him if his wife has a tight pussy. Isn’t that the dream? And now I’m digressing.
“Anyway,” he says, recovering quickly. “She’s the real deal. Honestly, if I could sign her for a sponsorshipdeal, I’d do it in a heartbeat. Maybe she’d want to write another book? I could?—”
“Don’t,” I cut him off, my mind reeling. Camille fucking Ashby. The girl I once knew—the one I loved—is now the Happy HooHa Coach with three million followers and a thriving company. And here I am, still trying to figure out how to tell her I’m sorry, please give me a chance to . . . what do I want?
