Page 41 of The Playmaker
She flashes a painfully awkward smile at me. "Um. So, I should go. Thank you," a wince at the weirdness of the sentiment in a moment like this, "for hanging out with me." She adds hastily, "Out there. Earlier." She gestures vaguely to the door.
She fumbles with the lock as my shocked eyes watch her succeed, open the door, and then she looks at me, or rather, in my direction without making eye contact. "It's just…you have secrets. And you don't trust me with them."
I watch her walk out without another word, feeling like I've been tackled from my blind side.
What just happened?
I thought we were…good. All night I could feel her energy matching mine. And now, this.
Secrets?I run a hand through my hair and exit the coat check room. She's nowhere to be seen. A strong hand clamps down on my shoulder and I nearly jump.
"Jeez, my man. Jumpy much?" Hawk's too-loud voice grates on my nerves. He looks around. "Alright! Where do we start—it all looks good."
But I can't do the tour of each table again after just doing it with the woman who ran out on me right after I asked her to date me…so I suggest we bounce and try another of the stops of Restaurant Week. All night I keep checking my phone. Hoping she'll text. Hoping she'll somehow say yes.
But she doesn't. And I feel the loss of her even more than I have the past week. How did I mess things up so badly?
The lights are bright. The crowd is loud, chanting my name. I should be riding high. I should be living my dream out here on the field. But I'm not doing well. I can't seem to keep the ball in my hands. My legs feel slow. And on top of it all, Coach just benched me for the next play.
"I don't know what's going on with you, but I can't play you out there if your head is in the clouds," Coach says, a hand on my padded shoulder.
"I know. I am trying," I insist. I'm frustrated. Avery turning me down the other night and then not texting, calling, or even old school emailing me is getting to me. I put myself out there with her, asking her to date me and she just…disappeared.
Coach frowns. "One more shot. Then I'm benching you the rest of the game. I mean it, Jax. You have to get your head in the game." He squats down to be more eye level with me. "Whatever has you distracted, get rid of it. We play against our biggest rival next game. And this," he jerkshis thumb up to the dismal scoreboard, "cannot happen then."
He claps me on my shoulder as if that is going to fix anything, and then walks away.
I sit there, mind deep in turmoil. Since when did I ever let anyone get into my head this way? Eight years in the NFL, and I've never once let my personal life affect my game. Until now. Until her.
"You're good," Hawk says, walking by. He nudges me roughly, gameday testosterone all but rolling off of him. "Just forget about everything else. It's just you and the leather out there—you and the ball. Got it?"
I nod getting to my feet to jump up and down in place. He's right. It's just me and that damned slippery ball on the field. Not Avery. Not her eyes and the way they see straight into me. Not her lips and the way her nose wrinkles slightly just before she laughs.
I groan, doing some jogging and squats up and down the sideline. I will conquer this. I will get my head out of Avery-land and into what matters now: not letting my team down.
When the time finally runs out, we do emerge victorious, but it's not because of me. My performance was embarrassing. Coach shakes his head at me, sparing me another "pep talk." We both know I can't space out again. And I won't.
After a long, hot shower in the locker room, I take my time in my post game stretching and rub down from one of our PTs. When he's done I finally pull myself together out of my somber mood enough to head home. I walk down the tunnel to the players and media parking lot. Posters of all the greats who have come before me and played in this very stadium line the walls.
I nod to my favorites, a way to remind myself of who I want to be in the NFL. Not just a flash in the pan, but a player who is great, who led his team to the Super Bowl… and won.
I pause in front of my own poster right by the entry door. Isee my confidence, my cocky grin for the camera. But I also see what it is: part of my façade, my image. It's me giving the people, the fans, what they want in their NFL star.
But the real me? That part only Riley sees. And the real and raw me…that's something I've only just started to show Avery.
Her rejection stings. I sigh as my phone pings. A new DM to my personal and private social media page.
That's odd. The page is set to private and is under my middle name, not my first name.
I groan when I see the message sender. Giselle.
I briefly skim the message where she claims to have dirt on me. I scoff. That doesn't sound like her. Maybe she was hacked. The second message from her account warns me, telling me to consider my next move carefully.
I scoff. This is ridiculous. And this type of spammy message is exactly why I need to shield Riley.
Riley. My secret. Maybe it's a secret Avery deserves to know.
But would it matter now? Would she even care? Or is she already halfway to her next story, her next exposé, her next athlete to dissect?
