Page 84 of The Quarterback
Flashbacks from another night slammed into him as he climbed inside.Did you take me to the town make-out spot? We could do something else with our mouths.
I want you to make love to me.
He gripped the wheel as the memory drowned him. When wouldeventuallyandone dayget here? When would this agony start to ebb? When would his heart start to beat normally? When would he be able to breathe again?
He fished his cell phone out of his pants and stared at the screen.
What if he didn’t have to live in the midst of all these memories?
He swiped the screen on, then tapped in his PIN and scrolled through his email. His access to his internship account had been cut off the day Nick fired him, but he still had old messages cluttering up his phone. He needed to delete them, but that meant deleting the desktop icon and the visual reminder of what he’d had, what they’d been.
If only he could cut the pain off but keep the shape of Nick’s smile. Remember, without crumbling inside, how it felt to take Nick’s hand in the car. Hear Nick’s voice in his mind and not want to fall to the ground and scream.
There. He opened the email he’d been cc’d on from Riley Kimbrough. He scanned the message, Kimbrough drawl as loud in his memory as it had been in real life.See y’all soon,Kimbrough had typed. He’d signed the emailRK, but beneath that were his name, title, email, and cell phone number.
Colton tapped out a text message before he could tell himself that this was a horrible idea, that he was bothering a good man, that no one cared about him anymore and maybe no one ever had. Kimbrough had liked the idea of him when he was a quarterback and a national champion. That was all.
Mr. Kimbrough, this is Colton Hall. We met over the summer. I interned for Mr. Swanscott—
It killed him to type Nick’s name.
—and I wanted to reach out and thank you for everything. The experience with you and your company was life changing. I was also wondering if I could ask for a few minutes of your time. I’d like to ask your advice. Thank you in advance, Mr. Kimbrough.
He read his message. Stiflingly formal. Awkward. Terrible. He should delete it.
He hit Send.
Then he dropped his phone and tipped his head back against the seat. What was he doing? Grasping at anything?
Well, wasn’t that what drowning men did?
His phone buzzed less than a minute later. He held his breath as he opened the text.
Colton, good to hear from you. I’ll be in Waco until tomorrow morning. If you can make it up here, I’ll be happy to chat with you.
Waco.I can be there in two hours.
Text me when you arrive.
* * *
Traffic outof Austin added a half hour to the trip, but the road opened up north of Round Rock and he was able to make good time all the way from there to downtown Waco. He pulled off and idled at Baylor’s stadium so he could text Kimbrough and say he’d arrived.
Kimbrough gave him the address to a steak house across town. It wasn’t a Kimbrough restaurant, but it didn’t list prices on the menu and said “Jacket required” front and center on the website. He almost texted back, said he wasn’t dressed for such a place. But desperation made him throw his truck into drive and speed through the side streets.
When he pulled up, the valet smiled as he opened Colton’s driver’s door. “Mr. Kimbrough is waiting for you, Mr. Hall.”
Kimbrough was in the bar, in an alcove separated from the main room by a wrought iron lattice screen holding dozens of tea lights. Damn it,candles. He swallowed as he scooted around the display and sank into the leather bench seat across from Kimbrough. There were two glasses on the table, along with a bottle of whiskey Colton had only ever seen locked behind display glass at super-upscale liquor stores.
Kimbrough poured him three fingers and slid the glass across the table. Ice melt condensation trailed after the crystal. “Hell of a game,” Kimbrough said. “I was at a board meeting this weekend, or I would have gone down to see it in person. Had to watch from the clubhouse here.”
“I’m glad you weren’t there,” Colton mumbled.
“Honestly? I’m glad, too.” Kimbrough swirled his whiskey. “Who’s that new guy in your job?”
“Clarence Hobbs. He was the number four quarterback last season.” Colton shrugged.
Silence wreathed the alcove. Colton watched candlelight flicker on the wall behind Kimbrough.
