THE LONGER I stand outside the locker room, the worse I feel. People are starting to recognize me—James Callahan’s girlfriend, the photographer—and the looks of sympathy sting. They assume that the tears I can’t quite hide are because my boyfriend lost and I’m sad for him, which is true—but only I know the real reason it happened in the first place.
Even if he tries to deny it, he lost the game for me. He was so close to making it happen, and at the last minute he sabotaged himself. The exact thing Richard warned me not to let happen played out, beat for beat, because I couldn’t hold it together long enough to lie. He would have been pissed that I lied about the kiss, but at least he would have won. I could deal with his anger after that, but this? This is unbearable.
What if it ruins his career in the NFL before it can begin? What if he gets suspended or even expelled because of the fight? I ran into the locker room as soon as I heard shouting, and my heart nearly dropped out of my body when I saw James’ face covered in blood as he wrestled on the floor with Darryl. If Darryl did worse than kiss me, I’m not sure that James wouldn’t have committed actual murder.
My stomach rolls at the thought. I bend over slightly, fighting back a sob.
A pair of arms wrap around me.
“James?”
“Hey.” He sounds so tired. I turn to look at him. The ache in my chest cuts like a hot knife. He cleaned up and he’s in regular clothes now, but the cut on his lip and bruise on his cheek look painful. “Did my family come down?”
“I haven’t seen them.”
He nods, running his hand through his damp hair. “How are you?”
“How am I? I should be asking you that.”
“I haven’t seen Darryl in a few. Did he try to talk to you?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“We need to talk,” I say. “I don’t understand—why did you—”
“Come here.” He ushers me down the hallway. We end up in a weight room, deserted now but still filled with evidence of warm-ups from before the game. He doesn’t let go of me, pulling me into a tight hug instead. Even though his face must hurt, he buries it into my hair.
I hug back, tentatively. Now that I’m with him again, I’m surprised by the itch of anger working its way through me. I want to shake him. Yell in his face as I demand answers for why he did what he did. A moment of weakness on my part led to this, and I wish more than anything that I could take it back.
“James,” I say eventually, pulling away. I wind my arms around myself, taking a step back. “What were you thinking? You can make that play in your sleep.”
“I know.”
“Then why—”
“Because I keep my word.” He reaches out, but I lean back. Maybe it’s stupid, but I want to see his face right now. I don’t want to get distracted by him in any physical kind of way. Hurt crosses his face, but only briefly. “You know that I told him that if he used derogatory language to talk about you, I wouldn’t throw to him. I said that at the beginning of the season, and it only became truer the moment I found out he actually…”
He stops, shaking his head. “He’s a fucking asshole and he needed to be put in his place. I’m not sorry I did it.”
“But I didn’t ask you to.”
“You didn’t have to. You deserved to have someone stick up for you.”
“Not like this.” My voice rises a little. “You could have won the game! You should be celebrating right now! How could you do this to yourself?”
“Because every time I saw him, I just saw you!” he says. “I saw you crying. I heard the fucking fear in your voice. I didn’t want to reward that. I couldn’t live with myself if I did.”
I bite my lip, hard, to stave off the tears that are threatening once more. Breaking down led to this; I can’t do it twice. “He didn’t matter. You should have won the game for yourself. For the rest of your teammates.”
“You still don’t get it,” he says with frustration, working his jaw. “Bex. You’re more important than a football game. Your safety is more important. Your happiness is more important. If you’re not okay, then I don’t give a shit about the game. All I care about is you.”
I blink, wiping away a rogue tear roughly. “I’m sorry I fucked things up for you.”
“You don’t have anything to apologize for.” He takes my hand, squeezing, as I choke down a sob. “You didn’t make me do this.”
“I did.” My heart hammers in my chest. “I’m so sorry I broke down; I shouldn’t have told you then. It threw everything off.”
He shakes his head. “If anything, you should have told me the moment it happened.”
I pull my hand away. “No. I ruined this for you. I took you out of the zone.”
“And I keep telling you, I don’t care!” He doesn’t yell, exactly, but the exclamation echoes around the big room. I work hard to hold back a flinch. “I don’t want you to keep things from me, I don’t want you to feel like you have to hold things back. Nothing matters but you.”
“And I didn’t ask you to feel this way!” A sob works its way out of my throat without permission. I press the heels of my hands into my eyes, trying to avoid the onslaught of tears. “I’m sorry.”
“Why do you keep saying that? You have nothing to apologize for. Tell me you know that, honey. Tell me you know that what he did wasn’t your fault.”
I shake my head. “It’s just… your dad…”
“What about my dad?”
I press my lips together tightly. I don’t trust myself to speak right now. If I ruin things between James and his father on top of everything else, I won’t be able to forgive myself. “I need to go.”
I head for the door, but he steps in front of me. “Don’t.”
I risk a look up at him. He looks stricken, scared. As much as I want to bury myself in his embrace, I know the best thing to do right now is to go. I should have left the moment the game ended. All I do is get in the way, and even if he keeps saying that’s how he wants it, it’s not what he deserves. He deserves someone who can truly support him, someone who isn’t going to make him self-sabotage. Until I can figure out how to be that person, my presence is doing nothing but hurting him.
“I just need some space.” My lip wobbles, but I stick to my guns. “I’ll see you back in New York, okay?”
“No,” he whispers. “Don’t do this.”
I shake my head. “We need to think. I know we keep avoiding the conversation, but we’re heading in different directions. You’re going to be living somewhere else soon, and you can’t do things like this when it’s your job. I have the diner, and I can’t—I can’t watch you sabotage yourself like this for me. What happens the next time I’m upset, but you have to play? What if I have an emergency, but it’s the playoffs and you can’t get away?”
“We’ll figure it out,” he says. “Trust me, Bex, please.”
I want to, desperately, but I can’t, not now. I’m too mixed up to think clearly, especially where James is concerned. I shake my head, darting past him. I hear him call my name, but I escape before he can say anything to convince me to break my resolve. I know that if I hear him beg me to stay, I will, and that won’t do any good for either of us.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel like I’m letting go of the one person I can’t live without.
