Coach wants me to reflect more. To quiet my mind. To sit in silence with no TV, no phone, no noise. He thinks it’ll help me focus and keep me calm. I think it’s a bunch of bullshit, but I’m willing to give it a shot if it’ll help get my career back on track.
I did a lot of damage the last few years. Made a lot of mistakes. Did things I’m not proud of.
My wakeup call came bright and early on a Sunday afternoon after one hell of a weekend bender. Coach called and told me he and the owner had a meeting about me. They were concerned about me ruining the reputation of the Gainesville Cougars, and with the team being so new and with millions of dollars being pumped into marketing, they were considering letting me out of my contract early.
The arrogant asshole in me huffed in response, telling him I could get signed to another team the very next day if I wanted. All it’d take is one call to my agent. But Coach responded with a pause and a sigh, telling me no team in their right mind would sign a liability like me. I didn’t say it at the time, but I knew he was right.
This silence gets under my skin. Makes me think too much. Even the ticking of the clock in the foyer makes my teeth grind.
Rising up from the sofa, I move to the back door and dig out my running shoes. Hammering out some quick stretches, I jog in place for a minute before heading out the door.
Striding down the block, I pass Rue’s house, forcing myself to stare straight ahead and not look for a flicker of light through the windows. I jog up the hill, past Mrs. Donovan’s orange trees, and keep going until I’ve long passed Harry Rittmer’s prize-winning peony bushes.
I’m too fucking young to live here.
Rounding the corner, the first thing that comes into focus half a block down are a pair of neon pink jogging shorts. A dark ponytail bobs up and down as she takes even strides. Picking up my pace, I catch up a moment later, tapping her shoulder once.
With puffy red cheeks, she turns my way, her expression fading as she yanks earbuds from her ears and slows to a stop.
“This better be important,” she pants, checking her watch and then placing two fingers on her neck. Dark tendrils of hair are matted to her face and her lips are just as flushed as her face, but she’s hot as hell, and the old me would have no problem peeling off those sweaty layers and having my way with her right here, right now, behind the peonies.
“Haven’t heard from you since the other day,” I breathe. “Haven’t seen you around much either.”
Her brows meet. “I’ve been busy.”
“I felt like my apology was rushed the other day,” I say, pointing to a wrought iron park bench under a tree behind her.
She checks her watch, letting her fingers drop from her neck. Her shoulders fall and she takes hesitant steps toward the bench.
The tinny beep-beep of a golf cart steals our attention, and I glance to the street to find Ethel French putting by. She wears an ear-to-ear grin and gives me an emphatic thumbs up, but I shake my head no.
“What’s that about?” Delilah asks.
“That’s Ethel,” I say. “She saw us at the pool the other day. Thinks we like each other.”
Delilah’s tongue darts out as her nose crinkles.
“Exactly what I told her,” I say, taking the spot beside her. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry if I came across . . . in a certain way. I’ve been going through some things. Trying to make some changes. Ninety-nine percent of the time, I’m surrounded by a bunch of oversized, foul-mouthed meatheads, and none of us have the ability to think before we speak. We tend to rub off on each other . . .”
“Zane. It’s fine.”
Our eyes lock, our breaths coming to near halts. Or maybe it’s me who’s forgetting to breathe. Delilah wears the kind of beauty that should be outlawed. Natural. Inherent. Inside and out. She reminds me of a small town prom queen who never quite figured out what to do with those kind of looks.
But forget about the exterior. Her sass. Her feistiness. That’s what grabs me. She doesn’t want anything to do with me. She’s not throwing herself at me. For all I know, she finds me repulsive.
And for that reason, I can’t bring myself to stop thinking of her.
To stay away.
“I stuck up for you to Aunt Rue the other day,” she says.
My head tilts. “Oh yeah?”
“She called you a child.”
I laugh. “That sounds like Rue.”
“She thinks you’re a filthy football player. And believe me when I say I’m not inclined to disagree with her. I’ve heard stories. Answering the door naked? Peeing on your lawn? Screwing women with your blinds open? Really?”
“I won’t deny I’ve done those things.” My palm glides along my jaw. “But I haven’t in a while. Not since last season ended.”
“Okay, I don’t know when football seasons end, but good for you for making some changes in your life.” Delilah’s arms lift over her shoulders, and she stretches once more as she eyes the sidewalk ahead.
“You sound like a therapist.”
“Th . . . thank you?”
“That’s not a compliment.”
Her mouth parts but nothing comes out for a moment.
“What are you talking about?”
“Good for you for making some changes in your life,” I mock her tone and inflection. “You don’t have to be condescending.”
Her hand lifts to her heart. “I sincerely apologize. It wasn’t my intention to sound that way.”