practice, so I’ve been labelled “brooding” and “mysterious.” Go figure.
The more I deflect, the more they want me.
Like now, as I park my car and make my way towards the players’ entrance of the stadium.
“Hi, Bo.”
I turn. It’s three girls, hanging out next to a yellow Jeep. They’ve been waiting for me.
I glance at them as I walk past. “Hey.”
“What are you doing for the next twenty minutes?” one of them asks.
“Getting ready to play a game of football.”
“The game doesn’t start for two hours,” one points out.
I don’t feel like having a conversation with these girls. They’re dressed like they should be hanging out on a street corner. I wouldn’t be surprised if they just finished banging the entire basketball team. Be nice. “We have warm up.”
“What about later?” says the blond. “What are you doing after the game?”
“Celebrating, hopefully.”
“We could meet up with you. That is, if you’re sure you don’t want us to help you warm up a little … before warm up.”
“Yeah, Bo,” says the dark-haired one. “We could all help you warm up.”
I keep walking. “Maybe another time.”
My behavior would probably be considered strange to most people, I know that. Most guys would be thanking their lucky stars that every woman they meet is desperate for some goddamn action. My problem is, I can’t bring myself to go with it.
Which could have something to do with the fact that my mother died of a particular aggressive form of pancreatic cancer on my fifteenth birthday. Three months later, my father hung himself in our garage. He loved her so much he just didn’t want to live without her. On her death bed, my mother’s final words to me were … promise me you’ll stay true to your own heart.
I told her I would.
Which I now regret.
Caleb joined the Marines a few years later and Gage coped by jumping into bed with legions of women, maybe for some kind of comfort or distraction, who knows. As for me, I’m stuck in a zone that’s partly about honoring a promise and partly about trying to find a way to respect what my dead parents once had.
I’m not exactly fucking thrilled about any of it, but it’s the hand I’ve been dealt: I’m incapable of letting myself have random, meaningless sex. I’m waiting for the real thing, as ludicrous as that might be.
And, since I’ve never met anyone who I could potentially see myself falling in love with—not even close—I’ve been saving myself for some elusive, perfect woman who might not even exist.
Who probably doesn’t exist, let’s be honest.
Which fucking sucks.
I wish I could climb into that Jeep and go for a joyride with these girls. I wish I could let off some metaphorical steam all over them. Take out my frustrations in a long-overdue frenzy until they were crying for more than one reason.
But no. I spend every single second of my time mired in a ferocious, feral state of relentless, raging lust. For a phantom lover who never shows up.
I exist in a haze of blazing, pent-up need that has nowhere to focus besides football, which only releases a miniscule fraction of it.
I hang out with friends, I swim until my muscles are aching, I pump iron until I’m drenched in sweat. But none of it helps.
It’s a big fucking problem.
I’m glad the football season officially starts tonight. Now that I can immerse myself in practice, games and my business and finance classes, time won’t seem so slow and heavy, I can only hope. Caleb will be home next month. My brother has seen some serious combat in Afghanistan and I have a feeling he’ll be a changed man when he gets back. I email him every couple of days to try to boost his morale, which hasn’t been great lately. It’ll be good to have him home again.
The girls call after me, begging me to come back to them.
I almost turn.
I almost fucking do it.
Promise me … stay true to your own heart.
I am. I said I would. But what if it kills me?
There’s more to me than a heart. And everything else about me wants to fuck like a maniac.
I keep walking.
I get to the locker room and toss my bag onto a bench.
Most of the team is already there and we go through our plays and warm up and I do what I need to do. I try to focus.
Each day, it’s getting harder.
My head isn’t straight. My situation is starting to fuck with