saying, once a turd in a punch bowl, always a turd in a punch bowl.”
His contrite expression morphs to something far more familiar … contempt. “How dare you judge me? Look at you.” He flicks his hand at me. “Standing there in steel toe boots, for God’s sake. And how much weight have you gained? Ten, fifteen pounds?”
This Brad I understand. “Nice. Well, if there’s nothing else, then I’ll be going.” I turn to go inside, but his fingers grip my arm and stop me.
“You’re not walking away from me,” he snaps.
I frown down at the offending appendage, then glare at him. “Take your hands off me.” I shove every ounce of badassery I’ve cultivated over the last year into the statement. But he doesn’t release me, only jerks me closer, and I see a hint of desperation in his eyes.
That’s not good.
A desperate Brad is trouble. Big, big trouble.
Thirteen
Cash
The pounding of my feet on the pavement and my labored breaths aren’t enough to chase the lust still thrashing through my body. Like the pain of mile six isn’t enough to replace the feel of Tiger’s skin against mine. I’d hoped lacing up my running shoes and testing my endurance would erase that dismissive look in her eyes after I told her I didn’t oversee the running of my foundation.
It hasn’t.
I was a grade A asshole back in the day. Hell, I’m probably still a grade A asshole, but I don’t want Tiger thinking I am. Unfortunately, I think that ship has sailed. And that bothers me more than it probably should, which is why I didn’t stop my run at three miles like I usually do. Because everything that just happened with Tiger has my legs churning up the North Texas asphalt.
I turn into the drive of Wayland Estate and jog around to the backyard. The construction crew isn’t here yet, so I should be able to catch a quick shower before the house fills with workers.
A cramp grips my calf in a painful vice. Agony yanks the muscle taut and refuses to relent, and I stumble and nearly fall to the ground. Thankfully, I catch myself and don’t face-plant on the gravel drive.
I place the heel of my foot on the ground with my toes pointed up and my leg straight. Carefully, I bend and stretch the muscle that has been a nagging source of pain since I injured it in a nail-biting playoff victory three years ago. Ever since that touchdown run, it’s caused me nothing but misery. The damn thing cramps up at the worst possible times, like when it’s fourth and goal with fifteen seconds left on the clock, or in any number of intimate situations.
It’s only one in a long line of injuries that has my thirty-year-old body begging for mercy most days. Nearly twenty years of full-contact football has taken a toll, gripping my muscles and bones in pain and sucking the joy out of the sport I used to love.
“I’m really sick of this shit.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth I beg forgiveness from the football gods. This sport’s given me everything I could ever want—money, fame, status, and most of all, respectability. How could I be so ungrateful to the game and the teammates who count on me? The words of the orthopedic specialist I saw for my shoulder roll over and over in my head.
Cash, you can’t keep subjecting your body to this kind of punishment and not expect there to be a price to pay. Only you can decide if it’s worth it. A bigger question is, can you continue without prescription drugs? Because, believe me, that is a road you do not want to go down.
He’s right. Prescription drug addiction is an epidemic in professional football. Hell, in all pro sports. When your paycheck depends on your performance and how much playing time you see, then you’ll do anything to stay in the game, even if you’re hurt. And for some, the only way to play hurt is to medicate. I’ve been able to avoid the use of heavy-duty pain meds, even going so far as to not take any when I’ve had to have surgery, but believe me, the temptation is there. Some days, you’d do anything to make it all go away.
But I can take it. And yes, it is worth it. It has to be, because I’m not sure who I am without football.