When somebody's nipple piercing stabs me in the bicep, I know it's time to get the hell out of here. Quick. I don’t want any of these overeager kids tripping over my bum leg.
One of the excited teenagers is shrieking into her phone, putting out an SOS call to alert god-knows-who-else of my presence in the gas station.
And to think, I just stopped by here to fill my tank and buy a pack of gum.
I unknot myself from the web of fans and head for the door, trying my best to hide the limp. The last thing my precarious career needs is footage of me, dragging ass out of a gas station, to hit the gossip sites.
The heady stench of gasoline feels like a personal assault as I hobble out toward the pump where my luxury convertible is stationed. My glance drops to my phone. Still waiting for that confirmation message from Cannon.
When I'd called and told him I was on my way into town, I'd been hoping to stay at his place. He has a whole, entire mansion that he and his new wife, Lexi, keep all to themselves. I'd expected to be able to bunk in one of their eleventy dozen bedrooms. No such luck.
Apparently, there's a nudity rule in effect in their house and I don't want any part of that. Anyway, Cannon said he had a lead on a comfortable place for me to stay and that he just has to iron out the details. I'm waiting anxiously for him to get back to me with a text.
Someone shouts my name, and I look around. Two gas stalls away, some guy is waving. I squint. I can’t tell whether it’s a fan who recognizes me or an old acquaintance from town.
Please don’t come over here, I beg internally. Please don't come over here.
Whenever I come home, the locals all want to chat about ‘how they knew me when…’ Usually, it's cool and I don't mind the attention, but I’m not in any shape for any more cheesing and selfies and autographs today.
“Get better soon, man!” the guy shouts.
I put on my trademark cocky grin, trying to act like I've got this under control. "Already on the mend. I'll be back on the field in no time." I give a salute and turn away.
I hustle the car door open and fall into the drivers’ seat, massaging my aching knee and thigh muscles.
From behind the wheel, my gaze sweeps the cluster of mom and pop storefronts nestled around the waterfront and the small houses dotting the familiar lush green terrain in the distance.
Crescent Harbor, Illinois. Population: 5 000.
Ending up back here indefinitely—especially at the beginning of the football season—hadn't been part of my plan.
This was supposed to be my year. We were going to bring the championship home again and this time, I'd be the team's first-string tight end. At least, that was what I was working toward. I was hungry for it. So damn hungry I got overeager and fucked it all up, in a pre-season game, no less. Now, all I have is the soul-singeing burn of my dashed dreams and the memory of that one wretched moment when I made the fatal error.
One game. One fucking play. Just five seconds off the play clock, and my life changed in an instant, eradicating my all-star dreams and leaving my future in limbo.
But Crescent Harbor is home. Being back here is for the best. That's what I keep telling myself. I just need to lay low for a while. Get out of the limelight. Focus all my attention on my healing. And what better place to do that than my quiet, secluded hometown?
When I pick up my phone, I see that my brother has finally messaged me with the details for the rental.
I tear out of the gas station just as an old, duct taped Volkswagen Quantum swings into the lot with a load of teenagers hanging out the windows, yelling my name. I breathe a sigh of relief that I dodged the incoming bullet.
Plugging the address into my phone’s GPS, I make the short drive across town with a sports talk radio station playing last night’s game highlights in the background. Those assholes talk so much shit. I’m arguing at the radio the whole time.
Fine. I’ll admit it—I’m a little salty that my brother didn’t offer to let me stay with him. Cannon and I were always the