Blind Side(88)

“Go,” he said, waving me off. “Get your head right before Monday.”

I nodded, but before I could reach the door, he called out again.

“And don’t forget we’re not just your team,” he said, halting me.

I waited, but didn’t turn.

“We’re your friends. We’re family. I know you’re always the one lending the hand, Clay, but we can help you, too.” He paused. “You just have to be willing to let us.”

Something about that sentiment pierced me like a hot blade between the ribs, so I simply nodded to let him know I’d heard him and then ducked out the door, heading for the locker room.

As soon as I turned the corner, she was there.

Giana was dimly lit at the other end of the hall, her hair in a frazzled mess of a bun on top of her head as she fumbled with the keys to her office while balancing an iPad tucked under her arm. Even from a distance, I could see the bags under her eyes that mirrored mine, the slump in her shoulders that reminded me of the pain I’d caused her.

When the door clicked open, she sighed, and glanced down the hall.

She froze when she saw me.

The burning pain in my chest was like experiencing every tackle I’d ever been victim of all at once. It was bone-crushing and soul-stealing, and yet I took every horrendous second of it so I could stare at her a little longer.

She opened her mouth and took a minute step toward me, but then stopped, clamping her lips together again.

And then she ducked into the office, slamming the door behind her.





Giana



“You know I hate to see you like this,” Dad said, sipping his bourbon as I used my fork to push the salad around on my plate. I thought by at least moving it a little, it would look like I’d eaten some, but the heap of soggy arugula staring up at me begged to differ.

I released my grip on the utensil, sitting back in my booth on a defeated sigh. “I know. I’m sorry, Dad.”

“I don’t want you to be sorry about what you’re feeling. I want you to talk to me about it so we can figure out if there’s a way to fix what’s hurting you.”

“There isn’t,” I told him.

The corner of his mouth lifted a bit even as his brows inched together, his black wire-framed glasses shifting with the movement. He swirled his glass, taking another sip before he sat it down and leaned forward.

My own aqua eyes stared back at me, only his were darker, as was his skin and hair. But anyone who passed the table could see we were related, could see how much I favored him over my mom.

“Out of your control, huh?”

I nodded, picking up my fork again just so I could have something to do with my hands.

Dad thumbed a beat on the table. “Well, you’re at an age where life is going to start coming at you fast. This is likely the first of many things you’ll encounter that are out of your control.”

“It drives me crazy,” I admitted. “And it… hurts.”

I said that last part softly, wincing as my heart ached with that same fierce pain it had been randomly assaulting me with since Clay broke up with me.

He broke up with me.

I still couldn’t believe it.

I’d always thought the stages of grief went in order, but I found myself bouncing around between them like a pinball, knocking into denial only to swing over to anger on my way down to depression. I still hadn’t hit acceptance yet, though.

Part of me hoped I never would, because accepting it would mean it was real.

It still felt like a nightmare, like something happening to someone else. I kept staring at my phone, willing him to call it, willing myself to pick it up and text him. And when I wasn’t wishing to run into him at the stadium, I was debating if I should hand in my resignation so I could get out of there and never have to run into him again.

It had been relatively easy on game day to keep busy. Even with the loss, I had a lot of reporters to field. But when I made it through the circus and dragged myself back to my office, I expected him to be gone already, or at the very least, back in the locker room.

But of course, he was right there, staring at me from the other side of the hall as if it was me who’d broken him.

I wanted to run to him as much as I wanted to curse him out and spit in his eye.

I was a mess.

And what hurt me more than anything wasn’t what he did, but rather that I knew there was more to it than he was telling me. It was like having the first three-hundred pages of a thriller, only to have the end ripped out, to never know what secrets the main character was keeping from you all this time.

Even though I knew he was hurting as badly as I was, he wouldn’t let me in.

What more could I do?

“This wouldn’t have anything to do with the nice young man you were so excited to introduce me to today, would it? The one who suddenly came down with the flu?”

I didn’t answer.

Dad reached over, grabbing my wrist and waiting until I dropped the fork before he pulled my hands into his. “I can’t help if you don’t talk to me, little mouse.”

I shook my head. “I just… I don’t even know where to start.”

“The beginning usually works out nicely.”

I tried to mirror his smile, but it fell flat.

“You have to forget I’m your daughter for, like, the next ten minutes.”