The Romantic Pact (Kings of Football)(98)

Crew: I’m sorry. Want to talk about it?

Hazel: No. I’m going to take a bath.

Crew: Can I call you later?

Hazel: I don’t think that’s a good idea.

Crew: Okay . . . I love you, Hazel. In case you forgot. I love you so fucking much.





Chapter Eighteen





CREW





“My suggestion to you is you need to slow down,” Hutton says, helping me rack my weights. I sit up on the bench press and smooth my hand through my hair.

“I didn’t ask for any suggestions.”

“I’m giving them anyway. Dude, if you don’t relax, take a day off, you’re going to injure yourself, and you won’t be able to compete at the combine if you’re injured.”

Hutton is back in town for a few days after winning the bowl with Brentwood. He came floating in on a high, only to be met by his best friend, who’s in a shitty mood. To say I rained on his parade is an understatement. Even though he has little time here, he’s spent at least an hour of every day working out with me.

“Maybe it’s best if I injure myself. Then I won’t have to deal with all the indecision racing through my head.”

“Indecision? What the hell are you talking about?”

I blow out a heavy breath. “I don’t know.” I stand from the bench and grab a towel to wipe down my face. “This doesn’t feel right.”

“What doesn’t feel right?” Hutton picks up my water and hands it to me before picking up his own.

“All of this. Working out, training for something I’m not sure I want. Football. It doesn’t feel right, not since my Pops passed.”

“Are you thinking about quitting?” Hutton asks, shock in his voice. “Dude, you’ve spent your entire life working toward this goal.”

“I know, and I feel as though it’s been a giant waste of time.” I gesture to the home gym my parents put together. “All of this—it’s kept me going, moving forward. It’s brought me to every next step in my life, and the responsible thing to do would be to show up at the combine, despite my losing record this past season, and give it my all to earn myself a spot as a top pick in the draft. But when I think about it, it holds no appeal. I don’t get excited about competing. I’m not thrilled for the draft. I feel absolutely nothing.”

Hutton pauses and gives it some thought. “You know, when I received Sir Charles No-Pants in the mail—”

“Who the hell is that?”

“Uh, the sweet, musical-playing cherub you sent me from Germany.”

“Oh.” I chuckle. It’s light, but it’s something.

“I named him, and he sits on my dresser except for the nights when I try to freak out the guys and stick him in other places around the house. Fucking great gift, man. But when I received him and pulled him out of the box, a large smile spreads across my face and I erupted in laughter, because I thought, 'Shit, Crew is back. He’s fucking back. Before this past summer, he’d have sent me some weird pant-less-instrument-playing figurine because he thought it was weird.’ It was an indication that the Germany trip really helped you clear your head, that you found happiness again. But now I’m not sure. You almost seem more lost than before.”

“That’s how I feel. Lost.” I drape the towel over the back of my neck and hang on to the ends. “I thought I knew what I wanted, but then I was thrown for a loop when Hazel stepped onto the plane. The letters, the time I spent with her—it’s fucked with my head and made me think that I want more than what I’ve planned for myself.”

“What do you mean?” Hutton steps one foot on the bench and then leans on his propped-up leg.

“I mean, what if . . . what if I didn’t go pro?”

“I think people would be shocked. But then again, you don’t owe anyone anything. Is football not making you happy?”

I shake my head. “I can’t remember the last time it was fun. Even when we were winning last year, it felt hollow. It wasn’t until I was in Germany with Hazel that I actually felt fulfilled.”

Hutton slowly nods his head. “Remember this past summer when we were practicing out on the beach? Before your Pops passed away?”

I nod.

“You were throwing these bombs to me, and I was having the time of my life sprinting across the sand and catching them. I remember catching one with my fingertips and thinking, ‘What a fucking thrill.’ I wouldn’t give up that feeling for anything. I looked back at you and you were pushing your foot through the sand, walking through the motions. There wasn’t any joy in your eyes, more like you were just tossing the ball around because you had to, not because you wanted to. When was the last time you had fun playing football?”

I think about it, my mind whirling back to a specific day. “Summer, my junior year of high school. I was playing out back with Pops, my dad, my mom, my uncle Paul, and Hazel. We were a raggedy bunch. We dropped the ball, accidentally tackled each other when we shouldn’t, and we had one of the best times I can ever remember. But there was no pressure to play, no pressure to perform. When things got serious, that’s when the joy was taken out of it.”

Hutton nods. “You don’t want to do something you hate.”