The Game Plan
Page 85
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Now I know the truth. Ethan’s love won’t fix me. I have to do that myself. So, no, his love isn’t the cure. But it is something to live for. Without him, I might not want to fix myself. Ethan Dexter makes me want to be a better person. To be brave.
With a hard swipe, I clear the condensation away from the mirror. A version of myself stares back, her eyes ringed with fatigue and stress, her cheeks hollow. I rake my fingers through my wet hair, and Mirror Fi’s face comes into sharper relief.
I take her in, study her with unblinking eyes. She looks like shit. Ragged. Defeated.
Before he left, Ethan kissed this face, raining soft gifts of love over cheeks, nose, chin, mouth. Ethan worshiped this face, whispering, “You’re beautiful” with each reverent touch. Thing is, I knew he wasn’t talking about the way I look, but about how he saw the whole of me.
Who is the real me? I’m not sure I’ve ever really known. Despite what I project to people, I’ve never taken the time to get comfortable with myself as a person.
Truth is, we all project a false front to the world, peppering our social media pages with witty words and silly emoticons. Life narrowed down to 140 characters, staged selfies, and tirades over opinion posts. Life lived for the approval of the masses, all while tearing strangers down for the slightest misstep.
And when you turn away from that electric glow, when you no longer see those silent, pixelated opinions, who are you, really?
Who do you see in the mirror? When did the regard of those unknown masses become your existence? Those who will never be there for you except to judge.
If I run, I’m saying that every ugly word thrown my way is true. Worse, if I run, I’m taking the easy way out. I’m letting those people define me.
Staring in the mirror now, a surge of potent rage hits me. It’s all bullshit, these pictures I’ve let tear me down. I let myself feel the rage. And it gives me power. It fills me up and breaks free with a scream. Because I’m over feeling ashamed, and I’m never running away from life again.
Ethan once told me I’d been searching for my joy. I’ve found it. Now I need to reclaim it.
The edges of my phone bite into my palm as I clench it and dial.
“You’ve reached Bloom,” a woman’s voice purrs. “What is your pleasure?”
I grit my teeth, clutch the phone hard enough to feel it creak. “My name is Fiona Mackenzie. I took Ethan Dexter’s virginity. I want my million-dollar prize.”
Dex
I have absolutely no desire to play the game today. But there’s no such thing as taking a personal day in the NFL. Certainly not because you want to watch over your girlfriend. And sure as shit not on a game day.
Fi had shoved me out the door with the assurance that she’d be fine. Right. As if I don’t see the shadows under her eyes, the tight lines around her usually soft mouth.
I’m in a bad mood when I enter the locker room. But the familiar reek of sweat, body wash, and equipment soothes me a bit.
No one makes eye contact. It’s fucking awkward, and I spot more than one wince as I walk by. The idea that these fuckers have seen Fi’s naked body makes me want to break teeth.
I’m almost to my spot when Darren, a safety, mutters “titties” under his breath. He doesn’t get to take another. With a snarl, I grab hold of his throat, slam him into the wall. Guys explode into action around me, pulling at my arms to get me to let the little shit go. I brush them off, step into Darren’s face.
“You got something to say, motherfucker?”
Darren is wiggling like a worm, punching at my arms, his face darkening and sweaty under my grip. “Get the fuck off me.”
I don’t think so. No even when hard hands are jerking me back. Not when all the guys are shouting at me to take it easy. Fuck easy. I give Darren another slam before letting him drop. He stumbles but rights himself and takes a step toward me, murder in his eye. Good. Bring it.
“Dexter!” At my head coach’s shout, everyone goes still.
I give Darren one last glare as I turn around. No one will look at me.
Coach’s expression is tight. “In my office.”
I don’t say a word as I follow coach. There isn’t any needed. I’d do the same thing again, and everyone in the room knows it.
Getting called in to Coach’s office is never a good feeling. You remember training camp and the utter terror that hung over your head waiting to be called in to be cut or kept on. It permeates your bones until even walking by Coach’s office doors can give you the willies.
Inside, Coach stares me down from the opposite side of his glossy desk. “You going to be able to hold it together, Dexter?”
“Yes.” No. Maybe. I don’t fucking know. But he doesn’t want to hear any of that noise. So I stare back calmly, collected.
He temples his fingers—resting them under his chin in the annoying way of all coaches—and continues to stare like it’s a high-noon showdown.
Unfortunately for him, that shit has never worked on me. Something he clearly realizes when he sighs and his hands fall to his lap. “You’re one of the smartest guys on the team, Dexter. You’ve always played well. But that extra bit of intensity was missing. It’s there now. Focused. You’re playing better than I’ve ever seen.”
Great. So my rage is a bonus. It’s not like I haven’t realized this as well. But I don’t like it. Maybe Coach knows that too because he leans forward, bracing his hands on the desk.
With a hard swipe, I clear the condensation away from the mirror. A version of myself stares back, her eyes ringed with fatigue and stress, her cheeks hollow. I rake my fingers through my wet hair, and Mirror Fi’s face comes into sharper relief.
I take her in, study her with unblinking eyes. She looks like shit. Ragged. Defeated.
Before he left, Ethan kissed this face, raining soft gifts of love over cheeks, nose, chin, mouth. Ethan worshiped this face, whispering, “You’re beautiful” with each reverent touch. Thing is, I knew he wasn’t talking about the way I look, but about how he saw the whole of me.
Who is the real me? I’m not sure I’ve ever really known. Despite what I project to people, I’ve never taken the time to get comfortable with myself as a person.
Truth is, we all project a false front to the world, peppering our social media pages with witty words and silly emoticons. Life narrowed down to 140 characters, staged selfies, and tirades over opinion posts. Life lived for the approval of the masses, all while tearing strangers down for the slightest misstep.
And when you turn away from that electric glow, when you no longer see those silent, pixelated opinions, who are you, really?
Who do you see in the mirror? When did the regard of those unknown masses become your existence? Those who will never be there for you except to judge.
If I run, I’m saying that every ugly word thrown my way is true. Worse, if I run, I’m taking the easy way out. I’m letting those people define me.
Staring in the mirror now, a surge of potent rage hits me. It’s all bullshit, these pictures I’ve let tear me down. I let myself feel the rage. And it gives me power. It fills me up and breaks free with a scream. Because I’m over feeling ashamed, and I’m never running away from life again.
Ethan once told me I’d been searching for my joy. I’ve found it. Now I need to reclaim it.
The edges of my phone bite into my palm as I clench it and dial.
“You’ve reached Bloom,” a woman’s voice purrs. “What is your pleasure?”
I grit my teeth, clutch the phone hard enough to feel it creak. “My name is Fiona Mackenzie. I took Ethan Dexter’s virginity. I want my million-dollar prize.”
Dex
I have absolutely no desire to play the game today. But there’s no such thing as taking a personal day in the NFL. Certainly not because you want to watch over your girlfriend. And sure as shit not on a game day.
Fi had shoved me out the door with the assurance that she’d be fine. Right. As if I don’t see the shadows under her eyes, the tight lines around her usually soft mouth.
I’m in a bad mood when I enter the locker room. But the familiar reek of sweat, body wash, and equipment soothes me a bit.
No one makes eye contact. It’s fucking awkward, and I spot more than one wince as I walk by. The idea that these fuckers have seen Fi’s naked body makes me want to break teeth.
I’m almost to my spot when Darren, a safety, mutters “titties” under his breath. He doesn’t get to take another. With a snarl, I grab hold of his throat, slam him into the wall. Guys explode into action around me, pulling at my arms to get me to let the little shit go. I brush them off, step into Darren’s face.
“You got something to say, motherfucker?”
Darren is wiggling like a worm, punching at my arms, his face darkening and sweaty under my grip. “Get the fuck off me.”
I don’t think so. No even when hard hands are jerking me back. Not when all the guys are shouting at me to take it easy. Fuck easy. I give Darren another slam before letting him drop. He stumbles but rights himself and takes a step toward me, murder in his eye. Good. Bring it.
“Dexter!” At my head coach’s shout, everyone goes still.
I give Darren one last glare as I turn around. No one will look at me.
Coach’s expression is tight. “In my office.”
I don’t say a word as I follow coach. There isn’t any needed. I’d do the same thing again, and everyone in the room knows it.
Getting called in to Coach’s office is never a good feeling. You remember training camp and the utter terror that hung over your head waiting to be called in to be cut or kept on. It permeates your bones until even walking by Coach’s office doors can give you the willies.
Inside, Coach stares me down from the opposite side of his glossy desk. “You going to be able to hold it together, Dexter?”
“Yes.” No. Maybe. I don’t fucking know. But he doesn’t want to hear any of that noise. So I stare back calmly, collected.
He temples his fingers—resting them under his chin in the annoying way of all coaches—and continues to stare like it’s a high-noon showdown.
Unfortunately for him, that shit has never worked on me. Something he clearly realizes when he sighs and his hands fall to his lap. “You’re one of the smartest guys on the team, Dexter. You’ve always played well. But that extra bit of intensity was missing. It’s there now. Focused. You’re playing better than I’ve ever seen.”
Great. So my rage is a bonus. It’s not like I haven’t realized this as well. But I don’t like it. Maybe Coach knows that too because he leans forward, bracing his hands on the desk.
