Tears smart my eyes as I walk back to the tiny kitchen to get another platter of chicken fingers. Staring blindly at a gloppy vat of barbecue sauce, my body goes numb, as a lump fills my throat, threatening to choke me.
I’ve become everything I’ve ever been accused of, a nobody, a shadow who sought dark corners for fear of judgment. And I’d done it to myself, believing in other people’s perceptions of me, playing into it and hiding away as though I’m not good enough. The worst part is that I thought I was doing the opposite, that I was being strong, not giving a fuck.
What bullshit. If anything, I care too much. I care about the opinions of the wrong people, faceless fucking people that will never mean anything to me, and yet I’ve been ducking my head for fear of what they think.
“God.” My fist hits the countertop with bruising force. Bracing my hands on the counter, I rock back and forth, blinking back the tears. I can’t believe this. I’ve been so stupid. So blind. “God.”
In the outer room, the crowd cheers at a play. I suck in a sharp breath and wipe my eyes with the back of my hand. A strange sense of lightness steals over me. My shoulders lift. But deep inside my chest, I still ache. The hole is still there.
Drew. Only he can fill that void.
After the game is over, I’m going to him. I’ll tell him everything. Beg for another chance if I have to. We could have been so good. We were so good together. I was just too much of a coward to believe in it.
As I return to the box, I feel battered but calmer, like I’ve cried all night but have finally caught my breath. The game is back on, and the spectators settle in.
I am about to set the platter on the table when it happens. It’s as if I can feel the danger creeping up. My head turns to the wide plate windows just as the men and women in the box start to shout. Everything slows down. My gaze narrows on the massive linebacker smashing into Drew, taking him out low and to the side, while another brute comes at him from the opposite side.
Drew goes down. His leg is wrong, sticking out at an odd angle. And he is screaming. It’s the sound of raw agony. It tears through the box and over the stadium. It takes the breath out of the roaring crowd, creating dead silence.
The platter crashes to the floor in a spill of fried chicken pieces. Someone turns and glares. I am already running from the room.
IN THE BOWELS of the stadium, it’s chaos. Reports and players are everywhere. People are shouting, and then campus security is there. My catering badge gets me far but not far enough. I’m stopped short of the locker room by a vigilant guard.
“I’m his friend,” I shout, frantic. Drew. Drew.
“You and everybody else, honey. Give us a break and let the doctors look at him in peace.” The guard moves to close the door, when I see Gray just behind.
“Gray Grayson! Gray!” I’m screaming.
He stops and frowns through the slit in the closing door.
“Please, Gray!”
Gray’s still scowling as he ambles forward and shoulders past the guard. I grab onto his arm as soon as he’s close enough. His skin is cold and covered with sweat. Next to me, he’s a house, a wall of white and red in his pads and uniform. His expression is grim, scared, and it scares me more.
“Is he okay?” I’m panting. My grip on his arm tightens.
Gray’s throat works, and when he talks it’s a rasp. “His leg is broken. Bad.”
“Oh, Drew,” I whisper. His season is over. Maybe his career. I ache for him. Wrapping my arms about my middle, I search Gray’s face. “Can you get me in to see him?”
Gray’s blue eyes fill with suspicion. It’s as if he’s just remembered that I am the enemy. I don’t know how much Drew has told him, but it can’t be good.
“He doesn’t need that aggravation. If you’re here to gawk—“
“Fuck you.” I slap a massive shoulder pad. “Fuck if that’s why I’m here.”