Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
It’ll be my first major media event after a loss, and I’ll be talking to the public right next to my rival.
The guy I’m more than crushing on.
The man who’s constantly on my mind.
I sink to the floor as the scariest realization hits me square in the chest. Jason’s also the person I most want to talk to tonight.
Except he won his game, and he’s probably on the team plane, celebrating on the way home.
Good for him. He deserves to.
I deserve to suffer . . .
My mind is a monster. It wants to trick my body, to send my heart into a horrifying overdrive.
But I know this drill.
I have the tools now.
I stalk to my bedroom and grab my phone. Flopping down on my bed, I turn to one of my apps and tune into a thirty-minute meditation on stress.
I can’t let anxiety conquer me. I won’t let it defeat me. I close my eyes and listen to a soothing voice take me into a deep breathing exercise.
At first, I try to fight back against my brain, as some ancient part of me repeats you fucked up, you fucked up, you fucked up.
But eventually, twenty or one hundred breaths in, my thoughts slow, then float away.
Inhale, exhale.
Soon, I touch the edges of the precious sense of calm that’s eluded me since the game ended.
I’m okay. I’m going to be okay.
Slowly, I open my eyes, taking one more deep breath, feeling like I’ve emerged from a brutal underwater battle with a six-armed sea creature.
But at least I’ve emerged. I’m swimming above the surface again.
I sit up and turn off the app. My phone blinks with a message. When I see the name, it feels like a reward.
King of the Couch: Tough loss tonight, man. You hanging in there?
My heart swells. I’m dying to talk to Jason.
Streaker: Yeah, it was rough. But you can trash-talk me tomorrow. I can handle it.
King of the Couch: What about tonight?
Does Jason want me to come over? My pulse soars at the possibility. It’s a terrible idea, but I crave it. I’m about to call him when his name flashes on my screen, the sound of the phone ringing thrilling me.
“Hey, Jason,” I say when I answer.
“Hey there.”
“Hi,” I say, then I roll my eyes. “Um, I said that. Sorry.”
“No worries. I had a feeling you’d be out of sorts.”
I sigh, but I’m relieved to let down my guard. “Is it that obvious I don’t have it together?”
“You do have it together, Nine. You’re just beating yourself up. Want to know how I know?”
“Yes, please,” I say, eager for the benefit of his experience.
“It’s your first loss with your new team. I felt awful after my first loss. And that was five years ago. I wanted to see if you’re okay. Are you?”
My throat tightens. This is so embarrassing. I don’t cry over losses, even pro losses. That’s not how you survive in the NFL.
“Yeah. I’m okay . . . now,” I say, even though I don’t feel better yet. But I did want to talk to him. He’s the one person who understands exactly how I feel. “I feel like I let everyone down,” I confess. “How do I deal with it?”
He sighs softly. “First, you didn’t let anyone down. Second, it’s the job. Just know you’re not the only quarterback who feels this way.”
“You seem like you always have it together. You’re Mister Laid-back and Cool.”
He snorts. “I’m Mister Good at Appearances. That’s my skill. I don’t tell the media how I really feel. But I’m telling you. And sometimes it’s hard.”
“How do you manage?” I ask, desperate for insight.
“Talking to my dad always helped me. He reminds me I take a lot of the team burden on myself when I shouldn’t. And he reminds me, too, that every game is a fresh start.” He takes a beat, and I hear a small meow in the quiet. I picture him at home, petting Taco, and I smile. “That helps me stay grounded,” Jason adds.
“My dad played college ball,” I offer. I want to share with him. He’s sharing with me.
“So he’d know how you’re feeling,” Jason says.
“We’re not close, though. I mean, it’s not intentional. We’re not estranged. It’s just . . . life.”
“I hear ya. My mom left when I was eight. I don’t see her much. It’s just . . . life,” he echoes, letting me know he understands me.
This is what I craved tonight—connection.
I sit up, feeling exposed and raw. “Jason?” I sound so vulnerable. I hope it doesn’t scare him.
“What is it, Beck?” He sounds like he desperately wants to help me.
I swallow some courage. “Thank you. I think I had to say this to you tonight or I’d shut down on the air tomorrow. I had to get all these feelings off my chest.”