Page 177 of Let You Love Me

To say adjusting to a life without sports will be a challenge is an understatement.

My thoughts drift to Lane, and my heart squeezes.

I’m not sure what hurts worse?my fucking back or my heart, but my pride takes a close third.

The one thing I told Lane I needed from her—the only thing—was her honesty. No secrets. No holding back.

And in the end, it was the one thing she couldn’t give me.

I’ve replayed the events of the past two months, along with game day in my head more times than I’d like to admit. All the clues Chance was Sophie’s father were there. I’d suspected as much, and I think the only reason I believed Lane when she said she and Chance had never been together was because I so desperately wanted it to be true.

I wanted to trust her, even if my gut told me I was right.

How could she lie straight to my face?

And, fuck, why did it have to behim?Of all the men in the world to be Sophie’s father, it had to be him.

I already hated the dude, and now I fucking despised him on a level that borders on unhinged. How he could stick around for almost four years and ignore Sophie’s existence, lying to Coach day-in and day-out, is beyond me. It’s in-fucking-comprehensible.

Set aside the fact all the trouble Chance has caused for me was on account of my interest in Lane, I’m not sure where to go from here. How can Lane and I possibly work when I can’t trust her to tell me the truth?

Knox’s betrayal has made me hate liars. I told myself I’d never be fooled again, that I’d never befriend one, let alone be with one. But I can’t seem to put Lane in that category beside him, even though I know she technically belongs there.

My heart can’t seem to let go because I love her.

I fucking love her. And I love Sophie, too. If I didn’t, this wouldn’t hurt so damn much.

I scrub my hands over my face and hiss at the stab of pain the movement causes.

Everything fucking hurts all the damn time. Brushing my teeth, reaching in the fridge for a drink, making a sandwich, taking a shit, showering, putting on my shoes. And the pain is a constant reminder of the heartbreak. They go hand-in-hand like peanut butter and fucking jelly, one reminding me of the other because heaven forbid I forget for even a moment.

Dropping my hands, I grit my teeth and reach for my phone on the nightstand, expecting the electric prod in my back this time.

Once I have it in hand, I open my unread texts. I have about a dozen from the guys in the group chat which I’ve left unread, most of them checking in and asking for updates, worried Imight lose my mind between coping with the injury, Lane, and my inability to play football.

The Sunday I was released from the hospital, after my parents went out to grab us all some lunch, I got Brynn alone and told her everything.

I needed to spill my guts about as much as I needed my spine intact.

So, I filled her in on Chance and all the shit he had been giving me. I explained about Lane and how she lied. I told her about the confrontation before the game, how distracted I was, and how I have no idea what the fuck to do about it all now.

The whole time Brynn listened with zero judgment. She didn’t offer me advice I wasn’t ready to hear. Instead, she only asked if I wanted her to tell the guys about everything that transpired between the day I got laid-out on the field and now, and I’d said yes. They knew I’d been hurt, but that was the extent of it, and I just couldn’t bring myself to tell them the rest. I was too tired. Too in my head.

And now, as I scroll through their messages, I’m more grateful for Brynn than ever that I can open my phone and talk to them without having to relive the horror of my injury and everything that happened before it.

Instead, I can focus on now.

Because that’s where my head needs to be. In the present, the future.

I can’t go back and change what happened. All I can do is look forward.

My fingers hover over the keys on my phone, debating what to say to the guys. I only know I need to hear from them, and if I want to reach them before tonight, now is the time. Most of them should be done with football for at least the next couple of hours before practices start back up.

I chew on my bottom lip, trying to decide how the hell to open this conversation when I decide for a little levity because it’s better than the fucking morose thoughts swirling in my head.

Me:

Help, I’ve fallen and I can’t get up.