Page 22 of Hold Me Closer

Teo

B y the time my plane lands in Los Angeles, it's midafternoon, and I haven't talked to Nadia since before the game last night. I'm desperate to see her and worried as fuck that she's going to kick my ass for what I did. But there was no other choice.

I probably should have called her and explained, but there wasn't time.

I had to move quickly to get to Coach and management to get ahead of the story about me and Nadia.

Arguing about my decision took half the night.

For a bunch of motherfuckers who wanted to fire me just a few days ago, they sure as hell didn't seem thrilled about letting me go now.

I didn't leave them much of a choice. They could either let me walk willingly or fire me after I trashed my reputation beyond repair and let the team's image take a hit, too. It's amazing how quickly people come around when they realize that you aren't fucking around. They knew I'd do it.

Hell, I've been walking the line for years already, slowly chipping away at my image since the moment I stepped onto the field for the first time after her accident.

Slowly becoming someone everyone else disliked as much as I fucking hated the man staring back at me in the mirror every day.

Burning it all down now to spare Nadia wouldn't faze me in the least. Whatever it takes to ensure our goddamn past is done hurting her, done hurting us.

She deserves better. I should have been there for her six fucking years ago, but I can't go back and undo the mistakes of the past. Neither of us can.

But I can stop making the same goddamn ones that hurt her back then.

I let her push me out of her life instead of fighting for her back then because I hated myself and what I'd caused.

I couldn't get past my own fucking guilt, and she's the one who paid for it.

I almost did the same fucking thing last night—broke us all over again because I couldn't see past the guilt. I couldn't feel anything but grief. For a while last night, I was back there again, preparing to make the same fucking mistakes.

But the thing is…there's never been a choice for me.

It's always been her. It'll always be her.

I was just too goddamn stupid to realize back then that I couldn't cling to her and hate myself at the same time.

It doesn't work that way. To love her, truly love her, I have to fucking let it go.

All of it. That's the peace she deserves. That's the freedom.

The arguing dried up real quick with my threat echoing around us.

Crafting a goddamn statement took the other half of the night. By the time it was done, my phone was dead, and I was on my way to the airport. A free man.

I didn't see her texts or calls until Tyson let me use his charger. They fucking killed me. But what I need to say deserves to be said face to face. I sent her what I hope is a reminder that she's the only future I care about, and then got on the goddamn plane.

Next time I decide to retire abruptly, it damn sure won't be in the middle of the night, on the other side of the country from my girl. I need her in my arms. That's all I thought about the entire flight home.

Hold me closer, Teo. Never let me go.

I held the words she whispered to me close the whole flight, letting them soothe me. Christ, I hope she still means them because never letting her go is my plan—it's the entirety of my plan.

I step off the plane onto the tarmac to find Emelia waiting for me, her expression level. Sunlight glints in her blonde hair as she lifts her hand to shield her face.

"Good luck, man," Tyson says, lifting his fist for me to bump.

"Yeah, brother." I bump his fist and then pause, clearing my throat. "Thanks for everything."

He shoots me a cheeky grin as he jogs down the steps. "This ain't goodbye, motherfucker. I'll be seeing you."

I shake my head, hoping he means that, and take off toward Emelia, anxious as hell.

"Tell me it worked," I growl. That's all I care about hearing right now.

That it worked. That my girl isn't at home right now, being bombarded by reports of the worst days of her life.

That she gets to decide when and how she talks about her mental health and her story.

Not some asshole reporter with dollar signs in his eyes.

Not anyone else. Her . No one has the fucking right to take that choice from her and turn it into a hit piece just because we are who we are.

She doesn't owe a goddamn person answers or an explanation.

And they don't get to demand them from her.

If she never wants to talk about it, that's her right.

She doesn't have to be a poster child for PTSD or mental health just because she's a celebrity.

No one gets to decide that for her. I'll be damned if I let them, not when I've seen exactly what they do to their poster children.

Everyone watches like a hawk, waiting for any little hint, any crack in the facade, anything they can use to scream that they're cracking up, they're falling apart.

The stories never stop. One day, she's Nadia Mikhail, fierce, incredible, exactly who the fuck she is.

The next, they're questioning every choice she makes if it's one they don't agree with, hinting that maybe she's falling apart again.

Hell will freeze over before I allow them to do that to her the way they've done it to so many others.

She's fought too hard for them to take a single thing away from her.

"It's working," Emelia says. "All they're talking about right now is you."

"Fuck," I whisper, my head drooping forward as I exhale a shuddering breath.

"You're not in the clear yet, Teo," she reminds me. "This could still blow up in your face. If they start wondering why you decided to retire…"

"They won't." I cut my eyes at her. "Not if you did the rest of what I asked you to do."

She hesitates for a long moment and then sighs softly. "I did. But you told me that the drinking wasn't a problem."

"Yeah, I know." I swallow hard, my throat burning as I admit the truth, perhaps for the first time. "Turns out, maybe I was lying to myself."

Perhaps I'm not an alcoholic, but sitting in that bar last night, I realized that I'm something.

There's a reason I run straight to bars and pick fights or crack open a bottle to drink the memories away when shit gets a little too real.

And maybe I could pretend I had it all under control before because I don't drink myself to oblivion every night, but now?

Well, I'm seeing shit a little bit differently now.

For Nadia's sake and mine, I have to see it differently.

She did the impossible and got help when she needed it. And she did that shit alone because I wasn't there. She was still just a kid, and she faced her demons.

It's my turn to face mine and get help, too. It's the only way I'll ever feel like I deserve her. And goddammit, I want to deserve her again. I need to deserve her again. And she needs me to be that man. We'll never get past this shit if I can't get past it.

She asked me to forgive myself. This is where it starts. This is how it starts. With healing.

Emelia sighs again, pulling a card out of her pocket. "This is the name and number of the doctor. It's outpatient treatment," she says. "I have the statement you requested prepped and ready. Do you want to read it before we release it?"

I shake my head, slipping the card into my pocket. "Just release it tomorrow, Emelia."

The statement won't shock anyone. Hell, I'm sure they already see it coming. The whole goddamn world has already seen me at my worst. They've seen it since I was drafted, perhaps even before.

Now, it's time to give them something better.

" T eo! Teo!" reporters shout, surging toward the property line when I pull up at Nadia's an hour later. I ignore every single question they lob in my direction, heading straight for the door and my girl.

My fucking heart cracks in half when I find her curled up on the leather sofa in the living room under a big blanket, her eyes rimmed in red, and her gorgeous face splotchy. She's been crying—all damn day from the looks of it.

She takes one look at me and cries out softly, sitting upright. Her eyes lock on my face, a fresh flood of tears pouring down her cheeks.

"Butterfly," I whisper, crossing to her in two steps. Within seconds, I'm on my knees beside her, pulling her down into my arms. And for the first time since I drove to the airport two days ago, I feel like I can breathe again.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," she sobs, shaking in my arms as I press her face up against my throat, holding her tightly.

"Hey, hey," I croon, shifting around until I'm on my ass, leaning back against the sofa with her in my arms. I rock her gently, running my hands through her hair, my heart cracking with every apology that tumbles from her perfect lips. "You have nothing to be sorry for, butterfly."

"You q-quit football because of m-me."

"No, baby," I say firmly, tipping her head back until her watery eyes meet mine. "I quit football because it isn't my heart. It never has been. I'm holding that right here in my arms."

"Teo." More tears pour down her cheeks.

"There is nothing more important to me than you, Nadia," I whisper, pressing my forehead to hers.

"I'm the one who told everyone that we're dating.

I'm the one who risked the truth about your past coming out.

It was my responsibility to fix it." I brush tears from her cheeks, drying them with my lips.

"No one gets to decide for you how or when you tell your story, butterfly.

I'm not going to allow them to make that choice for you. "

"I just want to sing, Teo," she says sadly. "I don't w-want to spend the rest of m-my life remembering the saddest parts of it. But this feels w-wrong. You can't give up football to protect me. It's not f-fair to you."

"I didn't just do it to protect you, butterfly. I did it for me, too."