Page 17 of The False Start (Off the Bench)

Chapter Eleven

CAL

M y phone dings loudly, pulling me from a dream that slips from my mind like water in a strainer. I scowl at the offending device. Why I never remember to put it on silent I’ll never know. It’s like the universe has decided to make this small inconvenience my penance for being alive.

The little bubble of hope that ballooned in my chest at the text notification is promptly stabbed with a pin when I see the message.

Dad

Great photo this morning.

What fucking photo?

A quick google of my own name pulls up a photo from the Morgan fundraiser on Friday. I scan it quickly and roll my eyes. Tori and I are barely in it, the focal point being the Morgan family themselves, all smiling bright into the camera.

I toss my phone to the side and groan. Dear old Dad’s always liked when I’m out with Tori, especially when I’m seen at fancy events with her.

Quite frankly, it’s one of my least favorite things about being with her.

We grew up in similar circles, our parents frequenting the same charity events and fundraisers.

The small group of us who found it all rather dry would sneak off to get drunk in whatever side room we could find.

We reconnected after she started modeling in New York.

After a few too many nights out closing down the city that never sleeps together, occasionally joined by Theo or one of our other old friends, we fell into bed together.

The following morning, while I was stumbling over myself about how I wasn’t looking for anything serious and apologizing for my less-than-gentlemanly behavior, she laughed in my face and told me in no uncertain terms that, if she wanted to marry me, she’d have a ring already.

With a pat to my cheek, she made it clear that this was strictly to be a casual relationship.

She said if I could escort her to events, it’d be helpful to both of us and our careers.

I can’t fault her for her logic. Since I started being seen with her, I’ve gotten twice the sponsorship deals, and I know she’s been able to get all kinds of additional brand sponsorships in the outfits she wears out with me.

We’re always photographed together, even if we would have flown under the radar separately.

We’re each other’s default date and the occasional physical release, though the latter hasn’t happened for several weeks now despite her bringing it up in her not-so-subtle late-night texts and even hinting at it after the Morgan event.

It’s not her fault, but the idea of fucking her makes a part of me want to shrivel inside.

I hadn’t seen her in person since meeting Lila, and the stark difference in the chemistry might have short-circuited my brain.

I feel alive when I’m with Lila, and with Tori, I just feel like I’m existing.

I normally feel like I’m existing, so I hadn’t noticed how wrong it was until the electricity sparked that night on the dance floor, and now some primal urge in me craves it.

That alive feeling? It’s the best thing in the world.

That craving follows me around every fucking day.

The blaring of my alarm pulls me from my morose thoughts.

I need to get up. We have practice in an hour, and I need to start showing up on the field if I want to keep playing.

As coach constantly reminds us, “There are hundreds of men who would kill to be in our shoes, so if you don’t want it bad enough, they do.

” It’s very inspiring, if what you want to inspire is fear of job insecurity.

I roll out of bed and throw on a pair of sweats before heading to the kitchen to make my daily morning protein shake.

I shudder as the chalky mixture runs down my throat.

I’ve never been one for the fake powdered shit, but since I’m trying to bulk extra muscle this season, without it I’d be eating about four chickens a day, and that’s a tad overkill.

A drop of sweat winds its way down my forehead as I hold my plank, threatening to partially blind me as it edges closer to my eye.

Thirty seconds left. I close my eyes, starting to mentally count.

Thirty.

Twenty-nine.

Twenty-eight.

Twenty-seven.

I feel someone pass above me but keep counting.

Twenty-five.

Twenty-four.

Twenty-three.

A sharp kick to my obliques drops me to the floor.

“ What the fuck ?” I curl in on myself and groan, wiping the sweat out of my eyes and blinking against the sting. I peer up and see Katie standing above me, arms crossed and one high heel tapping on the floor of the training room. She stares down at me, her eyes hard and lip curled.

“Can I help you?” I ask, gritting my teeth as my side throbs with what I know will be a bruise in the morning.

“Where’s Theo? He told me to meet him here.”

“Why would you meet here?”

She frowns. “I was in the area.”

“Try the squat racks.” I point to the section in question and see Theo’s brown curls poking out from behind a rack.

“Thanks.” Katie heads off.

“Hey,” I call after her and she turns her head.

“What was that for?” I indicate my ribs, where the blossom of color is already present.

She narrows her eyes and turns back toward the squat rack but barely goes more than a few steps before tossing a casual “congratulations on your hard launch” over her shoulder.

“What?”

“Your new girlfriend?” She turns to face me. “Victoria Winston?”

“What?” I repeat, seriously confused now.

“Your photo in the paper. It’s all over social media.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” I say rather dumbly, pushing myself up to sitting.

“It sure looks like it in that photo.” Her lips press into a thin line as she assesses me.

“She’s not my girlfriend. We’re just friends and we attend events together sometimes.” I shrug.

“Well, I’m just telling you now, it looks like she’s your girlfriend from the way you’re standing with her. And I’m not the only one who reads the paper or looks at Instagram.” She stares at me pointedly.

Fuck.

“She saw it?”

“Obviously.”

“What did she say?”

Katie scoffs. “Good luck, Cal.”

Double fuck.

I get back into plank position and start the last thirty-count over, mind whirring.

Thirty.

Twenty-nine

Twenty-eight.

It’s a media day today, which means that after practice the team spends a little extra time primping in the locker room before being rolled out before a variety of reporters.

Most of the sound bites never see the light of day, but if it catches someone’s ear you could be on ESPN’s prime-time segment tomorrow.

I’m waiting for Blaze to finish up his questions when I finally spot my favorite reporter, Gavin, sneaking in the back, notepad clutched in his hand. I push off the wall I’d been leaning against and stride quickly over to him.

“Hey, man,” I whisper, and he jumps.

“Oh, hey, Cal, did I miss much? The wife was sick, and the sitter was late, so I needed to stay with the boys until she got there.”

“Nah, man, Meadows is almost done, and you know he never has much to say anyway.”

Blaze is a great quarterback, but he has a tendency to ramble on in interviews.

The only bonus is that none of it ever means anything.

Right now, he’s on a tangent about his grandmother’s meatball recipe and how nothing in the city truly compares to the authentic-Italian grandma meatballs.

He’s probably right, but the only thing that will come from it, if anything, is several top Italian restaurants offering him a taste test of their meatballs.

If we’re lucky, they’ll send a couple pans to the training facility for lunch one day.

Gavin chuckles, tuning in to the meatball tangent. He starts off toward the reporters gathered at the front of the room, but I grab his arm.

“I actually have a favor for today if you don’t mind.”