Page 11

JACKSON

A medic sent by the team doctor is the first to arrive. She sets out medical supplies and asks a billion questions. What did you take? How much did you take? When did you stop drinking? What do you remember? List your symptoms from most distressing to least, but leave nothing out.

When I mention the loss of memory, her fingers freeze while preparing an IV. “Any tremors?”

“Just normal shakes and shivers.” As if there’s anything normal about detox.

When Doc joins the assessment, they exchange information while giving each other knowing glances I can’t decipher.

“You’re sure you only used for one night?” Doc asks.

“Yes,” I say, defensive. “I was sick before, but I wasn’t using. My girlfriend was leaving for New York, and I was physically ill.”

Again, they silently communicate. For whatever reason, they don’t believe me. Why would I lie? I’m already in deep shit.

I run my fingers through my sweat-soaked hair and decide to tell them what they probably assume. “I was diagnosed with a mood disorder. During the game, I had racing thoughts, agitation, pressured speech… I was having an episode, but I wasn’t using.”

Doc nods in understanding. “These episodes don’t just go away, Jackson. They can worsen and lead to impulsive behaviors, especially when paired with emotional distress.”

My muscles tense. I will fight my way out of here if he even thinks about committing me. “Believe me, I know, but I’m not manic. I’m not suicidal. I’m not on a bender. I relapsed, and I have no intention of doing it again.”

He pats my arm and gives me a kind smile. “No worries. I’m glad you reached out for help.”

After pissing in a cup, giving blood, receiving two IVs, taking some pills, and grabbing a long, hot shower, I realize it’s five in the morning. They’ve left, and I’m feeling semi-human.

It’s eight o’clock on the East Coast, which is all I care about. My conversation with Ethan has renewed my confidence, and as soon as I’m not burdening Aurora with these withdrawals, I’ll be flying to New York.

More stable, I check my phone notifications for the first time since migraines made it impossible to stare at the screen. There are texts and calls from Grant I’ve neglected. He’s a ride-or-die best friend, and honestly, I don’t deserve the loyalty after my behavior in the locker room.

I swallow my pride and text back.

Thanks, G-Man. I’m sorry I fucked up. I’m getting my shit together. Tell everyone I’ll see ’em soon.

Then, there are manipulative messages from Kyle and pictures of us hugging in the tunnel, which I ignore. One line, however, piques my interest.

Kyle

I spoke with the trust attorney. Let’s negotiate. We can get past this.

He must have found out I hired another law firm, or maybe it’s because I’ve restricted his access to every facet of my life: box seats, bank accounts, credit cards, properties, clubs, suites—if he had access to it, I’ve canceled it.

I should’ve done it years ago, but I hoped to appease him, thinking he’d leave Aurora alone. It’s a mistake I won’t repeat.

I’ll negotiate once I have my girlfriend back.

I sound like a petulant child, but I don’t give a fuck. It’s Aurora or nothing.

Despite the early hour, Kyle responds with pictures of Aurora and Ethan in Central Park.

Kyle

Your girlfriend? You’re delusional. It’s over. Move on.

I’m not moving on. You set me up to lose everything. You got exactly what you wanted. Now, get out of my life.

Kyle

Who’s the father? You or him?

Why do you give a fuck?

Kyle

Because you’re not responsible enough for a child.

As if you care.

Kyle

Your child support will be horrendous.

Ah, there it is. Money .

I’ll give her more than any court demands.

Kyle

That’s the problem! You’re not smart.

I’m not smart?

You manipulated me into meeting with you, knowing I’d relapse. Threw some drugs and half-naked women at me and took pictures to fuck my career and relationship, all to avoid me paying child support? Now I’ll definitely have to pay. And what if I got one of those girls pregnant? Who’s not smart?

I won’t have to pay child support, but he doesn’t need to know that.

Kyle

Like I’d allow that. I had your ass dragged out of there once you were piss drunk.

Well, that’s a relief. At least I have confirmation I didn’t fuck anyone.

You mean after you arranged the photos?

He doesn’t answer, and while I contemplate his motives, I torment myself by scanning through the pictures of Ethan and Aurora.

Seeing them all lovey-dovey has me conflicted, regretful, and missing her. I miss her so fucking much, it hurts. Even with his body pressed against hers and their lips locked, I’m not jealous—quite the opposite. The only thing I envy is that I’m not there.

It’s strange, but we work.

I appreciate him stepping up and caring for Aurora after I hurt her. In one picture, he’s wiping tears from her face, sending that wrecking ball through my chest again. She believes she’s not good enough when I’m the one who has failed.

Kyle is right; I’m not smart. Not because I’d give Aurora anything, but because I didn’t protect her. I thought I could handle him. He played me, and it destroyed the person I love most. Again.

The next picture is taken from behind. All it shows is Ethan kissing her forehead— Wait. What the fuck? Is that a Stars hoodie? It’s partly obscured, the hood covering the name, but it looks an awful lot like a jersey.

My fingers fly over the screen.

You let her wear a fucking Stars jersey? Whose number is that?

Coach

Coach

Carmichael. I already warned her.

Burn it.

Carmichael is a defensive beast. I’m fast. I don’t carry the bulk this guy does. When he hits, it’s comparable to being smashed into a brick wall by a Mack truck.

Touché, baby. Tou-fucking-ché.

Coach

This is what she’s wearing to work today. I may need you to bail me out of jail.

Following is a picture of Aurora bent over the bathroom counter as she applies her makeup in the mirror. She stands on her tippy toes, her legs a mile long. Her plaid skirt rides up, ending just below her luscious ass, and since it sits high on her waist, it’s difficult to tell she’s pregnant.

For a shirt, she’s wearing a cropped band tee, and from this angle, you can see a peek of under-boob. No bra.

Goddamn.

She’s stunning. Beautiful. Sexy. Every man’s wet dream. And I hate myself for fucking it up.

How about we trade?

Coach

Not a chance in hell.

I save every photo, even those of Aurora with Ethan, before conducting an obsessive internet search for more. I find an IG page for a photographer who has taken an interest in Aurora. He has a handful of new pictures and videos of her.

Of course, she’s gorgeous in each picture, but the one in which she’s wearing a tiny, transparent silver dress is out of this world.

I can see her rosy nipples and the outline of her incredible tits.

It reminds me of when we were separated and she was posing naked on beaches, strutting seductively in lingerie.

It hits me—we are separated. I’m instantly irritated, especially by the comments stating how hot Aurora is and ripping me to shreds for cheating on her.

I’m typing so fast, I can’t control myself. Look at her. Do you think I’d cheat on that? Fuck no.

My mouth twists into a smirk. Under a picture of her and Ethan, I write: Thanks for taking care of our girl.

I scroll through the outlandish comments and find one that asks: Ménage? and heart the reply. Let people assume what they want—they already think I’m unhinged, so why not have some fun?