Page 18

The house was blissfully quiet when I arrived back home after my short trip back to Fallon Ridge, and I’m grateful given the fact that the quick trip was mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausting.

I have a few messages from teammates checking in on me. I’m close to the younger guys on the team, the next generation if you will, and all six rostered wide receivers are like brothers to me. We usually get together for dinner at least once a week in-season.

The group chat I’m in with my buddies who regularly go out together has been hopping today. We’ve affectionately named ourselves the Thursday Night Crew since we usually go out on Thursday nights ahead of a lighter Friday practice. But we’re not picky—we’ll go out any night of the week, including Tuesdays.

The group consists of Cory Marshall and Travis Woods, two wide receivers, along with tight end Austin Graham, running back Jaxon Bryant, defensive end Deon Miller, and cornerback Patrick Harris.

I mute the chat. I’m not in the mood to go out tonight.

Cory texts me separate from the group just after I sit down to chicken and rice on the couch with the film Jeff, my wide receiver coach, asked me to review. I didn’t review it on the plane ride back like I promised I would. Instead, I closed my eyes and thought about everything I should have said to Tessa.

Cory: Dude, did you mute us or something? We’re going out and I know you’re back.

Of course he knows I’m back. He lives down the block from me, and he probably saw my truck in the driveway.

I sigh.

Me: Yes, you’re muted. It’s been a long day. I’ll see you at practice tomorrow.

Cory: You know that’s not good enough. Don’t you want to find some P?

I know Capital P is his incredibly sophisticated code for pussy , and truth be told…no. I don’t want to go find some P.

I’m not the type to go out hunting for a different woman every night of the week. It’s never been my style. I’ll admit I could go for a few rounds beneath the sheets with some warm body right about now, but I don’t just want any woman to warm my bed, and I certainly don’t want some stranger.

I want Tessa.

Nobody else will do.

I hear the garage start to open.

Fuck.

You know who I don’t want?

The wife who just arrived home.

“Hi honey, I’m home,” she says sweetly. “How was the funeral?”

I don’t respond. I hate that she knows so much about my life, but as she loves to remind me, her background is in investigative reporting.

“I take it everything went as well as could be given the circumstances. I brought you a present.” She tosses a magazine down onto the counter. She’s waiting for a reply. She’s waiting for me to act like I care.

I don’t.

She picks it up, walks over to me, and drops it onto my lap—just narrowly avoiding my plate still filled with food.

I glance down and my eyes latch onto the photograph on the front of the gossip rag.

It’s Savannah and me. It was taken before we were married—obviously, since I’m still smiling.

And then there’s the headline. From a troubled marriage to baby news.

“Are you telling me you’re pregnant?” I ask snidely. It ain’t mine, that’s for damn sure.

She grins. “Once upon a time I promised you headlines. Just trying to make good on those promises.”

“You’re an asshole.”

She laughs a little wickedly.

“Why are you doing this to me?”

“Oh, darling. Because I love you?” She says it like a question, and I snort.

I realize it’s the first time I’ve point-blank asked her why. I toss the magazine aside and glance up at her. “Tell me the truth, Savannah. Why are you doing this to me?”

She sighs and looks away, and for just the briefest split second, I spot the tiniest glimmer of vulnerability. She masks it quickly, though.

“Some women are just meant to live certain lives. I’m meant for greater things in this life. Money. Football games. My career. I’m meant to be married to an NFL player.”

“Even if it’s the wrong one?” I challenge.

She lifts a shoulder. “There isn’t a wrong one, Tristan.”

“Don’t you see how it’s all falling apart, though? Why won’t you just let me out?”

“Because I love you,” she says, her tone a little more believable this time.

I shake my head. “You love the idea of a football player. You love the lifestyle. The games, the fame, the money. You don’t love me.”

She sighs. “I just always envisioned my life a certain way, and being with you seems to check all the boxes. There are reasons to get married, to stay married, aside from love.”

“You’re fucked up.”

“I never said I wasn’t,” she says softly.

I hold up the magazine. “But this? Seriously?” It’s further proof that all she cares about is money and fame. That’s why she won’t let me out. That’s why she married me in the first place. She wanted revenge on her ex-husband, Luke Dalton, a former teammate of mine who tried to warn me off her. She wanted access to the locker room while I was blinded by her promises and stupidity, and I did the damn thing despite his warnings.

Sometimes I think the only way out of this is to quit playing, but football is the one thing I have left. It’s not an option.

“You’re fading, Tristan.” She sets a hand on her hip. “I needed to get people talking.”

I throw the magazine across the room. “I’m fading ? What the hell does that even mean?”

“You’re washed up. Nobody cares.”

I laugh. “Do you really believe that? Or are you self-projecting?”

“I’m sorry?” she asks, clearly confused by my insinuation.

I stand to my full height. I’m six-five, tall by normal standards, and I’m a healthy and muscular two twenty. It’s not an intimidation tactic, not against a woman—even a woman as awful as Savannah—but I feel more in control as I tower over her five-ten frame.

“I’m one of two starting receivers on the Vegas Aces. I’d hardly call that washed up.” I fold my arms over my chest. “People care, Savannah. Maybe not in your circle, but you don’t need to invent gossip to get people talking about us. A divorce would have the same effect, only it’s the truth.”

“The truth? Pfft. Boring,” she says, rolling her eyes.

I take my plate and walk it over to the sink. I have nothing else to say to her…except one more thing. “If you don’t get that retracted, I’ll call them myself and do it.”

“Oh? How interesting because I’m sure they’d love to hear all about the PEDs you took last season.” She taps her chin. “Or was it this season?” She raises a challenging brow as I realize what she means.

“Did you fucking drug me again ?”

“You make it so easy to keep that insurance policy, baby. Ordering the same chicken, rice, and vegetables from the same restaurant three times a week…it’s just easy to intercept a package, you know? Easy to text you from a burner phone to let you know you’re needed at a specific facility for a random drug test. Easy to get that sample and hold onto the test results.” She shrugs. “I know it’s sort of my MO since I did it with Lukey-Luke, too, but gosh, men are so dumb sometimes.”

“You’re the goddamn devil,” I hiss.

She presses her lips to her palm and blows a kiss toward me. If it was real, it would fizzle into smoke mid-air. “I love you too, honeybunch. Ta ta!”

She sashays out of the room, and I’m left reeling by her actions once again.

I hit back on the group chat.

Me: I’m in.