Losing the love of my life taught me that inactions have consequences. My new bookkeeping job teaches me that numbers don't lie, but people do.
Sharing yoga with others is my refuge from the darkness pulling me to stay home. A ginormous pro footbal...
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You're no hero.
I left Mia's words on in my bathroom until they blurred under my shower steam and dripped down in dark crimson trails. Gone but not forgotten, the words burned in my brain. I wiped the mirror clean and replaced the message with my ragged reflection.
I disgusted myself.
Not by the stressed-out version of the handsome devil glaring at me with dark, puffy half-moons under my red eyes and the uneven and split ends of my beard encroaching mountain-main status. No, the assumptions and hypocrisy that festered beneath the surface of my lifeless skin burned my eyes with regret. I acted no different from what I accused her of.
I wrenched my mouth into a grimace and palmed the counters. The ghost memory of Mia's curves bent over the same surface made me curl my fingers into fists. Heat simmered under my skin, broiling me from the inside. The brown irises surrounding my enlarged pupils turned darker from the same regret filling my stomach.
She was right. I wasn't a hero.
Professionally, I was an overpaid, arrogant athlete who controlled every aspect of football. I put in the extra time, ate clean, and ground my bones into dust and muscles into screaming fits of fatigue. My body went through enough ice baths to make a glacier.
Three hundred offensive plays were available with no recall effort, and I executed them effectively. My body wasn't fast, but it was more agile thanks to stronger ankle stabilizers. The larger size I was teased about in high school made me a tree to tackle. I was second in the league for passing percentage, secured my future status as Houston's franchise quarterback for the rest of my career despite my multiple off-the-field distractions, and owned the two most recent Super Bowl rings. My body operated at an elevated level most only imagined, and my brain saw the chess pieces on the field in real-time action...
But off it? Fuck, I was a work in progress to the people closest to me. I was flailing. I leaped at every dangled financial opportunity, but I wasn't in touch with all aspects of my life. Yes, I was talented, and my bank account was set for post-football life. Michael and I salvaged all my endorsements after the charity shitshow, which proved I was serious about protecting my off-field interests. I jumped through every media hoop Ashley lit ablaze in front of me and bared my stupidity to correct an ignored wrong.
After I took the fallout for the accident.
I threaded my hands through my hair and clenched the roots. I wanted to rip them out. Mia didn't know the truth. She didn't know because opening her up was impossible. Cracking through her walls was impossible. I assumed –stupidly– that physically showing her how I felt about her was enough, but it wasn't. Why weren't my efforts enough? What the fuck was she hiding?
I wouldn't care how deeply she felt about her ex if she explained why.
It was easy to get caught up in the hype, the glamor, and the elevation to God-like status associated with being a professional athlete. Parasites chasing money, fame, or both were everywhere. Staying grounded by roots of humility was essential, so I built a close, no-secret team around me on a foundation of trust. I turned a blind eye to fanfare attention and loose women, but my team was my chosen family. I extended my team to Mia when she joined it. Ashley kept her name out of the charity news, denying Mia's existence and having Shanti issue a statement that I had worked out at her studio but didn't anymore. Simone protected both her and Amir's legal interests. And Jer? Wouldn't stop asking me about her.
