Page 35 of Lessons in Lemonade

“You’ll come, right? To help?” I put the glass down and pick up a large rubber spatula to run around the inside of the fritter batter bowl, pushing it into a fresh pile.

“Of course I’ll be there. Zach and I both will.”

Zach . . . Zach makes me think of Jack. My heart dips, and my hand stops. It crossed my mind that I should call him and tell him, too, but that expression about kicking a man when he’s down takes over and I don’t want to do that to him. It’s not that I think he wouldn’t be happy for me, but it feels a little like rubbing my good fortune in his face while he’s been dealt a hand of misfortune.

Shaking my head, I decide I won’t call him, and I refocus on the job in front of me, and on Lexi and Zach. Zach and his sangrias—a couple of those would be perfect! Light, refreshing, and a way to highlight his wines to a large, influential audience. I could also use some of his lavender honey.

“That makes me so happy.” My heart sighs at knowing she’ll be here. “I think I need to place an order for some honey,” I tell her, and she starts laughing.

“I’m on it. How many jars do you need?”

Golden Corn Fritters

I DON’T THINK I’ve ever told anyone this, but March is my favorite month. I know, I know, one would think it’s in the fall at the start of the season, but it’s not. As much as I love football, tailgating with the rich smell of charcoal, and the crispness of autumn touching most of the country, it’s still a time of work for me and there’s no time to slow down and breathe.

By the end of the year, we are so dialed in to finish strong that the holidays are mostly a blur, and we consistently make it to the postseason, pushing us into January. Then the season comes to an abrupt end and before I know it, February has already started and then is halfway done, which leaves March as the beginning of my new year.

March one. There’s beautiful weather, and it’s a great time to be outside and to refocus myself. I detox my body and heal any outstanding issues, and as any sports lover will tell you, it’s the beginning of baseball season. Pitchers and catchers have reported in and spring training is well underway. A perk of living in Florida or Arizona is there’s never a shortage.

Only this year, I feel as if my calendar has shifted. Hell, everything has shifted, and I feel out of sorts in a bad way. February third was the Super Bowl then February fourth was the surgery, which became day one of my new year, and since then I’ve been counting the days. It’s not like I have anything else to do.

It’s been twenty-nine days since Meg left, fourteen days since my staples were removed and the knee immobilizer changed, and one day since I got the call to head in to the front office.

Today is the day.

Today is the day I’ve been dreading where team management wants to meet to discuss my options. The way I see it, there are only two options: I stay on their roster, or I don’t. It’s the don’t part that makes me nervous, because if I don’t, what do I do with my life? I’d like to say life has been hard lately, but it hasn’t. If anything, it’s just been boring, and I’m not meant to live a boring life. I miss my routine. I miss my friends. I miss the ache, burn, and exhaustion from a killer workout. I miss taking Zeus for long walks, and if I’m being honest with myself, I really miss her.

Meg.

I know I haven’t been the most social person with her lately, and that’s my fault. I just feel like I’m in limbo, and until I know what’s happening next, I’ve shut down and shut off. I don’t know what to talk about, I don’t want to be asked any questions I can’t answer, and I certainly don’t want to be pitied. I’m not saying she would, but what man wants that or to even set themselves up for the possibility?

Looking out the window as I cross over the Hillsborough River, I see the water is gray today . . . gray like her eyes, gray like my soul. Dramatic much? Yes, but I just can’t help it. I’m headed to meet with my boss, and I have a bad feeling I’m not going to like what I hear. I didn’t even sleep last night, because with every fiber of my being, I know what they are going to say.

Retirement.

Shaking my head, I shove out the worst-case scenario thoughts and focus on the road as I drive the remaining distance, park, and hobble in through the front doors and toward Coach’s office. All down the hallway, there are pictures of the team’s players in action, and I pause just for a second as I get to one of mine. It was an insane end-zone catch from a game two years ago, a split-second need to change the play, and with it the points tipped us over to win the game. I’ll never forget that moment.

Letting out a sigh, I continue down the hall.

“Good morning. They’re ready for you if you want to go on it,” says the staff administrative assistant. Her gaze drops to my leg as I approach then quickly flashes back up as she smiles. It’s a fake smile, and I can’t help but grit my teeth and scowl, her acknowledgment an unwanted reminder of what this meeting represents.

Moving past her, I crutch my way into his office and sit down in one of two leather chairs in front of his desk. There are two other people waiting for me, and I push down the sensation of their stares and the silence crawling up my spine. I’m exhausted after just the walk in from the parking lot, and internally I’m swearing at how much I hate this.

His office looks like any other coach’s office. There are two windows on the outside wall, to the right of me is built-in shelving with a mini refrigerator and a stocked bar, and to the left is a small table with four chairs. The left wall is complete with a flat-screen television for watching film and a whiteboard where plans and plays are discussed. Sporadically throughout the room there are memorabilia from his time playing, awards he’s won over the years, and beautiful pictures of stadiums and his family.

“How’s it going, Jack?” Coach says across the desk from me. He grabs one of the peanut butter and oat snack balls he’s always eating from a plastic container next to him and tosses it into his mouth.

My eyes meet his and hold. There’s no pity in them; for him this is just another day at the office with another injured player. If anything, he looks resolute.

“Been better,” I grumble.

His lips press into a flat line as he leans back in his chair, which creaks—loudly.

“Sorry I’m late,” comes from behind me as Dr. Leffers walks in and sits in the chair next to me. It’s then I take a good look at the others in the room. There’s my wide receiver coach and the team’s head athletic trainer; I give each of them a nod as they stare at me.

Dr. Leffers turns to look at me and his brows pull down. “Jesus, Jack. You look like a vampire. When’s the last time you saw sunlight?”

I frown at his assessment. He doesn’t understand; it’s hard to go anywhere. I’m a tall guy and my leg is essentially locked out straight. Instead of answering him, I slouch down in my chair and turn my attention back to Coach. He chuckles at whatever he sees on my face then claps his hands together to shake off the crumbs.