Page 28 of First Down Promise

Soapy water dripping into my eyes from my hair pulls me back to reality. That bathtub is empty as always. I dip under the showerhead again and let it pour over me as I gather myself.

“What do you want?”

“A shower.”

I can’t prove it, but she wanted to say my name and wouldn’t let herself admit it. Pete was in the way as always, with Coop and Dane taking up space, too. How could she ever be herself with a brother like hers, who always has an entourage? And I can’t forget that Pete fucked Abby’s best friend—much more casually than I would do the same to him.

But I don’t want to fuck Abby. Not just that, anyway. I want to hold her. Make her breakfast in the morning. Let the world know Josh Mackenzie is off the market.

But she’s so far away.

Yet I kept her single for myself.

I have to start somewhere, though. After drying off and getting myself ready for the day, I grab my phone and scroll through my contacts.

She can go.

Her too.

Oof, definitely her.

Who even is that?

I delete every single ex from my contacts list to the point that the only women left are my sisters, my housekeeper, and Abby. I don’t text or call Abby much, and Coop and Dane also have her number. I bite the inside of my cheek and tap the message icon next to her name.

Me: You’ll have to tell me what path you jogged this morning. I’d like to be that perked up by eight without getting laid.

I hit the back button and click the Stallions’ team doctor’s contact to start a new message.

Me: Hey, it’s Josh. I might need PT on my shoulder and upper arm. Also, can you order an STD test for me? It’s been a while.

I meant it was time to get real, and I might as well start by being responsible. My phone buzzes in my hand, and I fully expect it to be the doctor we all have on speed dial. But it’s Abby.

Abby: You’ll have to come running with me one morning.

I smirk to myself as my phone vibrates again, and another text bubble pops up.

Abby: If you can keep up.

A professional tight end absolutely could, but I’m not going to pretend that long-distance runs are my strong suit. Not after everything these knees have gone through playing professional football. I chuckle to myself as I think about racing the guys. Coop and Dane would be fried fast, but Pete’s fast as fuck. Probably the reason why he’s the quarterback.

The team doctor and his medical assistant drop by in the afternoon to evaluate my arm and take samples for the labs I wanted. They do a full panel while they’re at it, and it turns out they’re also randomly drug testing, but I’ve always come back clean. With my elbow bandaged and my other arm and shoulder compression wrapped, I’m ordered to rest for the day.

After they leave, I step into the kitchen for some overdue protein. The counters are freshly wiped down, and the dishwasher and sink are both empty after my housekeeper did the weekly reset while I was at Pete’s. If I still had the two-bedroom condo I leased my rookie season, she wouldn’t be needed, but I upgraded once my contract hit eight digits. With the primary bedroom suite and home office both being on the main floor, I only go upstairs once a month, if that.

I grab a pre-made chicken salad and pop the plastic lid to mix the dressing. Carefully placing the lid back on, I give it a light shake to disperse it and reach for a fork. Flopping onto the couch, I click on the sports channel where Thursday night’s game is being reviewed and broken up by play. There were a lot of good runs in that game, including Pete running the ball to the end zone because I was blocked. He fumbled and got sacked, too. I grimace at the replay. Coop felt like shit when that happened, but it’s all part of the fun.

They start reviewing the other team who gave us a run for our money, and my eyes glaze over. We came out victorious, and we won’t see them again unless we both make the playoffs. I pick up my phone again and open the conversation with Abby. I didn’t respond earlier, but now I find myself overthinking what to say.

Me: Bet.

I wipe my hand down my face and delete that immediately. I sound like fucking Dane.

Me: Of course I can keep up.

Ugh, that’s even worse. Arrogant was Pete’s flavor, not mine. What’s the most natural response I can give? Why is it suddenly so damn hard to talk to her?

But then the perfect response comes to me. Might as well make my awkwardness an inside joke. That fuzzy feeling spreads through my chest as I type.