“Get the fuck out.”

The faucet gushes cool water and Jordan wets the towel again. “No.”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I rasp, my throat stinging from the acid that raged through it just moments ago. “Like Seattle? You’ve been here two days already. That’s enough.”

Jordan brushes the back of my neck again with the cool towel. I hold back the moan. It feels amazing.

“I can’t leave you like this.”

“I’m not a damn toddler.” Pushing unsteadily to my feet, I reach across and open the glass shower door. I flick on the taps and cold water blasts out from the showerhead. Shoving my underwear down and off, I step beneath the icy spray and hiss when it hits my overheated skin.

When I turn to close the door, Jordan’s still standing by the sink, wringing the towel in her hands. I love her so damn much it hurts, and god, I want her to stay. But not now. And not like this. She deserves better. Putting her through this makes me nothing more than a piece of shit. I don’t want her here when I’m like this.

“Would you fucking go already, Jordan? Book your flight back to Seattle. I don’t want you here when I get back from training.”

I slam the shower door closed.

My backside jars as I slam it down on the bench in front of my locker. Dropping my helmet at my feet, I hang my head and pinch the bridge of my nose. Today I trained like a newborn holding a football for the very first time. I’ve lost confidence in myself and what my body can do, and I have no clue how to get it back.

Eddie drops down on my left and the entire bench shudders beneath the force. His meaty paw slaps me in the back, shoving me forward a couple of inches on the seat. “What a shit show.”

I wipe my brow with my forearm. It comes away grimy—a testament to every body slam I took out there on the field, my face spending most of its day mashed in the dirt. “Thanks for the pep talk, Eddie.”

He leans over, droplets of sweat scattering to the floor as he starts untying his laces. “Pretty words aren’t going to fix anything.”

“Well damn, there goes my poetry reading session this afternoon.”

After peeling away his socks, Eddie stands and starts tugging off his equipment. “Jordan went home today?”

“Not home,” I correct him, resting my elbows on my knees and lacing my fingers together to hide the tremors. Jordan didn’t wait until after I left for training to leave. When I stepped out of the shower she was already gone. “Seattle.”

He grunts, wrapping a towel around his waist. “You’re a dick.”

“Christ, Eddie!” Jerking to my feet, I kick the base of my locker and face him. “I get it, okay? You’re not my number one fan right now!”

His hand wraps around my throat, and I’m slammed against the locker before I can blink. Eddie jabs a finger right in my face. “No, you’re the one who doesn’t get it, you fucking motherfucker.” His eyes are red and rife with emotion. “Everyone’s pussyfooting around you because you keep going off like a firecracker on the Fourth of July. I’m tired of it, and I’m not the only one. Someone needs to give you a ‘come to Jesus’ talk, and I hereby nominate myself.”

Unpeeling his fingers from my neck, I shove him off me. “Yeah? Well save your breath. I’m retracting your nomination, asshole.”

“Really?” he growls. “When you get home today, take a look in the mirror. A good, hard look. When you’re done, you can come tell me who the asshole is here.” Eddie stalks off toward the showers and pauses for a moment before turning back. “I don’t get it. Are you trying to make it harder for yourself?”

“Yes.” I roll my eyes. Slumping down on the bench, I give him my back as I tug off my cleats. “That’s exactly what I’m trying to do.”

“We want to help you, but you’re pushing us all away. Jordan didn’t just go back to Seattle, you forced her to go. That’s your usual MO. To deal with it yourself. Well guess what, you keep doing that, and one day you’ll wake up alone. A drugged-out fucking waste of life that nobody gives a shit about. Or worse, dead.”

Eddie’s stomping feet take him away and the locker room settles into silence. Grabbing the back neckline of my jersey, I tug it over my head and off, tossing it to the floor. Fuck him. Fuck Eddie, and fuck Jaxon for bringing Jordan home, and fuck everyone. Of course I’m dealing with it myself. It’s my problem. If everyone left me alone, I could focus on fixing it.

I ignore Eddie after showering. He doesn’t seem bothered. He jokes and laughs with other teammates as if I don’t exist. When I’m dressed, I leave for my drug counseling session. Our team physician passed on the address. It was written on a scrap of paper along with name McDougall. After killing the engine, my fingers tap restlessly on the steering wheel as I stare at the house in front of me, wondering if I read the address right.

The fact that it’s a house throws me—a nice house with leafy trees, garden flowers, and a porch. It’s private and discreet. You would never guess the reason I was here. And perhaps that’s the point. Stories like mine keep the media fed. You’re the carcass and they’re the vultures, and they will gleefully pick you apart until nothing remains except bones.

Huffing loudly, I get out of the car and step up onto the porch. After knocking, the door opens and I’m greeted by a guy, big and fit—almost my size. Maybe forty if that, he’s barefoot and wearing worn jeans, a black tee shirt, and a sauce-splattered apron with the silhouette of a dachshund in tartan print that reads, “Are you looking at my McWiener?”

As pissed off as I am to be here right now, I can’t help the laugh that escapes me. I clear my throat. “Dude. Cool apron.”

Holding a wooden spoon aloft, he glances down as if forgetting he’s wearing it and laughs. “Shit. It’s my wife’s.”

He catches my brows flying upwards.

“Aaaand I’m not sure that makes it sound any better.” Just when I’m ready to ask him if I have the right house, he checks his watch and then points the spoon at me. “You’re Brody Madden.”

“And you…” I take a step backwards “…look like you’re in the middle of cooking dinner.” Jerking my thumb in the direction behind me, I keep talking. “So I’m gonna go, and maybe—”

Transferring the spoon to his left hand, he holds out his right before I can make an escape, cutting me off. “Doug McDougall.”

My lips press together. Stepping forward, I take it, giving it a firm shake. “Great name, Doug.”

“The best, thanks to my parents’ perverse sense of humor,” he jokes and lets go of my hand. Stepping aside, he leans against the open door to let me through. “Though mostly I get McDee or Big Mac.”

I follow him through a cluttered hallway to a kitchen out the back. The whole vibe of his house is more well-lived-in rather than untidy. It’s comfortable. Like Doug is—a man who appears confident and relaxed in his own skin. It makes me wonder how it feels to be that way.

“Did I get the time right?” I ask when he heads straight for a big steel pot resting on a gas cooktop. Doug plops his spoon back in, giving it a messy stir.

“Yep. I’m just running behind thanks to afternoon traffic. It’s my turn to cook and it’s chili night. Not to mention my wife will bitch me out if she doesn’t get fed.” Doug tilts his head to look at me as he stirs. “You like chili?”

Usually, but today the scent has my stomach rebelling. “Sure.”

Setting down his spoon, Doug turns and rests his back against the kitchen counter. Crossing one leg casually over the other, he says, “So. Brody. Tell me why you’re here.”

I fold my arms and sidestep his question. “You ask me that like you don’t know.”

He waves a hand. “I got the official spiel, but I want to hear it from you. Humor me.”

“I’m only here because I’ll get suspended from play otherwise.”