Page 17 of Heart of Thorns

Bill Keenland is an investor.

Do you understand?

I, unfortunately, do.

It means don’t fuck up.

Don’t mistreat his daughter, don’t make an ass of myself, don’t blow them off.

The suddenness of my claustrophobia takes me by surprise. I make a quick exit, waving off Rhys’s concerned expression. My skin prickles, and I catch myself on the wall outside.

Deep breaths.

It doesn’t really fucking help with the mental struggle, but eventually, the knot loosens enough for me to stand straight. I swipe at the layer of sweat that accumulated at my temples and step back into the locker room.

My gaze snags on the devil horns and my own cutting glare.

I don’t look like that, truly, do I?

It’s not meant to plague me. For all my talk about football, what Ireallywant is to have a break from constantly pleasing my parents. I want to just exist for a fucking minute.

But not like that.

If that’s how she saw me… that’s how I must be.

The devil.

A monster.

I’m mid-spiral, silent and back at my bag, when my physical therapist comes in and grabs me.

There’s no more time to think about it.

I amgreatat compartmentalizing, so I shove down my worries and focus on Jeremy’s back. My physical therapist makes small talk that I let wash over me. My knee is definitely better, but we still do regular maintenance while the team does other drills.

Down the hall, into his room. It’s a combination of weight room and his work space, with padded tables for the guys who need wraps or tape. The room is bright and airy, not unlike the locker room, but it doesn’t smell of sweat. I’m not sure what kind of magic voodoo he holds in this room to make it smellclean.

We do some familiar exercises, and there’s only an occasional twinge of pain that I put out of my mind. Nothing an over-the-counter painkiller later won’t solve. Or, my personal favorite, an ice bath. What’s better than hot water? Freezing cold water, obviously.

Just kidding.

He pats my leg and sends me out to join the team.

I stop by our coach on the sideline, and when there’s a pause, he sends me onto the field. I catch the football, my fingers flexing on the pigskin. Everything about the ball is familiar and comfortable. More than going to school or driving a car, or even writing my own name.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Throw.

Perfect spiral, a thing of beauty.

Of course, practice isn’teasy. It’s hard and sweaty, and I’m cursing our coaching staff by the time they release us. At the door, my physical therapist awaits.

“Let me guess,” I say, holding up my hand. “Ice bath for…?”

“Five minutes today.” He slaps my back. “Nothing you can’t handle.”