I respond by protectively clutching my papers to my chest. “Nothing.”
“Nothing? Seems pretty important to me if you slept with your face on the keyboard.” He licks his tongue across his bottom lip, trying—and failing—to hide his I’m-laughing-at-Iris smile.
Here’s the truth.
I clicked on one of those YouTube advertisements a few weeks ago. Y'know, the ones with the fast-talking 19-year-old college-dropouts-turned-entrepreneurs promising to reveal the secrets to building a six-figure business from a cabana off the coast of Bali? Yah, one of those.
Anyway, I whipped out my credit card at the webinar and I bought the training to help me build up an online boutique, selling customized T-shirts with whimsical phrases. It looked promising and seemed pretty straightforward, like something I could easily succeed at. I spent weeks setting up an eye-catching website, selecting a reputable dropshipping company, and launching social media platforms to generate traffic. I maxed out my last credit card to cover my initial expenses.
So, awesome right?
Except, it wasn’t. It’s been a month, and I’ve had a whopping 127 website visitors, and two sales. Two.
Soon, it’ll be me in that cabana in Bali. Y’all better get my margarita ready.
In any case, right now, I feel dumb. And I know he’ll judge me for falling into an internet marketing scam that could obviously never work out.
Jude waits—with a cocked eyebrow—for me to spill.
“I don’t want to be rude, but I’d rather not discuss it.” I don’t really know this man. I could spill my ideas, and then for all I know, he could turn around and steal everything for himself. And there I’d go, another missed opportunity!
Or, he could laugh. And the embarrassment of parading my failure in front of my college rival would hurt worse than the failed business itself.
Jude blows out a frustrated breath.. “Fine. Don’t talk. Fine by me,” he clips, before shoving another spoonful in his mouth. “And your cereal sucks.” He hops up from the table, dumps his bowl in the sink and storms out of the room.
My mouth drops open in indignation.
How dare this man insult me and my cereal? In my own damn house? While I’m offering safe haven to his rude ass?
I sit there, jaw ticking, muttering profanities under my breath, cursing myself for opening up my home to the guy against my better judgement.
But he tromps back in a few minutes later. He goes straight to the sink, washes his bowl, and sets it in the dish drainer to dry. Then, he turns for the door again.
This time, he pauses in the doorway. He hesitates, his eyes meeting mine. I see something like remorse there. “Need anything from the grocery store?” It almost sounds like a peace offering.
I try to say, no thank you, but nothing comes out. My jaw is too tight to speak as a dozen different reactions battle in my head. So, I settle for a subtle head shake.
Stiffly, he nods. “Have a good day, Iris.”
Then, he’s gone again, leaving me to deal with the whiplash.
6
Jude
I grunt, trying to complete my sixth leg curl, laying facedown on the exercise bench. Feels like I’m never going to make it to ten.
Sweat drips down my temples and my back. I am well-versed in pushing my body to the limit, but my new therapist has far exceeded those bounds today.
He doesn’t even have me using any weights. Most of his stretches and exercises are resistant band or bodyweight-oriented. When he gives me a disappointed look and tells me that’s enough, I shake my head. “More. Few more. I can do it.”
This therapy session has been a bitch. If every session is like today, I can see why so many throw in the towel. Why so many re-injure themselves because they can’t finish the grueling program.
Maybe this is why the doctors were so quick to rule me out. Maybe they were right. Maybe I can’t hack it like I used to. At least that's what the therapist thinks. "Man, you're killing yourself for nothing. This is not the kind of injury you're gonna be able to come back from. Not at your age."
Instead of conceding to the asshole, I level him with a look. "I'm not paying you to tell me I can’t do it. I'm paying you to help me figure out how to fix this thing.” And the money is all coming out of my own pocket.
Because my coaches think I’m done. Team management is ready to move on without me. My doctors say my career is over.
But I’m Jude Kingston, pro-football’s biggest player, on and off the field.
As if I'd let some random, freak injury take me out of the game. I may be on the sidelines at the moment but this is just a temporary setback.
Of course there's this niggling fear that the medical professionals are right, that I won't be able to pull off this recovery, but I started playing football at the age of four. This is my goddamned dream we're talking about here.
My knee fucking hurts. My quad and calf are on fire. And my other leg burns from taking the brunt of my weight and overcompensating for my weaknesses. I’m angry, and I’m frustrated with being so fucking angry all the time. This isn’t me. I’m the jokester. The easy going guy.
This injury has turned my world on its side and morphed me into this bitter, whiny jackass. I hate it.
I even blew up at Iris this morning for nothing at all. So what if she doesn’t want to tell me her business? Hell, maybe the woman was watching porn on her computer. Who am I to judge? She should be entitled to her privacy.
Instead, I insulted her and stormed out of the kitchen like a little bitch. As soon as I marched out, I realized I was being ridiculous. That's why I went back in there
