Point is, I need to stop being an assclown to her.
What I can’t figure out is why I caught Iris staring at me today. More than once. What the hell was that about? I may not know much about her, but I know women, and that woman was checking me out. Hard.
I shouldn’t even think twice about it. Females gawk at me all the time, just because of my profession. It doesn’t mean they like me. It’s just a physical reaction to a well-built man.
And even if she is interested, that doesn't matter. The woman is my best friend's ex-wife. She's so off-limits she's virtually radioactive. No way am I touching her. Hot as she is.
Still, whatever happened with her and Kirk? I'm curious. The question keeps bouncing around in my skull, and I don’t like where my mind is going. But I’m not getting involved. I learned my lesson the first time I stuck my nose into their relationship all those years ago.
My session draws to an end and the therapist gives me a skeptical look as he wraps up the elastic bands and starts putting the equipment away. "Look, I know you want to get back in the game. I know it might be hard for a guy like you to accept, but I've been in this field for a long time, and I really don't see you making a comeback."
I literally bare my teeth at him. "Well, maybe you haven't earned your reputation. Maybe you're not all that great at your job." I slam a balled up jump rope into the centre of his chest as I stagger by him. “And you obviously don’t know me.”
I’m a Kingston. ‘Mediocre’ is not in my DNA. Our dad took over our maternal grandfather’s failing real estate portfolio and transformed it into a multi-million dollar empire. Cannon built a tech dynasty right out of his college dorm room. Walker may be low profile but he runs the largest sustainable farm in Crescent Harbor. Hell, Eli took the Kingston ambition so far that he crossed over to the dark side and racked up a hefty nest egg before the chain of events that landed him in jail. The Kingston men are not average.
We hustle. We fight. We win.
So, go ahead, life. Knock me down. I will claw my way out of any hole you push me into.
“I’ve been living this game—breathing it—my entire life. So all you people who think I’m about to give up on my dreams? You’re wrong. I'm a scrappy motherfucker. I'm a fighter. I may have made a name for myself in the league as a party boy but I'm no stranger to working hard for what I want. And I want this recovery. More than anything.” I limp toward the door. I throw a glance back at the man’s stunned face. “Oh, and, you’re fired, by the way.”
After leaving the sports clinic, I drive across town to the grocery store, yelling at the idiot radio commentators all the way. I was tempted to skip the food shopping and wait until I’ve iced my knee, but I know if I do that, my leg will be so stiff that I won’t want to move later.
As I'm shuffling through the automatic doors, I dial my agent and bring my cellphone to my ear. He'll be able to find me another physiotherapist, one who’ll actually believe in me instead of listing out all the reasons he can't do his damn job.
After a few rings, my agent's voice bleeds across the line. "Oh, good. Kingston. I was going to call you today. What's up man? How are you holding up?"
Paul Price is a fast-talking Bostonian who represents the most high-profile footballers in the league. The man doesn't waste time with greetings and other pleasantries. So, if he's taking the time to ask "how I'm holding up?", his outlook on this situation must be pretty bleak.
Shit.
I don't waste time with the pleasantries either. "Paul—What aren't you telling me?"
He breathes out a rough sigh. “We need to talk about what's next for you, Jude. What do you want to do with your life now."
"Getting back in the game is what's next for me," I retort stubbornly as I drop my weight against a shopping cart and hobble right past the vegetable section. Vegetables. Eww.
Paul's voice takes on a tone I've never heard before. Pity. And that's when I know for sure, I'm in trouble. "Come on, man. Be realistic; no one plays football forever."
"I know that." Eventually, I'll need a new career. But not for a long, long time. "I've got at least another eight years in me. Maybe even ten."
"Your injured knee says otherwise," my agent huffs.
His tone is growing impatient. I know it won't be long until he's out of compassion for me and he's ready to move on to football's next bright and shiny rising star.
I lean my weight on the basket and close my eyes in frustration. I’m tired of being in a constant state of pain. I just want to feel normal again, whatever that new normal might entail. "This shit is not fair..."
I'm nearly 30 but I have a few things going for me. I'm in the best shape of my life. I may not be a fan of the veggies but I take care of my body. I put in my hours in the gym, I guzzle electrolytes, I get my eight hours of sleep, and I’ve even avoided alcohol these past couple years. I was on a Christmas-gifts-for-your-grandkids basis with my massage practitioner, my chiro, and my stretch therapist.
This shouldn't be happening to me...
"Look—I know it's not fair. You had a promising
