I release the tense breath I've been holding. "Thank you," I say. I'm grateful that my friends are being understanding. Still, the cloak of guilt weighs me down.
My gaze drops to the rental app on my phone screen. There's money in my account. More money than I've seen in a long, long time. A pile of cold, hard cash with my name on it.
I think back to my near-empty wallet, the debt collectors calling all hours of the day, the failing business attempts showing no signs of being able to cover this month's bills.
Fuck!
Jude and I might get along like oil and water but am I really in a position to turn him away?
This rental arrangement would definitely buy me some time to figure out my next move.
Ugh! being a grown-up sucks.
I close my eyes against the wave of resignation that crashes into me.
I can't let Cannon cancel the reservation. Not when I need the money so badly.
Shit...
"Wait!" My screech draws the attention of diners at the neighboring table. I flinch at my desperate tone.
My friends stare at me hopefully.
It's time to tighten my ponytail, put on my big girl panties and push the grudge aside. In this new phase of my life, I'm going to have to make some uncomfortable decisions—sacrifices—to get me to the other side of the abyss.
"Don't...don't cancel the reservation," I say. "I-I can make it work."
And that’s how I end up stuck living with Jude Kingston. This particular sacrifice better be worth the money.
2
Jude
Wai-wai-wait! I need one more for my Instagram!”
The blue-haired gas station attendant tightens her one-armed death grip around my waist and raises her phone for another round of selfies. She and her co-workers press close, sandwiching me between them and thwarting my attempts to make a quick escape.
My knee is killing me and I feel about as fresh as the lettuce in a week-old Quiznos sub, but I grin big for the cameras and throw up a peace sign, playing the role of the returning hometown football hero.
That’s what my fans have come to expect.
I’m Jude Kingston. Paragons tight end. Cool guy. Lady’s man. Huge personality. Confident, outgoing, a good time on and off the field. And in the weeks since my injury, I’ve done my best to uphold that image. At least in the public eye.
I bet if the fans could hear my internal monologue, they wouldn't be so eager to be all up on me, though.
In the frenzied circus energy of the gas station, a display of beef jerky gets knocked over. There’s someone's shoulder jammed into my armpit. And um, is that an erection I feel pressed up against my thigh?
Even grown-ass, heterosexual men have been known to get excited enough to sprout a woody at a spontaneous Jude Kingston sighting. What can I say? That’s just the effect I have on people.
When somebody's nipple piercing stabs me in the bicep, I know it's time to get the hell out of here. Quick. I don’t want any of these overeager kids tripping over my bum leg.
One of the excited teenagers is shrieking into her phone, putting out an SOS call to alert god-knows-who-else of my presence in the gas station.
And to think, I just stopped by here to fill my tank and buy a pack of gum.
I unknot myself from the web of fans and head for the door, trying my best to hide the limp. The last thing my precarious career needs is footage of me, dragging ass out of a gas station, to hit the gossip sites.
The heady stench of gasoline feels like a personal assault as I hobble out toward the pump where my luxury convertible is stationed. My glance drops to my phone. Still waiting for that confirmation message from Cannon.
When I'd called and told him I was on my way into town, I'd been hoping to stay at his place. He has a whole, entire mansion that he and his new wife, Lexi, keep all to themselves. I'd expected to be able to bunk in one of their eleventy dozen bedrooms. No such luck.
Apparently, there's a nudity rule in effect in their house and I don't want any part of that. Anyway, Cannon said he had a lead on a comfortable place for me to stay and that he just has to iron out the details. I'm waiting anxiously for him to get back to me with a text.
Someone shouts my name, and I look around. Two gas stalls away, some guy is waving. I squint. I can’t tell whether it’s a fan who recognizes me or an old acquaintance from town.
Please don’t come over here, I beg internally. Please don't come over here.
Whenever I come home, the locals all want to chat about ‘how they knew me when…’ Usually, it's cool and I don't mind the attention, but I’m not in any shape for any more cheesing and selfies and autographs today.
“Get better soon, man!” the guy shouts.
I put on my trademark cocky grin, trying to act like I've got this under control. "Already on the mend. I'll be back on the field in no time." I give a salute and turn away.
I hustle the car door open and fall into the drivers’ seat, massaging my aching knee and thigh muscles.
From behind the wheel, my gaze sweeps the cluster of mom and pop storefronts nestled around the waterfront and the small houses dotting the familiar lush green terrain in the distance.
Crescent Harbor, Illinois. Population: 5 000.
Ending up back here indefinitely—especially at the beginning of the football season—hadn't been part of my plan.
This was supposed to be my year. We were going to bring the championship home again and this time, I'd be the team's first-string tight end. At least, that was what I was working toward. I was hungry for it. So damn hungry I got overeager and fucked it all up, in a pre-season game,
