blew out a breath when Jason Treffen appeared on-screen, remembering that this was one of the reasons his old friends were so motivated to act. Now, when Jason was a few weeks away from being celebrated on national television, and every other advertisement seemed to trumpet his smiling face, as if he was running for office. Unopposed. The coverage was relentless.
Treffen, tireless advocate for women, in his first and most in-depth interview!
Treffen, defender of the downtrodden and personal benefactor to so many, opens up at last!
It was almost a relief when the regular programming returned, and one of Hunter’s former teammates—who happened to be suing him—appeared on the screen. Hunter muted him, not wanting to hear, yet again, a rundown of the ways in which his ejection from the NFL was a blessing for all concerned.
But, “He’s never been a team player,” he could see his former wide receiver say, directly into the camera, as if he knew Hunter was watching him, sound off or not. This was all part of the same song and dance that every single person in pro football had been performing since mid-December, whether they were filing lawsuits against him or not. Hunter could recite it himself, nearly word for word.
Out for himself. Not a team player. Prima donna. Waste of potential, waste of resources, narcissistic—
Blah-blah-blah.
It seemed like the perfect time, then, to call an old friend he didn’t want to talk to, to discuss a subject he still didn’t want to think about.
I know about Sarah, Zoe Brook had said. Which meant he hadn’t stopped thinking about it, no matter how little he wanted that.
“Stop texting me.” Hunter grunted into his cell phone when Austin answered—profanely, as expected. “You’re like a fourteen-year-old girl. I’m busy.”
“Busy doing what, playing hard to get?” Austin let out a short laugh. “Because last I checked, you don’t have a job.”
“I have shit to do. Didn’t realize I had to clear my schedule through a social secretary.”
“You’re sitting in your lonely bachelor pad, all by yourself, weeping over your glory days on ESPN On Demand,” Austin said disparagingly. “Aren’t you?”
Ouch. “I’ll repeat—stop texting me. When I’m tired of my glory days, you’ll be the first to know.”
“News flash, douchebag, this isn’t even about you. It was never about you.”
“Then you have even less reason to harass me.”
“Of course your reaction is to disappear.” Austin sounded exasperated. “Why am I surprised? Why did I think this time would be any different?”
“Because you’re such a giddy optimist?”
“This is what you do,” Austin said, as if he hadn’t heard Hunter’s sarcasm. “You did it ten years ago, you’re doing it now.”
“This conversation is reminding me why I don’t do girlfriends. Should we talk about where our relationship is heading? Do you feel fat? Are you going to tell me about your hurt feelings next?”
“I think you exhibited your feelings all over the football field, and the tabloids, for the past ten years,” Austin retorted. “All while keeping as far away from this cesspool as you could.”
Hunter didn’t say anything, because it was true. After Sarah’s death, he’d bailed. He’d moved out of the apartment he’d shared with Austin and Alex in New York, without a word. He’d gotten himself transferred to Dallas by the start of the next season, and he’d never had any intention of coming back to New York. Or to these old friendships that had once been more important to him than his own family.
“Do you have something in particular you wanted to talk about, Austin?” he asked now, scrubbing his face with one hand. “Or did you just want to reach out and sweet talk me? I appreciate it, I do, but next time, no need to call. Flowers would be fine. Don’t really like roses, though.”
“Is this what happens to you if you’re not playing football? Stop talking about flowers.”
“Tulips would do. I also like stargazer lilies. And the occasional hydrangea.”
He had no idea what he was talking about. But he was also smirking into the darkness all around him, which felt like an improvement. It reminded him of those long-ago days when he would have called Austin a brother.
“Did you get hit on the head today?” Austin asked. “Harder than usual, I mean?”
It only made Hunter want to talk about, say, shrubbery. Lawn ornaments. The little-known joys of vegetable gardens. He restrained himself, barely.
“I get it,” Austin said with a familiar edge in his voice, when moments ticked by and Hunter remained silent. He’d sounded much the same the last time Hunter had seen him, in some swanky bar or another, where Hunter had pretended he was the kind of man who cared about...anything. “This is the part where you hide in plain sight, right? Pretend you’re not involved? Just like you did back then?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Hunter lied, and it was impossible to imagine he’d been making jokes about flowers only moments before. As if he and Austin were still close. He needed to remember that he’d lost everything the night they’d lost Sarah. Every single thing he’d ever thought was important. “I’m right here. Having this phone call, when usually, that number of stalkery texts leads straight to a court order.”
“I don’t know why I’m surprised. Is there anyone in your life you haven’t let down, Hunter? Anyone at all?”
He thought of his deeply appalled parents, who had never understood his desire to play football, much less his penchant for public scandals involving his notably bad temper and far worse decisions. His brother JP, the mogul in the making, who only shook his head at Hunter’s antics, but certainly didn’t depend on Hunter for anything. Even his younger sister, Nora, who had once looked at him with all that hero worship in her eyes, had spent all of their traditional Grant family Christmas up in Maine sighing heavily every time she’d found herself alone with him. As if his expulsion from football had finally forced even her to see him the way everyone else did.
“You should have sent a bouquet, Austin,” Hunter said now. “Much less drama and disappointment all around.”
Later, he sat in the dark, with only the television for company, and told himself he liked it that way.
He was thirty-three years old and he’d alienated every single person who’d ever meant something to him. Some men earned their lives of quiet desperation, their solitary confinement. An empty house, an abandoned life, another long winter all alone.
Zoe Brook was kidding herself: there was no rehabilitating him. There was no point pretending.
Hunter had never been destined for anything but this.
“Is this why you missed another appointment, Mr. Grant, or is this just a little bit of wallowing on a weekday night? Self-indulgence,
