Page 224 of Broken Saint
Ipush through the front door of my house, leaving the car that dropped me off from the interview I had little choice but to attend behind me.
I want to say that after the time I’ve spent here in the past few weeks, progress has been made and it’s looking more like a home than a building site. But that’s far from the truth.
Everything is still a mess. Still half-finished or barely even started.
It’s not because I’m still recovering. Well, it is. That’s my excuse. But it’s bullshit.
Every day I’m getting stronger, and recently, I’m coming home from training with the guys and am still able to function.
My body is complying with the plan to return to normal life. My mind, however…
That’s still locked in the dark hole it fell into the moment I collapsed on the field.
No, it’s worse than that. It’s stuck on the moment I turned my back on Ella and gave her little choice but to move on.
The slam of the door echoes through the empty, silent building in front of me.
I hate the quiet. It allows me to fall deep into my own thoughts, and that’s a really dangerous place to be.
They’ve landed me here alone, after all.
My cell buzzes in my pocket, but I ignore it.
I’m not in the mood to talk to anyone after being interrogated by a journalist for the past hour.
I get it. There are people out there who are used to watching me play every weekend. They follow my career, my socials, and other than attending a couple of games, I’ve fallen off the face of the Earth.
People are concerned, and I owe it to my fans to let them know that I’m okay. That there could be a chance of me returning to the field.
The Saints are on a winning streak right now. It’s great to see them doing so well. It looks like the playoffs might just be within reach.
I want it. Even if I don’t get to be there, I want it for Luc, Kane, and the rest of the team who deserve it about a million times over.
They’re fucking epic players, and even better people. I want to see them go all the way. I want to see them with their rings. I want to see their fucking smiles when that final whistle blows and reality hits them.
My chest aches just thinking about it.
Fuck. I want it.
Marching up to my bedroom, I drag my shirt from my body and launch it in the direction of the laundry. I’m about to shove my pants from my hips when a knock on the front door echoes around the house.
I look over my shoulder as if I can see the door and then through it to discover who’s standing on the other side.
Ignoring whoever it is, I continue undressing, but I quickly discover that they’re not happy with being ignored.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter, dragging a pair of sweats up my legs and swiping a t-shirt from the drawer.
As I move back through the house, the knocking becomes insistent.
Whoever it is knows that I’m in here, and they’re not taking no for an answer.
It’s not Luca or Kane—they’d already be inside. Those assholes aren’t polite enough to knock. It could be Letty or Peyton, but the knocking seems a little violent for their small hands.
“All right,” I bellow as I close in on the door.
Wrapping my fingers around the handle, I wrench it open and glare hard at whoever is doing their utmost to ruin my peace.
The sight of a young college-aged kid on the other side of the threshold gives me pause.