Page 71 of Off Limits

Sure, most guys don’t want their friends dating their siblings. I get it. Shit can get awkward if and when things end. But maybe if he weren’t such a raging douchecanoe about Ellie being anywhere in a one mile radius of his presence, we wouldn’t have had to hide our relationship. And if there was no need for secrecy, then I could’ve jumped in to defend Ellie this weekend at her parents’.

And maybe she would’ve told me then to stay out of it because I don’t really matter.

Maybe I’d still be here with what I thought was a good relationship blowing up in my face. Maybe I’d still be fucked.

I jerk the handle to turn the shower on harder than strictly necessary, and the whole fucking thing comes off in my hand. I stuff it back on the little hexagonal stick poking out of the wall, but it won’t stay on no matter what I do, and there’s cold water spraying everywhere, soaking the sleeve of my sweatshirt that I haven’t stripped off yet. Because I’m nothing if not stubborn, I jam the handle at the wall a few more times before giving up and chucking the useless hunk of metal at the wall.

Where it cracks the tile.

“Fuck!” I shout, my roar of pain and frustration echoing around the little bathroom. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Each one louder than the last, because screaming profanity seems to be the only outlet I have right now.

“Dude.” Cal says from the now-open doorway.

I spin around, glaring at him, my chest heaving.

He holds his hands up, the universal gesture of surrender. “Are you okay?”

I shove my hand through my hair, wiping the stray droplets off my face. “Do I look okay?”

He shakes his head slowly.

“Well, there’s your answer.” I cross my arms over my chest and stare him down.

He gestures at the shower behind me. “What happened?”

I deflate. “I broke it. Sorry. I’ll pay to get it fixed.”

He shrugs like it’s not a big deal, still studying me. Clearly that’s not what he was asking about, or not all he was asking about, but he lets it pass. “Can I try?”

At my jerky nod, he steps back into the hall, making room for me to get out of the way so he can assess the damage. I tap my closed fist against the wall, letting my forehead fall against it. “Fuck,” I whisper again.

How did everything get so fucked up so fast?

* * *

The rest of the week passes in a daze of classes, workouts, homework, and football. Showering at the gym for a few days while we wait for the plumber to fix the shower I broke. Ignoring Cal’s frowns and concerned looks. Practice, game tapes, an actual game, rinse and repeat. I’m running myself ragged, trying to stay busy enough to keep ignoring Ellie’s texts and phone calls, at least those first few days when she was still trying to call. And then it’s to stay busy enough, tired enough, that I don’t try calling her when she stops trying to contact me.

I miss her. In the quiet moments when I’m drifting off to sleep or just waking up or in the shower, little stolen moments where I’m unable to fully occupy my mind with something—anything—else, I think of her. Miss her. Wish we could go back to a time where I was still living in the delusion that I mattered. Thatwemattered. That we’d figure out a way to tell Cal and get him to come around, or at least be okay with it even if he wasn’t thrilled.

But as much as I miss her, I can’t undo the damage that’s been done. I want more than just a fun fling. She doesn’t. And I know that trying to pretend otherwise will only lead to more heartache in the long run. Better to end things now and find a way to move on.

Groaning at my sore muscles that I haven’t given the chance to recover in over a week, I step out of the locker room shower and head back to my locker to put on my street clothes so I can go home, eat some dinner, hide my phone, and get a jump on the paper due next week in my econ class.

But as I’m pulling on my shoes, one of the assistant coaches comes and finds me. “Coach Reese wants to see you in his office.”

Cal’s head jerks up next to me, his gaze darting between me and the assistant coach, his brows drawing together in concern.

I ignore him, though, and nod my acknowledgment to the assistant coach. I’m pretty sure I know what this is about. I’ve been overdoing it. I know it. I’ve been having to drop weight on my big lifts in the weight room because I’m not getting enough recovery time between workouts. And if that weren’t enough evidence, my body is making it clear I’ve hit the overtraining zone. I’m sleeping like shit—which is also partly attributable to never-ending dreams of Ellie—I’m sore, my tendons and ligaments feel achy, and there’s a sucking fatigue making it impossible to perform up to my usual standards. But lifting is the only thing that makes me feel some semblance of control, so even though I know I need a rest day—a real rest day that doesn’t even include light cardio—I can’t quite make myself take one.

Backpack slung over one shoulder, sweatshirt in hand, I head to Coach’s office. Raising my hand, I knock on the doorframe to get his attention.

He lifts his gaze from whatever paperwork he’s looking at on his desk, sits up straighter, and gestures me in.

“Simon,” he says by way of greeting, leaning back in his desk chair, his elbows propped on the arm rests, his hands folded across his lean midsection.

“Coach,” I respond, shuffling through the door.

“Close the door and have a seat.”

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