Page 20 of Second Shot

Or would I run away again like a wuss?

I give another groan and pop a few Advil for my throbbing head. I clumsily strip out of my clothes, leaving on only my underwear. I’m still drunk, and my balance is shit as I stumble into the bathroom to brush my teeth. I’m dreading Caldwell’s return. I need to be in bed when he gets back.

I’ll just pretend to be asleep, and I’ll ignore him in the morning. He’ll probably be only toohappy to forget the whole thing, and pretend everything is fine. He’s desperate to be accepted on the team. I get the feeling he’s desperate to be accepted by everyone.

I get in my bed, turning to face away from the door. The room is dark except for the glow of the parking lot lights filtering through the curtains, casting everything in shades of yellow. The air conditioner’s fan is still going, and I close my eyes, praying I can sleep. I just want to forget tonight ever happened.

I’m sure it’s the drink that helps me doze off, but I wake up the minute I hear Caldwell return to the room. Partly because I’m sleeping lightly and partly because he comes into the room like a drunken elephant. When I check the clock, I see it’s 4:40 a.m. Jesus, if the guys kept drinking after I bailed, Caldwell must be completely toasted.

He supports my theory when he crashes into the dresser and knocks over all his supplement bottles. He giggles and grabs for them, but some of them fall onto the floor, pills rattling in the container. I slowly turn over, watching him stumble around the room, stripping off his clothes. In the buttery light through the curtains, I can see the muscular lines of his body, and my mouth goes dry.

It pisses me off that I can hate the guy and still want him at the same time. But I can’t seemto help it. Physically, he’s gorgeous. No debate there. He’s got that all-American golden boy vibe that makes men and women drool. And while he must know he’s one of the best-looking guys around, he doesn’t act like it. He acts humble, which just makes him even more fucking attractive.

He stumbles into the bathroom and I hear him washing up and talking to himself. I have to wonder what he’s saying. My heart is pounding as I wait for him to exit the bathroom. When he finally comes out, I expect him to fall onto his bed in a drunken stupor. Instead, he staggers over to my bed.

My heart almost leaps out of my chest when he climbs onto my bed. Eyes wide, I stare up at his dark silhouette. The mattress dips under his weight as he kneels beside me on my bed. I can smell his clean masculine scent, and his minty breath as he leans over me.

“Jacobs,” he whispers, making no attempt to touch me. “Jacobs, are you awake?”

“What are you doing?” I ask hoarsely, body tensed in case he tries something. Is he still angry? He doesn’t sound angry, but what the fuck is he doing on my bed?

“I need to talk to you.”

“Why?” I hiss, bewildered.

“Listen, I… I would never hurt you,” he mumbles.

“What are you talking about?”

He sighs. “I scared you tonight at that bar in the bathroom, and I feel like shit about it. I don’t know why you don’t like me, but I’m sorry if I scared you earlier, okay?”

Stunned that he’s apologizing, I don’t know what to say. I certainly can’t explainwhyI was scared. That’s not happening. Not now anyway. Maybe someday I’ll reveal who I am, but not now.

“I just, I don’t want you mad at me,” he whimpers. “I can tell you don’t like me, and I don’t know why. I don’t understand. Did I do something? I must have, right? It’s so obvious you can’t stand me, and it’s driving me nuts.”

I’m so flabbergasted by his admission, I don’t know how to respond. I could tell he hated it when people didn’t seem to like him, but the fact he’s admitting that to me is insane. Plus, he sounds so needy and sad, it makes me feel weird. Kind of turned on, if I’m honest.

I finally manage to say, “Why do you care what I think?”

You wouldn’t care if you knew who I was.

“Of course I care what you think.” His voice is husky. “We’re teammates.”

I grit my teeth, struggling with my natural desire to not be an asshole. I’m generally a kind person. But Caldwell doesn’t deserve my kindness. Even if he is groveling on my bed at 5:00 a.m., begging me not to be mad at him, doesn’t he still deserve to be punished for how he treated me when we were kids?

“Do you think you deserve my forgiveness?” I ask in a tight little voice.

He hesitates. “I think so.”

“I don’t know that I agree.” This is a very surreal conversation. But it feels oddly cathartic to say these things to Ryan. Things I’d never have had the courage to say when we were kids. Things I can only say to him now because we’re both drunk, and he’s being completely vulnerable.

He hangs his head, and his breathing is ragged. “Please don’t hate me.”

And then it clicks. That one sentence tells me everything I need to know about how to get back at Ryan Caldwell. His insatiable need for approval is his Achilles heel. He has no idea who I really am, so he needs me to accept him. To like him. It’s kind of sad actually. I have no idea why he craves that, but it’s true. I’ve seen that need in him many times since he arrived, and now in his drunken state, his desire for my approval is radiating off of him like a microwave oven.

“If you’d tell me what I did wrong, maybe I could fix it,” he says. “I want to make things right, Jacobs. Whatever I did to you, let me make it right. Tell me what to do.”

A few tense moments pass, and when I don’t speak, he exhales a shaky breath and starts to get off the bed.

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