Three Little Words (12 page)

The banging on his apartment door wrenched Colton from a blurry dream and hard sleep. He tried to lift his head, but the weight of it roused a throaty groan and sent his face back to his pillow.

Except the leather under his cheek wasn’t a pillow. He opened one eye. Coffee table. TV. Fireplace. He was in the living room?

The pounding on his door continued, almost in sync with the throbbing at his temples. Another moan, and he turned onto his back, the ceiling fan’s whir overhead brushing his hair over his ears. Why had he slept on the couch?

And why did he feel like death?

And who at the door couldn’t take a hint?

Probably the same person who’d been calling and texting incessantly since the press conference days ago. “Go away, Ian.” He croaked the words, tongue heavy and head thumping at each syllable.

And that’s when last night finally came into partial focus. The bar. His third night in the place. The drinks. The guy on the end stool. Had they fought? He lifted his hand to his jaw, winced at the sting of pain when he felt the tender spot.

Oh man, it’d been years since he’d been in a bar fight.

“It’s Logan. Let me in, Greene.”

Logan Walker, his college buddy—the only friend who’d spent more time at his side in the hospital than Lilah.

Lilah. Over. For good.

Another knock.

“Just a sec.” Colton stood, bare feet shuffling over the Sherpa rug covering his living room floor. The hammer in his head continued its pulsing as he made his way to the front door. He glanced down before opening the door—jeans, T-shirt. Same clothes he’d worn to the bar.

He pulled the door open. “Let me guess. Ian called you.”

“Didn’t have to.” Logan pushed past Colton, dropped his phone and keys on the entryway table, and made for the living room.

Colton closed the door. “Make yourself at home.”

“Don’t get sarcastic on me or I’ll deck you. Again.” Logan abandoned his suit jacket over the back of the couch, then made quick work of opening the patio blinds and pushing the glass door aside.

Colton squinted against the assault of sunlight. But the fresh air? Had to admit that felt good. “Wait, deck me again?” He worked his sore jaw. Logan had done that?

Logan turned. Blue tie, white shirt, pants as uncreased as Colton’s were wrinkled. And for a moment, shame pushed past the pounding in his head. That his friend—good, respectable, always-do-the-right-thing Logan Walker—was seeing him like this.

Hung over. Bruised. A mess.

“I didn’t want to hit you, but you insisted on driving.”

“You punched me. I-I thought . . .” He ran a hand through shaggy hair. “There was this jerk at the end of the bar. I don’t remember exactly . . .”

“Two of you got bounced before you could get into it. Bartender took your keys, said my number was the only favorite in your contacts.”

Yes. Because he’d finally deleted Lilah from the list. Apparently all those times she’d visited him at the hospital, the constant checking in as he worked his way through physical therapy—none of it meant what he’d thought: That there was still a spark of life in their relationship. That she still cared.

No, apparently she’d only stayed in touch due to her work with his foundation, all the while moving on with her personal life.

Which felt worse? The physical ache that seemed to have a grip on his entire body? Or the humiliation slogging through him?

Logan only stared at him as Colton slumped onto one of the stools at the peninsula counter dividing the living room and kitchen. “Guess I should say thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. Just tell me what you were thinking.” Logan rounded the counter and entered the kitchen. He reached for a coffee mug hanging from a peg in the wall and slid it under the Keurig. “I know your life hasn’t been a load of fun lately, but getting drunk in a seedy bar? Picking a fight with a stranger?” Logan started the coffee maker. “That’s the kind of thing you stopped doing five, six years ago. Thought you’d gotten it out of your system.”

Elbows on the counter top, Colton rubbed his eyes. “I didn’t pick the fight. I remember that much.” The Keurig gurgled to life. “He recognized me, made some joke about headlines and Lilah . . .”

Logan waited until the coffee finished, then set the mug in front of Colton. “Drink up.”

Colton obeyed, liquid hot and bitter in his throat.

“So it was about Lilah.” Logan ran in the same political circles as Lilah, had actually been the one to introduce Colton to Lilah—recommended her for the job heading up the Colton Greene Foundation.

Logan started a second cup of coffee, then turned back to Colton and pressed both palms on the counter. “I heard about the engagement. Have you talked to her?

Colton shook his head, looked up from his already half-empty mug. She’d stopped calling after her fourth attempt went unanswered. “You?”

“She’s worried about you, Colt. We both are.”

“Yeah? Well, don’t be.” He threw back the last of his coffee.

Logan pulled the second cup of coffee from the Keurig, but instead of drinking from it, set it in front of Colton—hard enough that liquid sloshed over the edge. “Clearly you need another.”

“Walker, I appreciate the ride home last night. But you can leave now.”

Logan’s eyes narrowed. “You know what you’re reminding me of? The sullen kid I met freshman year of college. Such a huge chip on his shoulder you’d think the entire world was out to get him.”

Colton pushed his stool away from the counter. “I’m sorry the fact that my career and the woman I thought I was going to marry being ripped from me at the same time means I’m a little worse for the wear—”

“Worse for the wear? Dude, you smell like a distillery.”

Colton jerked off the stool so hard it tipped and dropped to the floor. He skulked to the patio door.

“Listen for a minute, will you? I didn’t just stop today to check on you. I wanted to tell you about my dad.”

Colton froze, fingers in place on the screen door’s handle. He may not have seen his friend’s dad for years. Not since college. But the man . . . well, he was a good guy. Took Colton under his wing during Colton’s years as Logan’s dorm-mate at the University of Iowa.

Colton had no doubt the man was a big part of the reason he’d eventually been able to sneak free from the grip of childhood shadows.

Oh, they were still there—dark and hazy as always—but he’d finally stopped peering into them. Trying to remember . . .

Yes, Case Walker’s influence had had something to do with that. “What about your dad?”

“There was a tornado last night, major damage. I spent the whole evening trying to get ahold of my family. Dad sprained his shoulder.”

Colton let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

“I’m heading back to Iowa for a few days to help out. Taking Charlie with me. Thought maybe you’d want to come along. Get out of LA. Clear your head. Besides, Charlie misses you.”

For the briefest moment, the thought of his friend’s three-year-old daughter was almost enough to lend a hint of a smile to Colton’s face. Almost. “Don’t know.”

“Well, I’ve got a flight this afternoon, so make your decision fast.”

Colton nodded, opened the screen door, and stepped outside onto his sun-warmed wooden balcony. Below him, palm trees surrounded his complex’s recreation area, the sound of splashes and laughter lifting from the pool below.

He propped his elbows on the balcony railing and sighed. Shouldn’t have lost it with Logan. It’s not like he had an abundance of friends. And with no family and now Lilah out of his life, he should hold tighter to the few he had.

It’s like he was eighteen again. Alone. Aged out of a foster system that had never wanted him anyway.

He heard movement in the kitchen through the screen door. Cupboards opening, a pan rattling. Had Logan decided to cook or something?
Good luck finding food, Walker
.

His phone suddenly blared to life from his pocket. Didn’t have to look at it to know who was calling. He slid it out and lifted it to his ear. “This is Colton.”

“Wow, you answered. Color me shocked.”

“What is it, Ian?” He glanced into the apartment, saw Logan pulling a carton from the fridge.
Huh, I
have eggs?

“Okay, fine. Skipping the small talk. Got a simple question for you: You going to pull yourself together or not? Because I don’t have time to waste, Greene. I’ve been busting my butt trying to line up appearances, sponsorships—anything to keep the last of your career alive. But if you’re going to continue ignoring my calls while partying at night, let me know now so I can stop putting my rep on the line for you.”

Colton turned back to the balcony railing, the fog in his head finally starting to clear—probably from the coffee and the late-afternoon sunshine.

The flint in Ian’s tone.

“Ian—”

“I heard about last night. And the night before. And the night before that. If you want even a hope of salvaging your career, you’ve got to clean up your act. Now.”

“What career? I’m done. Washed up.” He could still taste the doctor’s sour words:
“If you keep playing, you’ll
do the kind of permanent damage we can’t fix.”

Colton Greene. Unfixable.

Sounded about right somehow.

“You still have your foundation.”

With Lilah at the helm? How was he supposed to handle that?

“And you’d make a great sports-show host, Colt. I’ve been saying that’s your obvious plan B ever since the injury. You’ve got the looks and the talent. But nobody’s going to take you seriously if you can’t pull yourself together.”

Colton ran one hand along the wooden railing, pulled back with a jerk when he felt a splinter poke his palm.

“So that’s my question: Can you pull yourself together? Yes or no?”

“Yes.”

“That wasn’t even close to convincing.”

Colton closed his eyes and tipped his head, the heat of the sun, his sore jaw, Ian’s pushing . . . all of it demanding a deep breath and forced calm.
He’s only trying to help.
“Yes, Ian. What do you want me to do?”

“Lay low for a while. Stay out of the spotlight.”

The smell of the eggs Logan must be frying drifted outside, along with the memory of his friend’s offer. “
Heading to
Iowa . . . come along. Clear your head.”

Ian’s voice cut in. “One more thing. You’ve had a book deal on the table for over a year. Publisher’s getting antsy. You’ve fired two ghost-writers.”

Colton stiffened, apprehension beating through him. “Didn’t fire them. Just didn’t work out.”

It had sounded like such a good idea at first, the book. After all, he had the life story people liked to read. Rowdy D1 quarterback with the painful past and bad-boy image, drafted right out of college, always in trouble during the off-season. Then just like that, during his second season in the NFL, turns his life around after his friend coaxes him to church on Christmas Eve.

The friend . . . Logan.

But he hadn’t realized when he’d signed that book contract what it’d mean, working with a writer. Hadn’t known they’d dig so deep. Poke and prod at shadows he’d rather not illuminate.

“One bestseller of a sports memoir could rewrite your reputation and jumpstart your future, Colton. You need this.”

Ian paused, his forceful stretch of silence driving his point home. “I emailed you details on a couple other writers. We have to nail this thing—I’m talking book drafted in a month or two. They’ve
already pushed the release date back twice. They’re not going to do it again. Choose a writer. I want a name by Monday. Otherwise I’ll pick for you.”

Colton closed his eyes against the sunlight, clawing humidity slithering over his skin. “Fine.” He’d review the information. Probably on the plane trip to Iowa. Yes, sometime between stepping outside and Ian’s ultimatum, he’d made the decision—he’d go with Logan.

He had to. Because something told him if he didn’t, he’d find himself in another bar tonight. And on the couch again tomorrow. Same headache, same blurred thoughts.

That Christmas Eve memory further away than ever.

And the gnawing question impossible to ignore. Who was Colton Greene without football?