“You got something on your mind today, coach?” says my assistant, approaching from midfield to where I stand on the sidelines. “You worried about playing without Vankman on Tuesday?”

“Yes and no,” I say curtly, embarrassed to have been caught staring into space. “I think Parnell will fill in nicely, but we still need to work on his attack. He’s offloading the ball too soon. I’d rather him take contact then pass into a crowd.”

“I’ll stay after practice and work with him for a while.”

“Good. Thank you.”

He’s quiet for a moment, observing me. “Normally, you would offer to stay as well. You have somewhere else to be?”

Yes. Watching the woman I can’t stop obsessing about go on a date with someone else.

I clear my throat hard. “Just meeting a friend.”

“Sure.”

I stare balefully into his bright smile.

Chuckling, he begins to walk away, but stops and comes back almost immediately. “Sorry, I forgot. There’s something I need to ask you.” He hesitates, my odd mood clearly throwing him off balance. Usually there is an easy camaraderie between me and Pete, but it’s difficult to be in an affable mood when I have Elise on my mind…and no idea if there’s a way to keep her. It figures that I’ve found someone who engages me mentally, physically, emotionally and she’s anti-relationship, whether it’s with one man or fucking three. In a way, it serves me right for living the first thirty-two years of my life as a sworn bachelor.

“I’m sorry for being distracted,” I say to Pete, watching as the players return to the field and collapse into the grass to recover. “What’s up?”

He hesitates, before jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Our ticket rep called. He wants to know if you still want to leave that ticket at the box office? Same way you do every game?”

A hole forms in my stomach, but I don’t let the sudden blow to my midsection show on my face. Do I want to keep setting myself up for rejection? “I’m not sure. I’ll let you know tomorrow.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Pete says easily. But I can interpret his expression. It’s pity.

How much longer will I continue to leave a match day ticket for my mother, before I realize she’s never going to show up? At this point, it’s beginning to become pathetic. How many voicemails have I left, asking her to come sit in the designated family box? How many times have I looked into the stands, hoping that just once, there will be someone here for me?

Too many.

I don’t know how much longer I can allow myself to care before I shut down that muscle, numb it, and pretend I don’t give a shit. But I don’t think it’ll be very long.

As a younger man, there might have been resentment toward my parents for scoffing at my dreams of playing rugby, instead of falling into line in the financial sector, like the men in my family who came before. They made their protests clear by refusing to attend matches or pay for the travel teams. So I practiced my ass off and became good enough for scholarships. Onto the elite squads where I was visible enough to be recruited by Penn State.