To Nick, it’s a joke. But there’s nothing funny for me about the tattoo he’s the only one who knows the meaning behind.

“I’m never drinking with you again.” I yank open the door.

“Just give it your all tomorrow, Fitzy. Heart and soul.”

Nick throwing a cheap shot at my tattoo doesn’t exactly inspire me to play with heart. After all, I got that tattoo because of my heart.

I try not to think about it too much, but man, it’s awfully quiet in this hotel room. And do you know what quiet does to me? Makes me fucking lonely.

It’s something I don’t often admit to anyone, not to Nick or my friends—and certainly not my mother. For someone who lives such a loud life, you’d think I’d relish in the quiet moments. What people don’t know is that inside, I’m screaming.

And it’s not the kind of noise that can be muffled by just anything, or anyone.

My bare feet shuffle against the carpeted floor before I peek back at Nick’s basket. But I don’t go and pick up the mask or the bed perfume or whatever that shit is. I take one step closer and backhand the basket right to the floor, the contents sprawling out across the carpet.

Immediately, I feel better. I should’ve been a linebacker. Coach always joked about that, saying even though I was big and tall, it would be a waste of a good arm if I played anything other than quarterback. And I bought into that—into everything. There was conditioning and footwork before class, practice after school, weight training and film, and more coaching sessions. And that was only in high school. But as many things landed on my plate as a kid when it came to football, some things were taken away—like my best friend, Parker, who had no idea I was madly in love with her.

I didn’t lose Parker all at once, at least, not at first.

The truth is, I lost bits and pieces of her over time. I was too young to remember my Dad dying after he flipped his car over. But my mother always used to say was how thankful she was that it happened quickly. That’s because there’s nothing worse than losing someone you love slowly. You lose them looking for you, the tap of their fingers against your bedroom window late at night. You lose the strength of their smile, the magnitude of their laughter that was the soundtrack of your childhood. It’s one thing after another.