“It is just the workout,” Jamar said. “I’m not playing football again, even if I’m offered a contract.” He explained his plan to her, underscoring how it would provide him with the opportunity to end his football career on his own terms.

“This will benefit you too,” Jamar pointed out. “It’ll be streamed live. The entire sports world will see the job you’ve done training me.”

“Do you really think I care more about my business than about you permanently injuring yourself?”

“But this is what you wanted. This was our original deal.”

“I don’t care about our original deal! What I can’t figure out is why you don’t care about yourself?”

“It’s one workout, Taylor! An hour of me going through a few drills, and I’m done.”

She paced back and forth, from the edge of his desk to the trophy display case. “All it takes is a bad landing when you perform the vertical jump, and just like that”—she snapped her fingers—“your kneecap is dust. It’s gone, Jamar. And for what? For me?”

She stopped her pacing and stood before him, crossing her arms over her chest. “Or is it to show some stupid bloggers that you’re not the washed-up athlete they say you are? To prove to yourself that you can still play? Well, guess what, you can’t. It’s time you accept it.”

Her words ripped at the thin barrier he’d built around his pride, raking over barely healed wounds. His jaw ached with the effort it took to temper his rising anger.

“I could still play if I wanted to,” Jamar said.

“My God.” She sighed up at the ceiling. “You can’t,” she said. “I don’t care what you’ve told yourself, nothing is worth this kind of risk.”

“How the fuck do you know what’s worth it to me!” Jamar snapped.

She jumped back, her eyes wide, her mouth falling open.

Jamar ran both hands down his face. Shame over his outburst gnawed at his conscience, but she didn’t understand. She could never understand.

His shoulders slumped with the weight of despair that washed over him. “You just don’t get it,” Jamar said. “This is bigger than me.”

Her furrowed brow flattened into a thin line as awareness slowly traveled across her face.

“This isn’t about you proving anything,” she said, awe lilting her voice. “This is guilt. You still think you owe this to someone who’s been dead for eight years.”

“Don’t,” Jamar warned. “You know nothing about this, so don’t act as if you do.”

Anger and hurt flared in her eyes. Her body shook with it.

But then a calm seemed to take over her, and Jamar found that more alarming than her rage.