Chapter 15 Asher Nash

Dialed In and Shutting Out

Lincoln wasn’t wrong about hydration, though as a desert dweller now, I fared just fine in the Outback. And I learned that it wasn’t the crocs that you have to watch out for as much as the snakes and spiders.

I made it back to the States without any Australian venom in my system—unless you count the Australian rum I consumed in rather copious amounts during my stay.

I also ate a fuck ton of Tim Tams, a delightful little treat, and went to the zoo where I had an encounter with a koala.

What I didn’t do, however, was fuck my way through the country. In fact, I kept it entirely in my pants, and now that I’m back in Vegas and solidly centered in training camp, I haven’t had sex since the night of the charity ball.

I’ve tugged myself to release plenty of times, but my fist is no replacement for the warm, soft, tight heaven of a woman’s cunt. Specifically one with red hair, a gorgeous body, and the ability to call me out and make me laugh at the same time.

It’s been a month and a half at this point. A sensible man might’ve moved on. Hell, a normal person should have moved on by now.

I’ve never been known for my sense or my normalcy.

I keep thinking that once the season starts, maybe I’ll see her again. I keep holding out for that.

And also…I can’t seem to find a woman who compares to her.

I met plenty of gorgeous women on my trip. I talked to some, even got as far as making out with one…but nothing more than that.

I couldn’t seem to find my mojo. I just wasn’t interested.

It’s like this mystery woman showed up, stole a piece of me, and left with it. It sounds fucking ridiculous, doesn’t it? That shit can’t happen after one night. It can’t.

And yet somehow, it did.

I don’t even know who the fuck I am anymore. I thought I’d learn the answers in another country, but as it turns out, as incredible as my month there was…everything was exactly the same when I returned home, including my living situation. I rolled immediately from traveling into a new season, and where I lay my head at night is by far the least of my worries.

I didn’t intend to run away from anything while I was gone, but that was essentially the effect of what I did. It didn’t change anything, though.

And now we’re in the middle of the second week of training camp at a vineyard in California, per the Vegas Aces tradition, and I’m throwing all my energy into leaving every other piece of me out on the field.

I’m proving I’m the best tight end to start this season, and I know I’m blowing all the other choices completely out of the water.

Even Austin Graham acknowledges it one night after a particularly grueling installation earlier in the day. “How’d you learn that play so quick?” he asks.

I roll my shoulders, which has the effect of looking like a shrug even though it’s just from soreness. “I’m dialed in, I guess.”

“Rub some of that shit off on the rest of us,” he teases, and I offer a tight-lipped smile in return.

I think the truth is that nobody here would want the real reason I’m so dialed in.

It’s my way of shutting everything else out.

But even though I’m focused and tearing it up at camp, that doesn’t mean I’ve forgotten. It simply means I’m putting it on hold until a later date. But it’ll still be there when I return…like it was when I got back from Australia.

Enough time has gone by that I can chalk it up to having been a dream.

Still, even if it was just a dream, I know what I want now, and I won’t stop at anything short of what I want—what I deserve.

And I deserve a woman with long, red hair and green eyes that latch onto a piece of my soul.

Or, you know, something along those lines. I haven’t been able to find anyone who compares, and to be honest, I’m not really looking.

Instead, I’m focusing.

Training camp is as horrendous as it always is, but running on the beach in Australia helped me stay in shape. We plow through our first three opponents in our exhibition games, easily sailing to our wins even with our second- and third-string players in.

Some guys make the team, and others don’t. The final roster boasts only four tight ends, and I’m chosen as the starter.

Our offense has traditionally relied more heavily on receivers, but the new OC is a former tight end who wants to see our position get more play time. Coach Dixon has been a valuable asset to our team so far, and he and my brother have bonded over their shared ideals when it comes to play calling—namely, taking risks and surprising our opponents.

It’s exactly the way I like to play, and the coaching staff is here to motivate us to reach new heights we’ve never stretched for before.

As a former tight end, Coach Dixon understands the intricacies that come with the position. What he doesn’t seem to get is the fact that oftentimes, I read the play and switch up the route he calls. It’s how I’ve always played, and none of my coaches have ever cared so long as it resulted in points.

I have to believe that he doesn’t like it because it’s a challenge to his authority as the play caller, but if I see an opening, I’m going to fucking take it whether he likes it or not.

It only happened once so far in a preseason game, and I caught hell for it during halftime.

He didn’t care that I scored. He cared that I didn’t run his route.

And I caught so much hell for it, in fact, that Lincoln actually pulled me aside before we ran back out to the field. “If you want to be a leader, it starts by listening to your coaches, bro. Let us take the risks. You run the plays.”

“But I scored,” I protested.

He gave me the kind of look that told me to shut the fuck up, and having grown up with three older brothers, let’s just say I learned pretty quickly when to shut it down.

I was benched the rest of the game—not because I suck or because they were mad at me for running my own route, but because the coaches always bench the starters in preseason games to give us the best chance at staying healthy for the games that matter.

Our first game of the season is in Chicago, and we roll over the Bears to easily catch our first win. I scored at the end of the third thanks to the quick thinking of our quarterback, Miles Hudson. He was out most of the season I was out, too, but for different reasons. He tore his ACL, and I was suspended.

Still, we came back at the same time, and now we’re starting what should be our third season together, but in reality, it’s only our second.

He’s young—only twenty-five now—but he’s a hell of a player. He’s quick on his feet and quick at reading plays, and he’s also the kind of guy who I could see myself grabbing a beer with after a game.

But we don’t.

Mostly because I jet out and don’t make myself available. But I don’t want to do that anymore. This season is about asserting my value on the Aces as more than just a guy who reliably grabs at least six points every game.

And that’s why, after we win in Chicago and board our plane back home, I don’t rush to be the first one on the plane. I don’t sit in the back row with my AirPods firmly in my ears as I stare out the window so nobody makes eye contact.

Instead, I board somewhere in the middle of the group, and I end up across the aisle from Jaxon Bryant, our top running back. He’s on the phone FaceTiming someone, and he hangs up before we take off. I give him his privacy, and when he’s done, he glances across the aisle at me.

“What’re you doing way up here? Don’t you usually sit in the back?”

I chuckle. “Yeah. Just wanted to mix it up. Who was on the phone?”

“My wife. Sounds like our little girl gave her a rough time tonight during bath time, and the wife ended up soaked.” He shrugs and laughs as he looks fondly down at his phone, and it feels like I can’t escape everyone else’s happy endings when I got nothing more than a first name and a hair color.

He turns his attention to his phone, and I slip my AirPods in, feeling more and more like I don’t fit in anywhere anymore as I stare out the window at the darkness of night.

We win against the Giants at home in week two, and my dad’s waiting at home when I get there.

“What was that fumble in the second?” he asks when I walk in the door.

When I say our relationship is complicated, well, it is. Sometimes he’s my best friend and biggest cheerleader, and other times, this is the guy I come home to.

I blow out a breath, and that’s when my phone pings me with a new text.

I glance at my watch first and see it’s from my brother, Spencer.

Spencer: You got any plans tomorrow?

Since we won today, we have tomorrow and Tuesday off from having to go in for tedious meetings. All we have is a bit of homework to review some tape of next week’s opponent and, of course, workouts.

Me: Just a workout in the morning. Why?

“I asked you a question,” my dad says.

“It was a shitty throw and I didn’t get a grip on it. Lay off, man. We won.”

Spencer: I need to take a trip to Temecula. Want to go?

He’s in San Diego, and I would guess Temecula is an hour or so from his place. But I can’t help but wonder…why?

Me: Temecula? What the fuck is in Temecula?

Spencer: Just have something I need to do and don’t want to do alone.

Spencer isn’t the kind of guy who ever asks for help from anyone. I have no idea what’s up, and I glance up at my dad, who’s glaring at me over my shitty fumble.

I really don’t want to sit here with dear old Dad when he’s in this sort of state, and besides, family comes first.

Or my brothers do, anyway.

Me: Name the time.

Spencer: My place at eleven?

“Who are you talking to?” he asks.

“Noneya,” I say, tossing one of his old lines right back at him. It’s true, though. Noneya is short for none of your business , and if I tell him Spencer is asking me to fly to California to take a field trip to Temecula, he’ll ask a million questions and I’ll find myself booking a ticket for two.

Spencer called on me for help. He didn’t call Dad.

He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

I run a quick search for flights and find one that gets in at ten. Close enough. I book myself a ticket.

Me: I’ll be there.

Maybe it’ll even give me a chance to talk about my situation with someone who knows me but doesn’t live in the same town as me.

Maybe he’ll have some advice about how to move the fuck on since I’m still dwelling on her three months later.