Time Out (Dear Lonely Guy Book 2)

by Alison Hendricks

  When they pulled away, I was still staring, just sitting there in the middle of that field. Alone. Abandoned.

  He'd made his choice, and I knew there was no coming back from this.

  1

  Keith

  Grindr had betrayed me.

  The more bored I was, the more likely it was for me to browse the app and start up conversations with random guys. Most of them weren't intended to even go anywhere. Some dirty talk, shared pics, maybe some sexting just for the hell of it. Sometimes, I met up with the guy if he sounded like a good lay. I'd suck his dick in a parking lot or let him pound my ass in a hotel room.

  More often than not, though, I liked the idea of fucking a hot stranger more than actually doing it. Once the illusion was spoiled, it always left a bitter taste in my mouth. Usually, it took a while for that to happen. Now it was happening practically the moment I opened the app.

  Swiping through, lining up a selection of guys I wanted to message, I just got so... bored. With the thing I was already doing to alleviate boredom.

  And God, was I bored as fuck. Having a broken leg wasn't conducive to getting any summer fun time in, even with the cast off. Right at the end of June, I'd broken both bones, compound fracture in one of them. Zip-lining was a hell of a lot of fun, but misjudging the stop and crushing your leg against the side of a ravine... yeah, not so much.

  All I'd been able to do lately was just lay on the couch with the bulky thing propped up, trying not to think about how much it still hurt or how limited my movement was.

  The break was so bad I'd been admitted for stabilizing surgery right away, but they'd sent me back home to do the two follow-ups, neither of which had gone as planned. Now it was late July and I was just a few days out from getting the cast off. But, I had no idea what it was going to be like to walk on the thing, seeing as how I could barely put my weight on it even now.

  Those were the thoughts that cropped up when I was left alone, and they were why I'd reached for Grindr more and more. Telling some random guy I wanted to choke on his dick was a lot better than thinking about the fact that I might have to miss the entire volleyball season. My girls were counting on me, and I might not even be able to do so much as hobble around--

  Okay. Enough of that. I just needed to focus.

  Pulling up the app again, I found a profile that looked promising and opted to send a message. I just stared at the screen, though, at a loss for what to say. Something that never happened to me.

  The sound of keys jingling outside the door was enough to pull my attention away, thank God. Tina. My savior. Light of my life. She'd been helping me more than I was willing to admit, getting my groceries and bringing over meals sometimes. More than that, she could somehow tell when I was feeling most alone, and she always managed to be there to make me feel better.

  I could have told her all of that. I could have told her how much it meant to me, how much I needed her in my life, how I felt like I was hanging by the thinnest fucking thread and she was the safety net down below.

  But I'd learned a long time ago that exposing your feelings to someone you cared for deeply was a recipe for heartbreak.

  "Thank fuck, I am so bored," I said, flopping back onto the couch from my more casual position. "What is with this town? I can't find choice dick to save my life."

  "Probably because you've gone through literally every guy in Gainesville," she teased, shutting the door behind her.

  I knew she was just joking. Even if she wasn't, she did have a point. I was a well-known slut. But the words still hurt, clawing at the boy inside me who'd only ever wanted one person.

  "Well somebody has to be quality control around here. You're welcome."

  She rolled her eyes playfully, moving behind the couch to set down the bags she'd brought on my kitchen table. She had three cloth Publix bags, one of them filled with vegetables, the other with cans, and the final one with various food items.

  I turned to look at her, hanging my arm over the bag of the couch, and watched as she pulled out chicken, stock, carrots, celery, onions, garlic, and egg noodles.

  "I thought I'd make you some soup," she said, catching my eye.

  "Only you would make soup when it's a thousand degrees out."

  "Don't be a dick," she chided. "You wouldn't eat anything if it wasn't for me."

  "Not true! I'm perfectly capable of slathering peanut butter on bread."

  Tina just rolled her eyes and started invading my kitchen with her army of goods. I really didn't deserve a friend like her. She'd gone out of her way all summer to make sure I was okay.

  "You know, you really don't have to do that," I said, swiping a hand through my tangled hair. "I could call a delivery service or something. Might meet some new men that way, so really you'd be doing me a favor."

  She ignored me, going through my cabinets and grabbing spices. The gas stove was lit and she put a pot on, pouring oil into it. We'd gotten into this non-argument over and over for the last few weeks. It made me feel weird to be so helpless; to have to rely so much on other people. The last time I'd put my everything into another person, he'd decided I wasn't worth it in the end.

  I knew Tina wasn't like that, though, which was why she ignored me now, as she started peeling and then chopping carrots. The fragrant smell of garlic soon filled my apartment and I went back to my phone, knowing I wasn't going to win the battle or the war.

  I owed her for so much more than this, but every time I thought of telling her that, something in me started to panic. Like she'd just suddenly turn into this totally different person and leave me if she knew how much I loved her.

  Jesus. One stupid high school crush or whatever had really done a number on me. I shifted on the couch, trying another app since Grindr was a no-go lately. Even just sexting with a hot guy would make me feel like I wasn't a worthless piece of shit who could barely hobble to the bathroom.

  I could feel hot again, not like a guy who'd been washing up with baby wipes until just this week. The stranger in my DMs only needed to see my pre-accident pics. They could concoct their own fantasy and I could concoct mine. It was an even exchange.

  But, no matter what app I chose, no one seemed to catch my attention. There were plenty of hot guys, but my mind started making excuses for why they weren't worth messaging. Too young -- so many of these guys were baby-faced college kids -- too old, too hairy, freakishly bare, weirdly-proportioned hands, a serial killer smile, a profile that read like it was written by a twelve year old. Lots of reasons, some dumber than others. Eventually, I just closed out of all apps and tossed my phone onto the coffee table again.

  I reached for the remote, leaning too far out. The weight of my cast and complete lack of muscle strength had thrown off my balance, and now that it was gone, I hadn't readjusted. The useless leg started to go, and the rest of me went with it.

  "Keith!"

  I heard Tina's concerned shriek before I even fully realized what was happening. Everything had happened in slow motion once my brain realized I was falling. I started to tumble, then felt a sharp pain dig into my thigh before I thudded to the ground in a crumpled heap. Now I felt warm wetness trickling over my thigh and a wave of shame rolled through me as I was convinced I'd pissed myself.

  "Shit, you're bleeding. Let me get a towel. Don't move."

  Oh. It was blood. Probably better than piss. As I looked at my leg, still a little stunned, I saw the rush of crimson gushing out, painting a trail down my leg and seeping into my cast. Fuck.

  I lifted the leg up to stop that from happening, gritting my teeth against the fresh wave of pain. I wasn't supposed to do this, and for good reason. Nausea slammed into me, roiling my stomach wildly.

  Tina was standing over me in an instant. I could barely hear what she said. My ears were ringing, my vision blurring. That last wasn't from pain, though. It was... tears. Jesus, I was crying.

  "I can't even lean over to get the fucking remote," I said through sobs, my chest heaving. "How am I suppose
d to be there for my girls? They're counting on me, and I'm just a worthless--"

  "Hey." Tina held pressure to my thigh with one hand and used the other to grip my face, forcing me to look at her. "Don't you dare say that about my best friend. You're not worthless, Keith. You're injured. The doctor said it would take six weeks minimum to get back full mobility. Things like this are going to happen if you push yourself too hard."

  "And what if you hadn't been here?" I asked, blinking away the tears. "I'd just be laying on the floor in a pool of my own blood."

  "But I was here," she said gently, getting an arm under me.

  With her help, I was able to get back on the couch. My leg was throbbing, and I mentally grappled with the fact that I was probably going to have to take a painkiller just to get through the rest of the day.

  "The girls need you healthy, Keith. And you'll get there. You just need to give yourself time to heal."

  She put some gauze over the wound. It wasn't a bad cut, it just must have nicked something. It was a good reminder that I needed to sand down the edges of that coffee table. This wasn't the first time I'd split my leg open on it.

  "Did you ever call GHF about physical therapy?"

  I winced as she tightened a bandage around my thigh. "They don't take my insurance, and it's seventy-five dollars a week self-pay."

  "Jesus," she muttered. "Okay, we'll just find you someone else. Actually, I think Reuben knows a guy who does home consultations. I'll text him and maybe we can set something up?"

  I nodded, silent, my jaw holding firm to keep back the fresh flood of tears that wanted to well up. I was such a mess. I'd never felt more helpless in my life, and I hated everything about it.

  "Hey. It'll be okay," she said softly, leaning down to give me a gentle hug.

  I returned it, trying my best not to cling to her. If I had to depend on someone, at least it was Tina. Deep down, I knew she wouldn't abandon me. She'd seen the worst parts of who I could be, and somehow I hadn't driven her off yet.

  "Thanks," was all I could manage, the word croaked out.

  She knew what I meant. With a smile, she pulled away. When she reached for her phone, I took a deep breath, dried my eyes, and tried not to look at the fresh bandage on my leg.

  2

  Brendan

  "You can clearly see from these X-rays that there's evidence of additional fractures, all occurring over a period of two years after the initial injury. The bone was set successfully, but each new hairline fracture compromised the integrity of the bone more and more. This man is going to be dealing with permanent damage. It's likely he'll need to walk with a cane as early as his forties."

  I stood in one of the athletic department's conference rooms, the only person standing in a room of four men. I was the idiot who'd decided to wear a three-piece suit, when the people I was addressing just wore the standard-issue polo and khakis. Reuben at least had also dressed in a suit, and we were both suffering in the sweltering heat of a conference room with wide picture windows that let in the midday Florida sun.

  "If the break was set successfully, any fractures after the initial trauma wouldn't be a result of degradation," said a man sitting nearest to me. "It takes decades for the bones to degrade that far."

  "If you're just living a normal life, sure. If you're training constantly and playing a high-contact sport for three to four years, the process is accelerated."

  "That's a loose correlation at best," he countered. "This young man's genetics may simply lead to him having weaker bones, and that's unfortunate, but we can't make wide-sweeping changes to account for every anomaly."

  "But it's not an anomaly, Doctor," Reuben spoke up, coming to stand beside me. He nodded at me and I changed the slide. "These are three other players from the 2019 season. All sustained fractures between 2017-2018. All continued experiencing the same trauma because they were put back into high-intensity training before their bodies had a chance to heal."

  "The college listens to all medical recommendations," said another man, stressing the word 'medical.'

  Of course our opinions weren't considered valid. We didn't have MD after our names.

  "The time allotted for healing is well within the standards of orthopedic care. If these players aren't being rehabilitated properly, then that's another topic for discussion."

  Anger flared inside of me, mixed with a hint of incredulity. Both of the men we'd scheduled this meeting with were medical doctors. They should know what it takes to fully rehabilitate a patient who's suffered serious trauma. Of course, just like a surgeon stopped caring once the wound was closed, these doctors stopped caring once insurance claimed they were good to be sent down the chain to physical therapy.

  "Our rehabilitation program is one of the best in the country," I said through gritted teeth, trying to force myself to stay calm. "But we're not going to push athletes to the point of an injury that will ruin their career and their life."

  "We're not asking you to do more than the boys can handle," one of the men said. "There are certain standards and guidelines to be upheld. If those need to be revised, as stated, we can discuss that in a different meeting. For now, there's no need to start some ill-founded panic. These are unfortunate cases, but they're not the norm."

  "There are enough of them to be a concern!" I threw back. "Even one athlete suffering a lifetime of debilitating pain and likely addiction to opiates means we've failed. You can't--"

  "Mr. Newell, you're treading on very thin ice," he said in a firm tone. "This hearing is concluded. I would recommend you take time to evaluate your program, or the department will evaluate it for you."

  I gaped at him, unable to believe what I was hearing. Had he just threatened us? Threatened the entire physical therapy program? They wouldn't cut it. It was too valuable to the school. In that moment, though, it felt very possible that they'd gut it as it was today, then replace it with therapists and methods they'd personally approved.

  "Come on, Bren. We're done here," Reuben said, tugging urgently on my arm.

  A righteous fury boiled inside of me, suppressed only slightly by Reuben's insistence. I followed him, collecting the laptop I'd used to share the slides and saying nothing to the two "doctors" we'd had the hearing with. It was better that way. If I opened my mouth, nothing even remotely nice was going to come out.

  I waited until we were in the elevator to say anything, breathing in through my nose all the while. Once the door closed, I finally let loose.

  "Can you believe these people? Four cases that are practically identical. Four men who are going to pay for the college's negligence for the rest of their lives. And they don't care. They won't even pretend to care; they just foist the blame off on us."

  "You knew it was going to be this way," Reuben said, frowning.

  "No, I didn't. Just because one doctor is a jackass doesn't mean every doctor the college employs has to be the same."

  "Pretty sure that's why they're on payroll," he muttered. "It's always about money, man. We're never going to win against that."

  "I'm not just going to stop fighting, Reuben. And I can't believe you would, either."

  His gaze softened and he reached out for me, squeezing my shoulder. "I'm not. I never will. We just have to fight where the terms are more fair."

  I knew what he meant. We'd have to do all the work; make changes to our program that would hopefully compensate for the college's insistence that these kids were ready to play again.

  I raked a hand through my hair, letting out a heavy sigh.

  "I don't think I have it in me today, but let's sit down tomorrow and work out a plan. We'll get the other guys in and... figure out what we can do with what we've got."

  Reuben gave me a small smile, clapping me on the back. "We'll fight this. We just need to make sure the kids are as protected as they can be before we run this up the flagpole. It might be years before we can even get someone to listen."

  A sharp pain lanced through my heart. Years. I had the sinki
ng feeling it would take even more than that. Not just years, but a major dust-up that caught national media attention and brought heat down on the administration. Which likely meant lifelong disability for one of the players.

  My jaw clenched, a more physical pain hitting me as my teeth ground together. How many futures were we going to have to sacrifice at their altar before they actually did anything?

  It wasn't worth getting angry about now, not in such an unproductive way. I needed to channel that energy into figuring out a plan. If we could somehow change our program to speed up the healing process, we'd at least be able to mitigate the damage.

  I tried not to think about the fact that the school would probably just demand they go back sooner if we got good results.

  The elevator dinged, letting us out on the ground floor of the athletics department's administration building. The complex where the Gators trained and where Reuben and I worked was just a couple blocks or so away. It was a short walk across 13th street and a bit further past the main campus.

  Stepping out into the midday sun, I shaded my eyes and silently cursed the fact that I hadn't brought sunglasses. They didn't exactly go with a three-piece suit, another choice I was regretting.

  "I need to get out of this thing," I grumbled, tugging at my tie until it loosened.

  "No kidding. My balls itch like a motherfucker from sweating so bad."

  I laughed as Reuben tried to inconspicuously adjust himself. He was a good-looking guy who looked even better in a suit. We'd had a little fling when we first started working together, but it'd never been more than physical between us. Same thing with the other guys I'd hooked up with, and one I'd even gone so far as to date.

  I'd told myself then that I was into him for more than the sex, but it hadn't been true. We just... didn't click. I hadn't clicked with anyone since high school and that was a disaster, to put it lightly.

  "Oh, hey. I got a text from Tina the other day. One of Elliot's friends?"