Everyone who works within the New York Warriors organization knows that star player August Fletcher refuses to talk to most people...and especially team reporters. All except Quinn Castle, that is.
Quinn doesn't know why the broody football player...
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AUGUST PUT ON a shirt for dinner.
Fortunately.
And he didn't make any more threats about spreading my legs and making me moan.
Unfortunately.
But he did follow through on his promise to let me ask him some questions over dinner, and he wasn't even being a grump about it.
I'd call that a definite win.
"Did you always plan on returning to Evergreen Isle when you retired?"
August shoveled some veggies into his mouth and shrugged as he chewed. "I never really planned to retire," he said after swallowing. I raised a brow, and he amended, "I mean, I knew that one day I would retire, but I didn't think it would be this season or even the next one or the next."
I nodded, sipping my wine while I digested his words. It wasn't surprising to me that August hadn't planned to retire. Clearly, the organization had been taken aback by his departure. It seemed sudden to everyone, so it would make sense that it was also sudden to August.
But why?
"So it was your injury?" I probed after a minute of thinking about how I wanted to broach the subject I desperately needed to get to the bottom of.
"Castle," August said flatly, avoiding my eyes as he stabbed the food on his plate. "You and I both know that a torn ACL isn't a career-ending injury."
I nodded because, yes, I did know. "But it did take you out for a whole season. I know you could play again if you wanted, but maybe the injury made you realize you didn't want to."
"Oh, I want to," August said with a sigh, finally looking up at me.
The expression on his face shredded my heart because I could tell that he really did want to. He clearly did want to play football, and while that should make me hopeful that it would be easy to convince him to come back to New York, a small voice in the back of my head told me that if August wanted to play, there was a reason–a really good reason–why he wasn't. And my chances of changing his mind were minuscule.
"New York would welcome you back," I said softly, on the off-chance that he didn't already know that.
"I'm not interested." His features darkened. "Not a chance in hell."
"A different team?" I asked, even as my stomach dropped. I didn't want him to play for a different team, but I wanted to know his reaction to the suggestion. I wanted to decipher who or what was at the root of his departure. Was it the NFL in general or specific to the Warriors franchise?
"Can't," August said with a tight shake of his head. "My contract with the Warriors wasn't up when I retired, meaning if I returned to the NFL, I wouldn't be a free agent. Not unless New York cuts me."
