Free Burned Hearts by Calista Fox

You said it made you freak out a little. Like, you were supposed to not give a rip about that sort of thing when you were only twenty-one. But you couldn’t get your mind off it.”
    He shrugged. Went back to studying the screens.
    â€œKyle.”
    With a grunt, he said, “It sucks to blow out a knee; I’ve told you that before. I had a boatload of cortisone injections, rehab in the off-seasons, knee braces year-round, just to cover it all up. I pretended it didn’t hurt like hell. I—” He shook his head and turned away.
    â€œHey, what about Amano’s test?” I challenged.
    Kyle whirled back to face me. “I popped pills, Ari. That was the reason I spent so much time at my aunt’s retreat in between semesters and during winter and spring breaks. I needed physical rehab, yeah. But I also had an addiction to kick. Exactly why I’m not taking anything stronger than ibuprofen right now when my biceps hurt like hell.”
    Because his shirt pulled tight against his muscles, I could see the outline of the bulky bandage covering his stitches, high up by his armpit.
    â€œI took a ton of painkillers,” he confessed. “All the time. The only thing that got me through my last two years on the field was natural talent—I can assess exactly where the ball needs to go and it’s there. I just need the receiver on the other end to do his job. As for my studies…” He rapped his knuckles on the marble counter agitatedly.
    â€œWhat about your studies?” I implored, happy he was finally opening up about all of this. “You had a fantastic GPA.” I’d seen his résumé. I’d been the one to submit it to HR at the Lux, behind Dane’s back, because I’d believed in Kyle and wanted him to have the chance to get his foot in the door, without being stonewalled from the onset, since he was my friend and Dane was of the superalpha variety.
    â€œAri,” Kyle said. “I’m not really cool with talking about this.”
    â€œDid you cheat?” I asked. “Is that how you maintained a three-point-seven average?”
    â€œI didn’t cheat,” he said, his tone adamant. “I did my homework, I read the books I was supposed to read, did what I was supposed to do. It was just that … I couldn’t quite form thoughts on paper because I was doped up. I could verbalize them. Surprisingly, I had a shitload to say about everything. I could pontificate until the cows came home.”
    I laughed. “Classy.”
    He flashed his megawatt grin. But it faded much too fast. “When I stared at a blank piece of paper or computer screen, though, nothing crystallized in my head. I was always looking at—visualizing—the playbook, feedback from the coach, strategy, you get the picture, instead of what I needed to be concentrating on. I was obsessed with whether I’d make it through the next game. So written communication was pretty much my downfall.”
    â€œHow’d you get through your courses, then?”
    He went to the double, glass-door fridge and pulled out two bottles of FIJI water. He set them on the counter, twisted the cap off one, and handed it to me. Then he uncapped the other and took a few long swigs.
    Finally, he said, “I had some friends who helped with the homework. I spewed, they typed, and then they cleaned everything up for me. Technically, it was all my cognitive thinking. I just needed someone to edit my rants.”
    â€œGirlfriends?” I asked with a lifted brow.
    He snickered. “Does it matter?”
    â€œWell, I can see how you might have your own groupies.”
    â€œWho, thankfully, appreciated the fact that I wasn’t just some dumb jock.”
    â€œSo they knew about the pills?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œAnd didn’t say anything—report your problem?”
    â€œAri.” He gave me a come on look. “They wanted their football team