Aaron passed me the ball and I took off running.

And this time I punched it. I ran hard. I ran fast. I started to wheeze and black spots swam in front of my eyes.

I was ridiculously out of shape.

A sharp pain in my chest brought me up short. It wasn’t like last time. It didn’t bring me to my knees and knock the air from my lungs. But it hurt and served as a reminder that I lived my life in limitations now.

I stopped running and braced myself on my knees, getting my breathing back under control. I could hear the wheeze in my chest and knew I had overdone it.

“You okay, Beck?” Aaron asked, looking worried.

I held my hand up, telling him to give me a minute. The rest of the guys came over, not crowding, but watching me closely.

“I know I’m good looking, but stop staring at me,” I rasped, rubbing my chest.

The shadow of pain was still there but finally my heartbeat slowed and I was able to get a deep breath into my lungs.

I had lasted a whole five minutes before my body shut down on me.

The disappointment and regret were almost debilitating.

“I’m fine, seriously,” I told my friends sharply when they wouldn’t stop staring at me.

“Good, because as much as I love ya, man, I was not putting my mouth on yours to give you CPR,” Aaron stated, gagging.

I tried to smile but it wasn’t much of one.

“I think I’ll go return to my trusty bench,” I said, feeling like an idiot.

The last few minutes had put the nail in the old Beckett Kingsley’s coffin. It was official. I would never be him again.

I sat down heavily, struggling not to let depression take over.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and read the text that came in from Corin.

So can I send you dick pics now that we’re dating?

I chuckled out loud. How did she know I needed to laugh right now? How did she know I needed to remember my life wasn’t over just because I couldn’t do the things I used to?

I tapped out a response.

If you’re sending me dick pics, then we need to have a very serious conversation.

The guys were yelling on the pitch and I looked up to see Bryan run into the goal, tearing a hole straight through the netting. I shook my head. What a dumbass.

My phone chimed in my hand and I looked down at a picture of a nerdy-looking guy wearing a nametag that read, you guessed it—Dick. It was followed by another text.

Get your mind out of the gutter, Beck.

And just like that I wasn’t thinking about my body that had failed me. I wasn’t thinking about how I couldn’t play soccer or go jogging.

I was laughing my ass off because of a girl who made me forget about all the bad stuff.

She made living easy.

—

“You’re late,” Zoe said, letting me into my parents’ house.

“Nice to see you too,” I replied blandly.

“Mom’s complaining that the sauce is ruined. Ruined, I tell you!” Zoe shook her fist in the air.

I ruffled Zoe’s hair because I knew she hated it. “She can’t stay mad at me. I’m the kid that almost died.” I batted my eyelashes.

Zoe dug her finger into my chest. “You can’t use the whole cardiac-arrest thing forever, Beck.”

“Oh yes I can.” I grinned and she rolled her eyes.

I walked into the kitchen to find my mom fussing over a saucepan, clicking her tongue.

“It smells great, Mom,” I said, handing her a bottle of her favorite Chardonnay. Even if I couldn’t drink it, I knew it would go a long way to appeasing my mother for my being late.

I dropped a kiss on her cheek and slung an arm around her shoulders. “Sorry I’m late.”

“We were supposed to eat fifteen minutes ago. The cream sauce broke and I’m having to reheat it and hope it doesn’t ruin everything.” My mother was a perfectionist. It could be a little overbearing at times but she always meant well.

“I’m sure it will be wonderful. Have you ever prepared a bad meal, Mom? I don’t think so.”

“Oh hush you and pour me a glass of wine.” She shooed me away, trying not to smile. I had always been able to charm my mother. Even growing up and going through my bratty phases, I only needed to hug her and give her my patented Beckett Kingsley smile, and I got out of trouble each and every time. It drove Zoe nuts.

I went to the cabinet and got out a wine glass, filling it up and handing it to her. “I was at the park with the guys watching their game. Then I had to run by the office to grab some stuff that I need to work on tonight.”

“You work too hard, Beck. You should take it easy. If you need to take more time off, I’m sure your boss would understand.”

If my mother had her way, I’d move back home so she could tuck me into bed every night.

“Yeah, it doesn’t work like that, Mom. Besides I can’t sit around the house watching TV all day. I’d lose my mind.”

Mom took a long gulp of her wine, her cheeks already flushed. She was a one-glass drunk. It didn’t take her much to get tipsy.

“I just worry you’re doing too much too soon. It’s only been a little over four months since your heart attack—”

“Yeah, I know, Mom,” I interrupted her. I didn’t want to talk about my heart. And definitely not with my mother. She became too emotional about it. I couldn’t handle the tears tonight.

“Beck, I didn’t know you were here,” my dad said, coming into the room. He tried to taste the cream sauce simmering on the stove but Mom pushed him away.

“It’ll be ready in ten minutes. You’ll just have to wait,” Mom scolded him. When her back was turned, I saw him sneak a cookie from the pantry.

“So how are things at work? You say they’re crazy. Why is that?” Mom asked. Dad discreetly wiped his mouth with his hand and I gave him a thumbs-up to let him know he was in the clear.

“Things busy over there, then?” Dad asked, joining in the conversation. Dad was used to corporate life, having worked as a VP of marketing in the city for almost thirty years before retiring last year.

“That’s an understatement. The company is trying to break into the European market so that means longer hours for us schleps,” I said tiredly.

“Sounds boring,” Zoe piped up, grabbing a soda from the fridge and popping it open.

“Your brother has a good job. I hope you are so lucky when you graduate from college,” Mom said primly.

“Beck seems just thrilled to have such a good job. Aren’t you, bro?” My troublemaker sister raised her eyebrows, putting me on the spot.

“It is what it is, I guess.”

“It’s money in your pocket, son. It pays your bills and keeps a roof over your head,” my dad lectured.

I glared at Zoe for setting him off. He’d be on a tangent about being responsible for hours if we left him to it.

“I don’t know. I was thinking about getting back into photography,” I said offhandedly.

“Photography? I didn’t know you still did that,” Mom said, still stirring her sauce.

“I don’t. Not really. But I really enjoyed it before sports took over my life. I took some pictures the other day. It was fun. It was just something I was thinking about.”

My dad nodded. “Sounds like a worthwhile hobby. It’s important to have things that keep you busy.”

“Maybe I could make some money as a freelance photographer. I know the newspaper is always advertising for freelance positions.”

“Now that sounds awesome,” Zoe enthused.

“Well, you have other things to consider now. Like health insurance. Freelance work doesn’t provide you the coverage you need for your condition, Beckett,” Dad said. He used my full name. That meant he wanted me to listen and do as I was told.

“It’s just an idea, Dad. I’m not saying that I’m quitting my job or anything. But I think I need to do something more rewarding than slinging software.”

“I think it’s a kick-ass idea,” Zoe said.

“Language, Zoe,” Mom reprimanded. “And Beck, I think you should do something that makes you happy. I used to love your photographs. I remember that one you took of the Ash Street bridge. Didn’t you enter that in a contest?”