It’s Sunday morning and I’m at the gym. In college, getting up at 5 a.m. was a bonkers idea. In high school, just plain insanity. But, I coached myself into it, with the help of my pops, especially considering words like “scout,” and “NFL draft” were being thrown around like footballs speeding past my ears since I was thirteen.

At the ripe old age of twenty-six, it’s now a habit. Wake up at 4, chug a cup of coffee from an extravagance I stole from Ash—a Nespresso machine—that he hasn’t noticed I’ve taken from his apartment, jam in my beats, and jog around the deserted, barely lit, TriBeCa neighborhood. No tiny dogs to jump over, no strollers to narrowly avoid hip-checking, no women in heels getting stuck in subway grates…

—Astor—

—and no damn traffic jams clogging up intersections and serving as a distraction.

I turn up the volume on my buddy Easton’s latest single, slamming my feet down with each thump of bass, determined to forget how to pronounce her goddamned name and the feelings that come with it.

I’ll run myself ragged, pound the pavement until there are dents, if it means forgetting Astor.

She’s in danger.

No she ain’t. She’s the most dogged, stubborn, instinctual lady around, and if anything makes it more dangerous for her, it would be me telling her not to do it.

As Aiden assured me last night, when I got home from dinner with Mom and Pops, it’s impossible for her or her firm to unveil my identity.

“Listen, Ben,” Aiden said over the phone, as I sat, hunched over on my blue leather couch, the glass windows to my right showcasing downtown Manhattan in glaring relief against my retinas. “The number of people who’ve been found while under witness protection, who follow our rules, have been zero.”

“You sure about that?” I asked.

“Damn right. You were four years old when we took you into custody. The chances of you making a mistake were high back then, since you were so young and confused. But now? As a grown man? You’re careful. You’ve done everything we’ve asked you to do. You’ve never tried to delve into your past and under no circumstance have you gone back to the scene of the crime. You’re clean, Ben. There is no way, no freaking way, these lawyers are going to blow your cover.”

“You don’t know this lawyer,” I mumble while rubbing my face.

“Need I remind you, Ben. Literally zero protectees have been compromised. It’s only if you make a mistake landing you in hot water that could blow your cover, but you haven’t.”

Except for that one time, I almost say to Aiden, with Dodge Hennessy.

“We’ve removed all photos of you from the record,” Aiden continues, “and you have a new birth certificate and social security number. In essence, Ryan Delaney doesn’t exist anymore.”

The name, Aiden’s use of my true birthright, sends my mind into—Ryan, come here before you hurt yourself, my little adventurer. Come to Mama—figuring out any holes Aiden might not have considered.

“What if there’s a trial, though? Will I have to come forward?”

Aiden sighed. “That’ll be up to you. The reason we have WITSEC is to keep material witnesses protected until they can testify. But you’re different. You were a traumatized child. We put you into protection for your lifelong safety. Has anything come to light since? Do you remember anything about that night?”

I was quick to answer. “No.”

“Then there really is no point, and our office will be sure to communicate that to both sides. But if it’s necessary, we can secretly bring you to the courthouse—”

“I’m the number ten draft of the NFL 2016 season. I’ve broken records the two professional seasons I’ve played. There’s no way I’ll stay a secret, especially if there’s a damned jury.”

Aiden grumbles. He doesn’t like that I’ve become so famous, and I can’t blame the guy. But like he said, the cartel remembers a four-year-old face. “Then you won’t testify. End of story. But let’s not get ahead of ourselves. The charges are barely dry on these guys.”

I didn’t want to focus on the two men arrested—Angel Lopez and Jose Garcia. Didn’t want to see their faces and attempt to dig into my buried memories to see if they match.

“Are you sure I can do that? Avoid the trial?” I asked.

“Listen Ben, the only person who can blow your cover is you. You can voluntarily leave WITSEC at any time. I’ve told you this. Although I don’t advise it.”

“I’m not planning to,” I said. Then, more fiercely, “I’m Ben. Ben Donahue.”

Pound, pound, pound.

The impact of my shoe’s soles shoot up my legs until my knees ache, my thighs burn, and I’m as far away as possible from my thoughts.

A phone call interrupts Easton’s musical chorus, and I press on the knob on my headphones to answer with mostly breath, “Yeah?”

“Good, you’re awake.”

“I’m always awake, Ash.” I round the corner of my block, see the entrance to my apartment complex, and decide to run past it and take another city lap. “Question is, how are you awake?”

“Can’t sleep. Thinking too much about the restaurant space I showed you yesterday.”

“Told you then,” I say after a big inhale. “And I’ll tell ya now. It’s a good idea. Open your pastry display.”

“I said a fuckin’ restaurant.”

“Bakery.”

“Restaurant.”

“Cream puff shop.”

“Fuck you. I need to round up the team, since your opinion means shit without their consensus. Really hash it out. You free for dinner tomorrow night?”

“Monday? Yeah, man. Season’s over.”

“Awesome. Gonna see if the rest of the crew are around, too. I’ll text you the time. See ya then.”

Ash hangs up, and Easton’s naturally soothing voice kicks back in. I use it as a balm and refuse to feel weird about it, since his lyrics help me regulate the emotions clanging around in my chest.

Astor is part also of Ash’s crew round-up. She’ll likely be there, too, tomorrow night, if she decides to free herself from the bonds of her career. Her and her sorry ballsack of a fiancé, Mike.

I slow my steps, encouraging my heartbeat to fall into a regular rhythm. Lifting up my shirt, I wipe sweat off my face.

Whistles sound from across the street, and I notice it’s from construction guys, the only other people awake and running their jackhammers on this fine winter morning. I flutter them the bird.

Every time I see Astor, I have to forget the one time she went supple in my hands, bowed to my will, and was ready to do anything I asked. How rock hard I’d gone, and, if I ever thought about it in front of her, how bone solid I’d go again.

Fuck, and I thought making it to the Super Bowl was tough.