by Brea Brown
“You’re not going to be bothering me.” Goosebumps pop on my skin as he kisses a line down my spine.
I hadn’t considered I might be disturbing him. Instead of admitting it, I say softly, “This week has been so horrible.”
“Yeah. Being on the DL sucks.”
“Well, being the girlfriend of someone on the DL sucks about fifty times harder. You haven’t talked to me all week.”
He thinks about it for a while, then says, “Well, you’ve been doing your thing, and I’ve been trying to do my thing, which isn’t my thing at all. So that’s all.”
“You think it’s my fault you got hurt.”
“What?” He pulls on my shoulder with his wrapped hand, urging me onto my back. His nest disturbed, Torzi jumps down from the bed and shimmies through the cracked-open door into the hallway.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Jet asks.
Now that I’ve said it, it’s even more horrible. My stomach clenches. My eyes fill. My ears ring. I hope he doesn’t expect me to say it again, because I can’t talk at all, much less repeat the awful sentence that’s been pinging around my brain for days. Fortunately, he moves on without forcing me to reiterate my suspicion.
“Who told you that? No, let me guess. This has ‘Rae’ written all over it.”
I shake my head. Rae has said less to me than he has since she brought him home last Sunday. “Nobody has to tell me anything. It’s obvious. When you’re forced to talk to me, it’s more like grunting.”
“I’m talking to you right now.”
“You’re arguing with me right now. It’s the longest conversation we’ve had since you told me your pain pills constipate you. What’s worse is that you act fine around other people. Tonight, at the rally, you were that happy-go-lucky guy I fell in love with. Around me, you’re practically silent.”
He sighs. “People will jump all over it if I show that I’m worried or stressed out. But here at home, I don’t have to pretend. I’ve been so glad this week that you haven’t asked me a million times how I’m feeling or what I’m thinking about. Because I’m feeling like shit. I’m thinking this is New York all over again. Sidelined for something stupid, then it turns into a permanent thing.”
“That’s not going to happen this time.”
“Maybe not, but you never know. You can’t take it for granted. So, that’s what I’ve been thinking about. It doesn’t make me very chatty.”
I sniffle, contemplating whether I buy his explanation.
“What’s this about me blaming you? I was the one who didn’t see that guy coming until the last second. I’m the one who forced the pass, even though I knew I didn’t have enough clearance for my follow-through. I’m the one who decided to do anything not to take that sack. My hand came down on his helmet. How is that your fault?”
I swallow painfully. “That’s what everyone’s saying.”
“Who’s ‘everyone’?”
“Just… people. Fans. They think I’m a distraction, that I’m bad luck.”
His voice steely, he says, “There’s a reason I don’t read or listen to any of that crap. It’s toxic. I don’t want to hear it secondhand from you, either. They’re all a bunch of idiots.”
“Those idiots love you, though. They think you’re great. I’m the one they hate.”
“Nobody hates you.”
“Yes, they do. They think I’m ruining the team’s chances at another postseason run.”
“If anyone’s done that, it was that bastard, Busch. People are nuts, talking about the postseason. We’ve played one game so far! Which we happened to win. So why is everyone pressing the panic button?”
“We lost you, in the process.”
He pulls back the covers and sits on the side of the mattress, pointing his back to me. “You tell me this won’t be like New York, but in the next breath, you try to take credit for ruining my career. Which one is it, Maura?”
Openly sobbing and clutching the covers on either side of me, I moan, “I don’t know! I’m sad and confused and so alone. I don’t know what to think or feel. You’re so c-cold, and so m-mean, mad at me because I happen to see and hear the horrible things people are saying about me.”
“You seek it out! You have alerts on your phone to tell you when anyone’s talking about us. You’re torturing yourself with this shit. Who cares what they say?”
“I care, all right? I can’t be a curse for an entire city.”
“You’re not. I’m doing everything exactly the way I always have. But accidents happen. Injuries happen. And the one that happened to me last week had nothing to do with you.”
“But people’s perceptions—”
“Screw their perceptions! The people who matter know the truth. At least, I thought they did. But I guess you’d rather believe a bunch of asswipes who have nothing better to do than trash-talk and read into things that aren’t there.” Rising from the bed, he stomps to the door, yanks it open, and walks through it, slamming it behind himself.
Thirty
Reassurances and Upheaval
It doesn’t feel like I sleep at all, so I’m surprised when a soft knock on the bedroom door wakes me the next morning. The person on the other side doesn’t wait for me to answer; rather, he walks right in, bearing a huge tray with one of those silver domes, like you see in the movies.
While Jet sets the tray on the unoccupied side of the mattress, I sit up and rub furiously at the mascara-coated, puffy bags under my eyes. He comes around to my side of the bed and squats next to me.
“’Morning, Beautiful,” he murmurs with a sad smile that threatens to undo me all over again.
At my shaky chin and welling eyes, he tilts his head and sighs, then motions for me to sit on the side of the bed, facing him while he remains perched at my level. When I do, he grabs my right hand in his left and rubs his thumb against my knuckles. “Oh, Maura.”
I sniff the tears away and look at my knees. “I’m okay. I didn’t sleep much.”
“Me neither.” With his bandaged hand under my chin, he lifts my face to look at him. His stubbled cheeks are pale, which highlights the dark circles under his eyes. “Hey. We’re in this together, right? You still want that? Because I do.”
All I can do is nod.
Smiling, he says, “Good. That’s what I should have said last night. I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I shouldn’t have stormed out of here like a—”
“It’s okay.” I cradle his face in both of my hands. “I let my imagination run wild, instead of talking to you. I overreacted.”
He shifts from his feet to his knees, brackets my hips with his arms, and rests his head on my lap. “I was afraid when I opened that door this morning, you’d be gone. I thought I blew it. Again.”
His rare allusion to Ginny isn’t lost on me, but I don’t want to talk about her. I feather his hair. “I wouldn’t do that.” Then, to lighten what’s becoming an impossibly heavy vibe, I point out, “I don’t have a car here.”
He laughs and looks up at me. “You’re right. I guess I accidentally kidnapped you last night.”
I press my thumbs to the rings under his eyes. “I love you.”
“I love you too. Please be here when I get home later.”
I nod my compliance. “Still don’t have a car.”
“You know where all the keys are. Use whichever one you want, if you need to do stuff or go anywhere. But I want to come home to you tonight.”
“I’ll be here.” It’ll be one of the only times this season we get to spend a Saturday night together, thanks to the home opener being a Monday night game.
I lean down, and he reaches up, our lips meeting nearly exactly in the middle of the space between our faces. It’s a short kiss, but it’s probably packed with more meaning than nearly any other we’ve shared.
When it’s over, Jet rises to his feet and clears his throat.
“Well. Enjoy your breakfast.”
“Wait!” I swivel at the waist and raise the dome on the tray
to see that, sure enough, there’s only one plate of eggs Benedict, bacon, and toast under there. “You’re not going to eat with me?” I glance at the sun streaming through the balcony doors. “It’s such a beautiful morning. We could eat outside.”
He shakes his head regretfully. “I have to get to the training complex.” His smile is rueful when he explains, “You know, so I can watch everyone else work out.” He winks.
I chuckle. “Oh. Right.”
As if on cue, my phone lights up and vibrates on the bedside table, signifying an incoming notification. We both look at the device like it’s a bomb about to explode. His face darkens.
Before he can say anything, I promise, “I won’t read it. I won’t read anything. As a matter of fact, I’ll delete those alert settings altogether.”
“I just want you to be happy, Maura.”
“You make me happy.”
“If anything important and real comes up that you need to know and we need to handle, I’ll tell you. Right away.”
“I trust you.”
He rewards me with a lopsided smile and a longer goodbye kiss, then walks to the door. As soon as he opens it to leave, Torzi bounds in, leaping onto the bed. I pull him away from my food and into my lap, then lift his paw in a wave to Jet, who laughs at us and says, “You two stay out of trouble.”
“You do the same.”
Like I ever need to worry about that.
On a typical Saturday during the season, like last week, I don’t see Jet at all. He goes to practice early, and if the team is playing an away game, they fly to their destination city to get settled at their hotel, where they attend more pre-game meetings and hit the sheets early (alone, presumably). For home games, the routine is the same, minus the flying. The players even stay in a hotel, like they would in another city. It’s all part of the mental aspect of game prep, designed to lessen the impact of away games on the psyche.
When I originally looked at the schedule, back when being Jet’s girlfriend was new and somewhat stifling, I counted the Monday and Thursday night games, as well as the bye week, and committed the dates of their associated Saturdays to memory. Not because I was looking forward to them, but because I wanted to prepare myself for those extra days of girlfriend obligation. To think, the old Maura dreaded those anomalies in the schedule, worried about sacrificing precious alone-time. The old Maura was a clueless moron.
The new me recognizes these rare Saturdays as gems to be cherished, gifts to be highly anticipated. This first one isn’t turning out quite the way I’d planned, but it’s not too late to turn it around. My original plan for this first Saturday together is back on track after a temporary derailment.
This early in September, it’s still pretty warm out, but I’m eager for fall. Thanks to the stress of the job fair and the prospect of the love affair of my life shattering under the pressure created by the world in which it exists (drama much?), I’ve forgotten how much I love this time of year.
Today, I reclaim my favorite season. I’m making this year’s first pot of chili, one of the few dishes I do well. I’ve recently returned from an afternoon with Colin and Torzi at the farmer’s market, where I picked up fresh ingredients. I’m excited to cook, then spend the rest of the night relaxing with Jet.
“This is the life, Torzi,” I say down at my supervisor as he waits adorably and patiently for me to drop something delectable. He licks the air, and I add, “When I don’t think too much about it, that is. Let’s face it; not thinking about things is my specialty. So, maybe this will work, after all.”
He lies on the wood floor and rests his chin on his paws.
“You’re right; I need to relax, and talk to Jet more often when things upset me, right? Because if I’d told him what I was worried about, right away, I could have avoided a miserable week. He’s a simple guy. But complicated at the same time. I’ve never been with anyone like that. It’s confusing sometimes.”
I glance over at the dog and see he’s asleep. Or pretending to be.
“Oh. Sorry. Excuse me. Didn’t mean to bore you,” I grumble with a chuckle. “If I’m not feeding you, you’re not interested, huh? I get it. And here I thought we were connecting.”
He dozes through my fake rant.
I finish browning the beef and drain the fat, then dump it and the rest of the ingredients—tomatoes, garlic, onions, jalapeños, beans, tomato sauce, chili powder—into a huge pot on the stove. After stirring everything together, I place the lid on the pot, then turn the burner below it to “low” for a long simmer.
Only after I’ve cleaned up my prep mess do I wander into the living room, where I lounge on the couch and pull my phone from my pocket. True to my word, I deleted the notification settings, but that doesn’t mean I can’t go straight to the usual sites and browse the message boards and comment threads, if I truly wanted (or needed) to seek out the information. Like any addiction, the temptation has lessened the longer I’ve remained strong and kept my mind on other things. I’m not missing out on anything but heartache by staying away from those sadistic sites.
Now I check to see if I’ve missed any calls or texts while I’ve been diligently ignoring the device. When I see that both Rae and Jet have tried to get in touch with me, my smile fades, my mouth dries, and my stomach shrivels. An overwhelming sense of déjà vu grips me. A few weeks ago, before the Bedroom Bowl debacle, having Rae and Jet both text me during the day wouldn’t have been out of the ordinary at all. But this is the first communication I’ve received from Rae since Jet’s injury.
It could be a coincidence that she picked today to reach out to me, and her call came in at roughly the same time as Jet’s, if the communication had occurred around lunchtime. But the time stamp on the calls, while similar, is from not that long ago, which was much later than when everyone would normally stop for a break.
And as I take a closer look at the phone, I notice it’s bursting with missed calls, voicemails and texts, the latest of which, from Jet, simply states an address and a hastily typed:
Meet me here. Bring Torzi
Scrolling through the rest of the texts from earlier doesn’t clarify anything. It’s all a bunch of Wow!s and Are you okay?s and Call mes from Greg, Colin, and my parents.
Hoping the voicemails will explain more and save me from having to resort to Internet sources, I dial into my mailbox, which tells me the first one came through at about three o’clock.
“I take back everything bad I ever said about Jet,” Rae gushes. “Wow. Good luck with the media, though. And heads up, not everyone is as thrilled about what he said as I am. But hot damn! If I wasn’t me, I’d kiss that boy on the mouth. Or maybe not, since I know what he does before games. You should definitely do it for me, though. For women everywhere.”
She pauses.
“And uh, I guess this is sort of an apology. No, a real apology. I’m sorry about what I said to you—and Jet—when the Busch story broke. I wanted to apologize when I brought Jet home after the Miami game. I actually volunteered to take him home for that very reason. But you were so mad at me, and I was tired, and it all went to shit before I knew what was happening. Anyway. You probably hate me, and I get it. But I’m still sorry. Okay, enough of the mushy stuff. I’m making myself want to barf, and your voicemail’s probably about to cut me off. When you see Jet, though, tell him he’s absolutely my favorite man right now. Bye.”
So, Jet did something to make Rae happy. This could be bad. Very, very bad. It’s one of the signs of the Apocalypse.
I suddenly need to pee. And puke.
What I need most, though, is to hear Jet’s voice, and I need him to tell me he didn’t do something stupid. My prayer is finally answered after several inquiring messages from various family members, both mine and his.
His strained voice follows the robot lady’s intro.
“Hey. This is me, having to deliver on my promise already, unfortunately, to give you a heads up when something important happens. I screwed up hardcore.”
<
br /> Nonononono. That’s the opposite of what I wanted to hear!
“Please don’t be mad at me. I can explain. Maybe. No, I really can’t, but I’m going to have to in about ten minutes. I’m on my way to this place called The Ranch, near the airport, where they send players after we’ve been naughty.” He laughs nervously. “I’ll text you the address. Can you meet me there? They’re going to want you to lay low, too. If the media can’t find me, they’ll go after whoever they can to get a quote. I’m so sorry. I hope you get this before anyone approaches you. You don’t have to talk to them. As a matter of fact, don’t. It’ll only make things worse, probably. Listen, I gotta focus and follow my GPS. I’ve never been here before. Call me if you need help finding it. I love you.”
I hang up in the middle Gloria’s next voicemail, which is the last one. After a deep breath, I send a mass text to Colin, Rae, and both of our families that says, We’ll call you later, as soon as we can. Then I turn off the stove and launch into action.
Thirty-One
Safehouse
Jet’s waiting for me on the front porch of the log cabin nestled in the woods on Gray Lake. The Hummer’s GPS brought me straight here, no problems. After parking the behemoth, I’m prepared to jump from the embarrassing vehicle, but Jet meets me in the gravel driveway and wraps me in a hug that keeps my feet several inches off the ground.
“Brought the tank in case you needed to run over reporters?” he asks with a surprising grin.
Holding tightly, I say with my chin on his shoulder, “Yes, actually. Finally, this ridiculous thing comes in handy.”
Jet’s been driving the Audi, which I normally use when borrowing one of his cars. The more intimidating midnight blue Mercedes is my second choice, but when I parked it in the garage after returning from the farmer’s market, the gas light came on. At the time, it was no biggie—I figured I could refill it tomorrow. Then all hell broke loose. I didn’t have enough gas to get to The Ranch, and I didn’t want to chance being spotted while gassing up. I can’t drive a stick, so the Corvette was out. That left the obscene H2 as my only option. Although I hate the SUV, its invincibility, full gas tank, and built-in GPS seemed to suit my purposes best tonight.
