Ace’s hand rises slowly, as if he doesn’t really want to shake my hand but something deep and decent within him—whatever it was that called Luce “friend” for all those years—pulls it up, inch by motherfucking inch, until his palm is against mine. Our handshake is brief. We will never be friends, but the sad truth is that Luce was right.
No one forced all those shots down my throat. I didn’t have to get so messy drunk. I didn’t have to stand so close I could feel the line of the girl’s underwear press against my jeans-clad leg.
If I’d seen Luce kissing some guy, her eyes glassy with booze, and his arms around her body, I’d have been enraged. And maybe if I’d had the same past as hers, the same fears, I would’ve been done, too.
So I forgive Ace for burning the cord tying Luce and me together because I lit the match.
I leave Ace then and turn to Fozzy and present my hand to him. He knocks it away and lifts me in his arms.
“I love you, brother,” he shouts. My ears ring for hours. There’s a round of handshakes and bone-breaking backslaps and even a few more hugs before we get back to the basics of football—strength and conditioning.
On the ride up to the hotel in some Podunk town in Illinois, about an hour west of Chicago, Hammer peppers me with questions about Luce. He says it’s because he’s concerned. Privately, I think he’s doing research on another article.
“How’re you going to approach this? Like, are you going to say sorry first or are you going to make her say it?”
“What do you think I should do?” I parry because I have no fucking clue what to do. I’ve never been in this situation before—chasing after a girl who’s rejected me more times than she’s said yes.
“What does she want?”
“Fuck if I know.”
“Then you’re not winning her back.”
Thanks for nothing Hammer. “I told her that I loved her.”
“There’s your problem.”
“What’s my problem?”
“Your belt’s gotta match the shoes,” Hammer says.
“What the fuck does that mean?” I grind to a halt and put my hands on my hips.
“Means your actions gotta line up with your words. You gotta do the love stuff if you mean it.”
“Did you read that in your women’s magazine?” I ask suspiciously.
“No,” he perks up, “Do you think that’s an article I should suggest? Top ten ways to show her you love her?”
My lips quirk up in a half smile. “Yeah, that’s probably a pretty good article.”
“Shit, I should have written it for Valentine’s Day instead of the ‘Best Ways to Give a V-Day Blowjob.’” Hammer slaps me hard on the back. “Don’t worry. I know you’re going to win her back.”
And Hammer’s belief in me actually fills me with relief. I am going to make this right with her. I did it with the team, and I can do it with her as well.
Failure is no option here.
35
Lucy
“I have a cold coming on,” Heather says ominously as she pulls into the hotel parking lot after dinner. Even though she hates her old man, she doesn’t mind the things he buys her. The Mercedes coupe is so luxurious, I nearly cried when I took a seat the first time.
“Tell the cold to stay away. Believe it away, Heather.”
“You mock, but deep down you know I’m right. We rocked today.”
We did rock. We’ve rocked all weekend and now we have only one match left before we can crown ourselves Midwest Regional champs and claim our spot in the national tournament next month.
“We were pretty awesome,” I admit. I roll my neck from one shoulder to the other. Despite our wins, I’m still tense. You would have thought I’d be euphoric by now, but I’m not.
Heather puts the car in park and then pulls down the mirror to inspect her face. “Do I look pale to you?” She turns to me.
“No, but if you don’t feel well, you should lie down.”
“I feel sick.”
“It’s called nerves,” I explain wryly. It’s somewhat heartening that Heather has some. For a time there, I felt like she was impervious, a hardened shell built up as a defense against her dad’s careless neglect. “Tomorrow’s the Championship round, and you’re feeling what commoners call anxiety.”
“Could be.” She looks doubtful. “I think we should do something to really psych ourselves up for the big match.”
“You just said you felt a cold coming on? Shouldn’t a good night’s rest suffice?” I sounded like a fifty-year-old mother already. I should’ve bought a pair of orthotic insoles at the drugstore along with some menopause medication.
“No, because we’re in Chicago, duh. Or—” She snaps her fingers and smiles brilliantly—evilly almost. I narrow my eyes in suspicion. “We could go on a road trip.”
I know immediately what she’s talking about. “No.”
“I heard a certain football team is having a retreat an hour away.”
“No.” Except this time my no isn’t as firm because I miss Matty so much. I want to see him, but I figured I’d get the tourney out of the way and then throw myself at his feet and beg for him to take me back.
I’m not sure of my reception, and I didn’t want to suffer a crushing “no” blow right before competition started. If I’m lacking confidence, that wouldn’t be the way to go about gaining more.
But, as Heather knows because Hammer waited for me outside of our last practice—does everyone know my effing schedule?—Hammer thinks Matt would forgive me in a heartbeat. Since then Hammer’s been texting me.
Hammer: Matty’s a good guy.
Hammer: I was there. He didn’t touch those girls.
And
Hammer: Luuuucy. Not saying he misses you, but if you don’t come soon, he’s gonna turn into a pickle.
Pickle? I assume that’s due to heavy drinking. But regardless of his preserved status, Matt has not texted me once. Or called. Or showed up anywhere he’s showed up before. Even Keith noticed it at the Brew House, asking where the jock crew was. I pretended I was too busy making foam angels to respond.
“Come on, Luce,” she cajoles. “You know you want to. Plus, you getting back together with Matty would make you soar tomorrow.”
“Soaring isn’t a thing. Soaring is what happens to your brain on some quality molly, not from confronting your ex.”
“Hammer’s his best friend. He wouldn’t be texting you if he didn’t think you had a chance.”
“Maybe Hammer’s playing the long game and this is Matt’s revenge. They get me to show up and then I’m confronted by a full-on orgy in the living room. Hammer jumps up, ‘Surprise, bitch! No one here really misses you, but if you want a piece of Matty, you can stand in line behind ho number two.’”
Heather smothers a laugh. “Do you always skip to the worst-case scenarios?”
Probably. That’s what you do when your entire life is one risk assessment after another. “Even if I did want to go, I’m sure it’s a closed, players-only thing. They only do these retreats when there’s real problems and they want to get everyone on the same track.”
“I wonder if you have anyone in your contact list who might be able to help you. Let’s think, hmmm.” She taps the corner of her mouth in mock thoughtfulness.
“I’m not calling Ace.”
“Hmmm.”
“Or Matty.”
“Mmmmhmmm.”
“This is totally irresponsible,” I say as I pull out my phone.
“Mmmm.”
Me: Hammer, it’s Lucy Watson. I’m an hour away. Would Matty see me?
Hammer replies before Heather can hum again. Thank Fucking God. I was Googling ‘how to hold an intervention,’ and that shit don’t sound fun at all. Zero fun, Lucy.
Me: What about your coaches?
Hammer: Get your ass here. I’ll worry about the coaches.
I stare at the phone for a minute while Heather drums out the beat to The Replacements’ “Can’t H
ardly Wait.”
“So we going or we spending tonight wishing we were somewhere else?” she asks impatiently.
I put the phone face down. “We’re going.”
She starts the engine and backs out of the parking lot.
“Don’t you wish it was summer and we had a convertible?” Heather says as she speeds toward Matty.
“And we’d wear scarves and Brad Pitt would be shirtless in the back and then we’d drive over the cliff and die?” I add sarcastically.
“I was with you until the cliff thing.”
* * *
“Lucy?” Matty’s expression is one of surprise and not the joyful you’ve made my ever-loving week surprise, but more of the what the fuck are you doing here version.
“I’m...” Here to apologize, to admit that I totally overreacted and that I’m trying to start taking all those risks that I keep saying I’m going to take but never do, but I already feel so vulnerable and stupid hiding in his closet, I can’t bring myself to blurt any of that emotional stuff out. I settle for, “I’m here to see you.”
“It’s a closed practice,” he says. Practice isn’t the only thing that’s closed. His face is a solid wall of nothing. I can’t read if he’s pleased to see me, pissed off, or annoyed, but I’m tired of ducking under the hangers in the closet.
I gesture behind him. “Do you mind letting me out?”
He steps aside but doesn’t change his expression. I stumble out of the closet with as much dignity as possible. The small hotel room doesn’t offer me many options but I’m too uncertain of my welcome to sit on his bed and afraid of what he’ll think if I sit on Ace’s bed. I can’t believe the two are being forced to room together.
I opt for the small, uncomfortable desk chair. “Mind if I sit?”
He exhales slowly, and my heart flips over unhappily as he ponders my request. He’s not sure if he wants me to be here long enough for me to sit down. I plant my ass anyway.
“In my head, this went a lot smoother,” I offer.
“How so?”
“Um, I guess I throw up my arms and say ‘surprise,’ and you say, ‘Goldie, you’re a sight for sore eyes,’ and then I respond with, ‘you, too.’ After we get those awkward, trite greetings out of the way, you haul me into your arms and give me a movie star kiss. We pretend it’s raining and that we’re at the end of a Nicholas Sparks movie and you swear your undying devotion.”
“According to my mom, everyone dies at the end of a Sparks movie, so my devotion appears to be short-lived.”
“True, but the promised love is undying, so even after your ticker gives out, the devotion lives on.”
I swear I see his lips twitch, but he sobers up quickly to reply, “I think you’ve got plenty of undying devotion in your general vicinity.”
“Is this about Ace?” I ask.
He doesn’t directly answer the question. “Where is my wonderful roommate and does he know you’re here?”
Ace’s face was frozen when Jack and Hammer laid out the deal to him. He slapped the key into Jack’s hand and stalked off. Uncomfortable is an understatement, but if I want Matty—and I do—then facing down Ace’s icy stares is just going to be something I’m going to have to deal with. “He’s with Jack and yes, how do you think I got in here?”
Matty raises his eyebrows and all the other times he’s come back to a hotel room with a naked girl rushes through my head. “Don’t answer that.” I rush forward and place my fingers against his lips.
I’ve heard these stories from Ace, and they don’t paint a pretty picture of my gender. Or him, frankly.
For a second I can feel his lips press against my fingers, but he backs away.
“I think before we go any further, we need to talk.”
You know it’s bad when the guy says those words.
“Can I go first?”
“All right.” He tilts his head and waits.
This shouldn’t be so hard. Wasn’t the hard thing coming here? I take a deep breath and let it out slow. Matty’s gaze is steady, not welcoming but not frosty either. “I never told you why I’m so risk averse.”
He arches a brow. “Thought it was your diabetes.”
“It is and it isn’t. I don’t think I ever told you, but I live here in town. Not in this town but where Western is.”
“I know.”
God, he’s not making this easy on me. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” He finally decides he’s done standing and leans a shoulder against the wall. “Ace is a local, and you and him were friends as kids.”
“Nice deductive reasoning.”
“You’re stalling.” His words are terse, his frame is tight. I need to get on with my story.
I rub my sweaty palms together. When giving an opening or closing, the most persuasive part of your argument is the facts. Plainly stated, no frills. I go that route.
“My dad, Ron, works on the line at a tire manufacturing plant. When I go home, I go to my dad’s house even though my mom lives only twenty minutes away. I talk to her once a year, at the most. Dad makes me go to her house on Christmas. Her parents died when I was a baby and her only relative, my uncle, lives in Washington State. So unless I visit, she’s alone.” I grab the water bottle that has a tag that says it costs $2. I rip off the cap anyway. It’s worth it. I feel like I’m dying here under his impassive stare.
“It’s always awkward as hell. We make small talk. She almost always has a new guy by her side. Most of the time I don’t even bother learning their names because they’re temporary. She told me once she sees herself as a butterfly. I’m sure she meant me to interpret that as her being beautiful, but I kept thinking about how she can’t stick with one guy.” I swallow. “It kind of ruined my dad for a while. She tends to ruin a lot of things—like Ace’s family.”
Something like comprehension starts flickering behind his eyes. “Do I need to sit down for the rest of this story?”
“I don’t know. Watch a lot of soaps? You might be able to guess it.” I try to smile, but talking about this is always so painful. Most of the time I try to forget it.
He pushes off from the wall and comes to sit down on the mattress closest to me. His long hands dangle between his thighs. I wish I could crawl into his lap, but I inject some steel into my spine and fast forward to the pertinent parts.
“After Ace and I met in the nurse’s office, our families got to know each other. My mom and his dad, in particular. When Ace’s mom confronted the two, his dad just kind of shrugged. Fidelity is for suckers, I think, are the exact words he told Ace. My parents didn’t get a divorce, but they separated. Mom’s lived in a different house than me since I was ten. Her home is a revolving door of unhappiness.” I exhale deeply. “Screwed up by mommy is a tired excuse, but I guess it’s why I was scared.”
“Christ,” he says after a long silence. “That’s fucked up.”
“Yeah, really, really fucked up.” The distance is too much for me. I screw up my courage and walk to him. Once there, I drop to the floor between his knees, place a hand on either side of his thighs and look up with regret in my eyes and my heart in my throat. “I’m sorry I told you I didn’t care. I do care. So much, and it terrifies me, but if you give me another chance, I’ll prove to you that I’m worth the risk.”
His eyes flutter shut. A gasp escapes me as the pain of rejection starts spiraling out from my center. But before I can take another breath, he sweeps me into his arms.
“Oh Christ, Luce. I thought you’d never get here.”
“You knew I was coming?” My voice is muffled by his chest, but he hears me.
“Hammer hinted. I tried not to get my hopes up.”
“You jerk.” I wrench back and slap at him, my fingers hurting when they land on rock hard pecs. “I can’t believe you left me hanging there.”
“I needed it,” he admitted. “I’m not proud of that, but I needed to hear from you that you wanted me as much as I want you. But honestly, if you hadn’t acted, I would
have pursued you.”
“Why the hardass act?”
“I was nervous. You really mad that I didn’t chase after you?”
“No.” I shake my head with relief. “I did the breaking up. I was the one who had to do the patching back together.”
“To be fair, in my head, when you pop out and surprise me, you’re wearing a lot less and there’s a fake cake around you.”
I crack a smile. “Really? A cake and a birthday suit?”
“I’m a simple man, Goldie.” His smile fades a bit. “My turn.”
My brow crinkles in confusion. “Your turn what?” If he’s forgiven me, I’m ready for make-up sex.
“My turn to apologize. You were absolutely right that I shouldn’t have gotten so shitfaced that I put myself in these situations. You’re right that I would have been livid if I’d seen you drunk off your ass and some guy feeling up these curves.” His hands run roughly up my sides, as if he’s imagining the scene and not liking it very much. “I wish you hadn’t broken up with me. The past few weeks have been zero fun.”
“For me, too.”
His hand comes up to cradle the back of my head. “But you weren’t wrong to do it, so there’s nothing for you to ask forgiveness for. Having said that, I’m willing to play the hurt party who needs all his wounds kissed and licked.”
“Alright.” I don’t need to be asked twice.
He reaches down to grasp the hem of my shirt and tugs it up over my head. I lift my arms so he can remove it completely. He scoots back until he’s leaning against the headboard. “Climb up here.” He pats his lap.
I place a knee on the edge of the bed, but he holds out his hand. “Wait, take the pants off first.”
As I ease down my jeans pulling my panties with them, his eyes grow slumberous. He reaches out until his hand curves around my butt. His warm fingertips dig slightly into the padding while his thumb runs down the hipbone to the crease where trunk and leg meet.
“You are a sight for sore eyes,” he says huskily.
I let the jeans fall to the floor and kick them away. Then, with confidence born of his undisguised lust, I straddle him. I flip my hair off my shoulders with both hands and cup myself.
Jockblocked (Gridiron Book 2) Page 29
