Magic Minutes (The Time Series Book 2)

by Jennifer Millikin

  I could’ve told him I knew Noah. Matt wouldn’t have cared. He’s not the jealous type. The problem is me. I don’t speak about Noah. I don’t even allow myself to think about Noah. The knowledge that my one great love won’t be my forever love is too much for me, so I just don’t go there.

  And yet, here he is, standing in front of me, again.

  Noah sucks in a quick breath, but I don’t meet his eyes. What did he expect me to say? Matt, this is Noah Sutton, my high school boyfriend? I can’t reduce us to a juvenile relationship, personified by hand-holding at a Friday night football game and making out in someone’s parents’ car after a date. We were so much more than that.

  I look to Matt, not Noah, because I can’t bear to see the hurt in his eyes. Matt’s not looking at me, though. He’s still star-struck by Noah.

  “I need to find something for you to sign. The guys at my firm won’t believe me if I don’t have proof.” Matt grabs his bag off the seat and unzips the front section.

  My gaze shifts as Noah mouths something at me over Matt’s back. Boyfriend? He gestures with a thumb. I nod. Why do I feel guilty? I’ve done nothing wrong. But still, I feel it, the flicker of shame, like I wasn’t supposed to move on.

  Indignation flares. Noah moved on. I saw the stupid magazine cover. He dated a model, someone who was my genetic opposite. I glare at him. He’s not going to make me feel like I’ve done something wrong. I open my mouth to tell him so, but Matt stands up. Thank goodness. Extreme emotion conveys passion.

  “I can’t find a pen. Ember, do you mind taking a picture?” Matt looks at Noah. “Is that okay with you?”

  Noah nods, and I want to laugh. Throw my head back and let loose an unladylike howl of a laugh.

  In what universe is this happening?

  Matt positions himself beside Noah, lifts his arm like maybe he’s going to throw it over Noah’s shoulder, decides not to, and drops it. The whole thing is awkward.

  “Smile.” I hold up the phone. Matt’s grin reaches his ears, but Noah’s is barely passable.

  A woman’s bored voice comes over the intercom system, and we all three listen. I stop paying attention when she doesn’t say Los Angeles, but Noah tells us they’re calling his flight. Matt steps back to my side, taking his phone from me and sliding an arm around my waist.

  For a nanosecond Noah looks as if he wants to rip Matt’s arm off, but he changes course quickly. “It was nice to see you, Ember. It’s been… a while.” Now he grins, a real, knowing smile, and I want to melt into the floor. Whatever he’s recalling from the last time we saw each other, it’s most definitely not for anyone else’s eyes.

  “Bye, Noah.” It’s a struggle to make my voice nonchalant. Like it’s no big deal that I’ve seen him, and even less of a deal that he’s leaving.

  He skillfully navigates a turn with the crutches, and I wonder if he’s used them before. The thought makes me sad. He’s the most significant person in my history, and I know so little about him now.

  A rhythmic and slow progression carries him through the crowd. He requires a lot of space, and most people give it to him when they realize he’s injured. Others stare in recognition. Twice on the way to his gate he’s stopped to sign an autograph. Inside my chest, a peal of acerbic laughter erupts. He’s autographed my heart. My soul. My memories. Do they count?

  Matt and I watch until the crowd swallows Noah and we can no longer see him. Shaking his head, Matt turns to me. “I can’t believe you know Noah Sutton. That is so cool.”

  Oh yeah? Do you want to know what is not cool? How fanboy you sound right now.

  I bite my tongue and push down the scathing remark. I’m angry, and not at Matt. If Noah would treat me as if I’m nothing more than an old friend, this would all be so much easier. But, no. He has to look at me with eyes that see me. Eyes that know.

  “He was my first,” I blurt out. I can’t stand it. Keeping it hidden makes it feel illicit, and maybe that’s the problem. If I tell Matt, maybe it will take away Noah’s hold on me. A smidgen of it, anyway.

  Matt looks surprised. “First kiss? Or, like, first first?”

  “First first.”

  He pushes out his lips and nods, hands in his pockets, as he thinks for a moment. “Violet Crabtree was my first.”

  “Okay?” It comes out like a question. Why is he telling me this?

  “Now we know that about each other. Check it off the list.” Removing a hand from his pocket, he places it on my arm and squeezes. “I’m going to run to the bathroom before they call our flight.” He starts to leave but turns back around. “I grabbed something for you to eat. It’s on the seat beside you. It’s not healthy, but beggars can’t be choosers.” He shrugs and walks off.

  That went…well. Like, really well. You got lucky with Matt.

  Resolve runs through me. Matt is a good person and deserves more from me. Noah is a part of my past, but I don’t have to romanticize it so much. That’s all I’m doing. Looking back wearing rose colored glasses. I’m sure if I think really hard, I’ll remember things about Noah that weren’t great. I can’t think of any off the top of my head, but I’m certain they’re there, buried somewhere deep in the recesses of my mind.

  From now on, I’m going to focus on Matt.

  Yep. That’s what I’ll do. I feel good about that decision already.

  My stomach grumbles and I cover it with a hand. Good thing my really sweet, mature, kind boyfriend Matt got something for me to eat. I reach into the seat beside me and wrap my fingers around the crinkling bag.

  I can do this.

  Opening the bag, I crunch through three potato chips and try to stop feeling like I’ve been punched in the stomach.

  26

  Noah

  Fuck.

  I stare at the ceiling and growl.

  It’s hard to remember not to move. The pain is an instant reminder. I look down at my traitorous leg, buried under my gray comforter. Thanks a lot, asshole.

  It was a routine play. Left foot, right foot. Left, right, left, right. Step over. Pass to Terence. Terence back to me. Then came the defender, who on any other day shouldn’t have been a big deal, but this guy was out for blood. He apologized in a post-match interview, saying he meant no harm, and wished me a speedy recovery. I responded with goodwill in my post-match interview, telling the reporter that injuries occur in sports, and blame is unnecessary.

  Lies. That fucker wanted me on the injured list.

  As if the torn ACL weren’t bad enough, I had to run into Ember. With her boyfriend. Apparently, my low point wasn’t low enough.

  Throwing an arm over my eyes, I try to block out Ember’s image. Of course it’s useless. Ember exists on a reel tape in my mind. Why should this morning be any different? Because she has a boyfriend and now you can finally get over her. Despite her relationship, one thing has been bothering me since I hobbled away from her stare.

  She lied about watching my game.

  Why?

  It’s a question I can’t answer myself, so I don’t even try. Instead, I sit up and inch out of bed, reaching for the brace on my nightstand. After it’s fastened, I grab the crutches propped against the wall and lean them on the bed next to me. Slowly swinging my good leg to the floor, I use my hands to lift the injured leg to the edge of the bed. I rise, balancing on one leg, and prop the crutches under each arm.

  All that work just to get out of bed.

  Everything is slower. It takes me four times longer to fucking do anything. Breakfast? Not if I want toast. The toaster is tucked in the back of a bottom cabinet. Eggs? Good luck reaching a pan. It’s also in a bottom cabinet. I ended up with an apple, stale tortilla chips, and then I found a protein drink.

  Have I mentioned my career might be over?

  And the love of my life has moved on?

  Fuck my life.

  My low point just got lower. I mean, I knew the likely prognosis from my internet research, but hearing the team doctor say it is somehow worse.

 
“Sorry, Noah. I know it’s not what you want to hear.” Dr. Clafin claps me on the back. He’s nearly all gray hair now, but when I started with the team he was only just beginning to gray. It took two years for his hair to lose pigment. The same amount of time it took my professional career to be in jeopardy.

  “I’ll give the report to Marcus,” Dr. Clafin says, one side of his mouth upturned in a resolute smile.

  I nod, picturing the displeasure I know will cross my head coach’s face.

  Backing away from my couch, Dr. Clafin gathers his things and packs up the little bag he brought with him. When he’s finished, he looks at me. “I’m sorry, Noah.” His eyes hold a mixture of compassion and disbelief, as if even he can’t believe I’m injured this badly. He means well, but his pity only aggravates me.

  An irrational urge rises up, but I manage to suppress it. The doctor can’t change his report, no matter how much I wish he could. There wouldn’t be a point. My obvious brokenness would give me away in seconds. I can’t play tough like I have in the past. A steroid shot won’t fix me this time.

  “What now?” I ask, leaning back against the buttery soft, overstuffed couch cushions. Automatically, I drape an arm across the back and try to lift my right leg with the intention of crossing my ankle over my left knee. As soon as I try, I remember I can’t. The swift shot of pain is not nearly as agonizing as the blow to my fragile ego. I feel fucking worthless.

  “Well, you’re going to need surgery for certain, but we have to allow time for the swelling to go down. Probably about three weeks? In the meantime, I’ll call a friend of mine in Arizona and see when he can get you in. You need the best if you want to play soccer again.”

  “And until then?”

  “Pre-hab it. The first thing you’ll lose is your quad muscle, and it’ll go fast. Don’t let that happen. I’ll email you a guide with exercises you can do.”

  I dip my head back and bring it up slowly, two times. It feels like there’s a weighted blanket covering me. It’s all so big, so heavy, so excessive. The world is a blender and my life is the smoothie.

  “Try to keep in good spirits, Noah. Call your parents. Call your brother, and FaceTime with his new baby. Try to get out of here once a day.” Dr. Clafin raises his eyebrows. He’s waiting for me to agree.

  “Sure, sure.” I say it to placate him. I’m not interested in hobbling around downtown Atlanta. Enough people were inadvertently tripped by my crutches in the New York and Atlanta airports already, I’m not trying to send anyone else sprawling onto sidewalks. Or be the recipient of any more irate looks. Some of them turned to compassion when they realized the person who accidentally tripped them was injured. Some of them… Well, not so much.

  Dr. Clafin sends me one final wave on his way to the door. “I’ll be in touch about your surgery.”

  I say good-bye as the heavy door swings shut behind him.

  For the next week, I do the opposite of everything Dr. Clafin suggested. I order in every meal. I sleep all day, stay up all night watching stupid movies. Sometime around two a.m., I use the video app on my TV to find the recording of my injury. It’s only one minute and thirty-seven seconds long, and I watch it more than sixty times. My injury comes at fifty-two seconds in. Then I’m on the ground, holding my knee, my face scrunched. Every person who has seen this probably thinks I was trying not to cry about the pain.

  Physical pain doesn’t bother me. It’s fleeting, a blip in time.

  The stadium lights were bright, even through my scrunched eyes, and I could hear the footfalls of my teammates cleats as they ran to me. Even in that moment, I knew it was bad. Maybe it was the searing pain, maybe it was the popping sound that I still can’t stop hearing. The physical pain was nothing compared to my fear.

  The tears I was holding back came from panic.

  What if I lose it all?

  Have I already?

  “Noah?”

  Her voice comes from behind me. I’m sitting on the couch, because where the hell else would I be? She rounds the couch and comes to stand beside the coffee table. Holding two bags of groceries in each hand, she looks at me like she’s trying not to tell me I’m pathetic.

  Miranda is my right hand. She handles everything for me, including all personal travel and my apartment when I’m away with the team. She’s a nice person, and an even better assistant. Two guys on the team have asked me to pass her their numbers, but I lied and said she has a boyfriend. I don’t need the headache of dating drama, but I see the attraction. She’s in her early twenties, intelligent, and her white-blonde hair gives her an angelic effect.

  Miranda was on vacation when I got hurt. When she heard what happened and that I was back in Atlanta, she offered to come back early. I told her to enjoy the rest of her time, and when she returned she jumped right into her role. She’s the reason someone came to clean up behind my lame, feeble ass yesterday. I hobbled into my room and shut the door while a cleaning person hauled away all my take-out boxes. I was too embarrassed to look them in the eyes. I feel like a jack-ass for acting like an invalid.

  “Thanks for buying groceries,” I say, trying like hell to sound like my normal self and not some depressed asshole.

  She shrugs. “After all those take-out boxes I saw in the trash yesterday, I thought you might want a fresh and healthy meal.”

  “I can’t do much cooking right now.” I probably could, it would just take a thousand times longer and piss me off.

  “Lucky for you, I can.” She walks away. In a few seconds I hear the fridge open and the sounds of food being put away.

  “I broke my collarbone in junior high,” Miranda says, “and my mom made me chicken marsala. So that’s what I’m making you. I know you love mushrooms.”

  I can’t turn all the way around, so I settle for turning my neck as much as I can and nod. “Thanks,” I tell her, and listen to the sounds of her moving around in the kitchen.

  My phone rings beside me and I reach for it. I learned to keep the damn thing pretty much glued to me, so I didn’t have to swing my broken ass around the apartment to find it every time it rang.

  I sigh when I see who it is. I knew his call was coming, but answering makes all this even more of a reality. “Hello?”

  “Scottsdale,” Dr. Clafin says, his voice scratchy as he coughs. “On the twenty-third. Miranda is arranging everything.”

  I wish I could turn around and give Miranda a dirty look. She knew about the surgery when she walked in.

  It’s quiet, then there’s a muted sound of nose-blowing, and more throat clearing. “You’ll be in good hands. My friend in Boston didn’t hesitate when I asked him. Dr. Cordova is in high-demand, but he’s making room for you. Doesn’t hurt that he’s a huge soccer fan.” Dr. Clafin chuckles, but it turns into a cough. “Damn cold,” he growls, when he’s able to speak again.

  I smile at his words, and realize it’s my first smile in more than a week. Since I saw Ember in New York.

  “I’ll wait for Miranda’s itinerary,” I say loudly. “She’s the boss.”

  She walks from the kitchen and stands in front of me, smirking and shaking her head.

  Dr. Clafin laugh-coughs again. “She’s already getting things in order,” he says. “She is gold, you know? Never let her go.”

  We chat for a few more minutes, and I wish him a speedy recovery before saying good-bye.

  “I was going to tell you after you ate,” Miranda says from the kitchen when I hang up. “You’re grumpy right now, and I knew Clafin was going to call you.”

  I nod. Miranda is right. I need to stop being an asshole. It makes me feel better to know my surgery has been scheduled. The listlessness was eating at me. I needed a plan. A goal. Something to look forward to.

  Maybe I’ll go out tomorrow morning. Get breakfast at my favorite restaurant. The team will be back in town soon, we could go to happy hour.

  This emotional high I’m on feels so good, so refreshing, that I pick up my phone and bring up Ember’s name in the
contacts. I’m not sure if it’s still her number, but I can try. Friends can call each other, right? Friends care about the general well-being of one another. If Ember were injured, I’d want to know the outcome.

  Before I can think about it any longer, I press send.

  The phone rings. Once, twice, three times.

  “Hello?”

  I freeze. I have no words. My thumb presses down hard on the end button, as though it’s really a button and not a red circle on a glass screen.

  Why am I surprised?

  Why am I this angry?

  He’s her boyfriend. He has the right to answer her phone. Still, it fucking tears me up inside. Is this how people are supposed to feel when they learn their ex has moved on? Is this normal?

  “Dinner will be ready in ten minutes, Noah. I’ll refrigerate the other half and you can have it tomorrow.”

  I scoot to the edge of the couch and hoist myself up, grabbing my crutches from beside me on my way up.

  “You just made your mom’s recipe, Miranda. Aren’t you going to stay and enjoy it?” I look out the black-paned window beyond the dining room table. The lights of downtown Atlanta are taking over the pink and purple sky, and I know there are people out there, gearing up for a Friday night. “I’m sure you have somewhere to be, and spending twenty more minutes with an invalid doesn’t sound like much fun, but—”

  “I’ll stay, Noah.” She gives me a reproachful look and shakes her head.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” She stirs the contents of the pan.

  “Just say it.”

  “Maybe you should try and reframe the situation.” Keeping her eyes on the food, she says, “I know things look bleak, but you still have a lot going for you.”

  “Are you saying I’m being a baby?”