If It's Only Love

by Ryan, Lexi

  Easton shakes his head, a crooked smile on his face as he watches his daughter. “Only you would have so many nail polishes that you need to organize them like that. Are you going to do the same with your lip glosses?”

  “Obviously.” She grins as she positions a bottle of polish carefully into a drawer. “It’s not my fault that Mommy likes to buy me pretty stuff.”

  “As long as it’s only for play, it’s fine with me. But no makeup at school.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Mom lets me wear it whenever I want.”

  He shrugs, unfazed by this tiny bit of defiance. “Mom has her rules, and I have mine.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” She finally lifts her head, and her smile falls away when she spots me.

  “I wanted you to meet my friend Shay,” her dad says, pointing the same warm smile at me he gave her.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “I’ve heard about you,” she says.

  That is unexpected. “You have?”

  “Yeah. You’re daddy’s friend. The girl who is prettiest and smartest and who writes books.”

  My breath catches, and I look at Easton, who just shrugs and gives me a lopsided grin.

  She sighs. “I tried to write one when I was seven, but I didn’t finish. Maybe I’ll finish a book when I’m ten.”

  “You did more than most people do just by starting,” I say. To be fair, I feel a little hypocritical giving advice on this subject. I’m good at writing books, then tucking them away to never be seen again. If I wanted to get serious about being a novelist, I’d need to get good at revisiting those drafts, facing their weaknesses and reworking them until they were better. And then I’d have to be willing to let someone else judge them and find them lacking or not. Instead, I’m sitting on an opportunity to query a dream agent and writing something new instead of fixing the old stuff. “I bet you could if you decided you wanted to. You just have to put in the work.”

  “That’s what Daddy says too. But I’m not in a rush.”

  “You don’t need to be. You can just enjoy being a kid right now.”

  “Daddy says that too.” She stands, and I realize just how little she is. I wonder if that’s genetic or from being sick. A pang spears through my chest imagining how it must have been for Easton when she was in the hospital.

  Maybe it’s just because she reminds me of Lilly, but I love her already.

  “Shay hasn’t seen the house,” Easton says. “I thought maybe you’d like to give the tour.”

  Her eyes go wide. “I would love to!”

  After the best tour I can imagine—complete with “this is where I can do my tumbling” and “this is the dining room, but all we ever used our old dining room table for was puzzles, so I don’t think this will be any different”—Abi retreated to her room to finish organizing, and Easton led me back to the kitchen and poured me a cup of the coffee he promised.

  “Thank you,” I say as he pulls a carton of half and half from the fridge. I doctor my coffee and watch him take a big sip of his. “Abi is really sweet.”

  His expression softens. “She’s pretty great, and all things considered, I think she’s taking the move well. We were both ready for a change.”

  I glance toward the stairs. “I know you’re still settling in, but why isn’t she in school?”

  “When the news broke about her . . . biological father . . .” He takes a breath, as if the words hurt, but then he shakes it away. “The kids at school were brutal, and we ended up pulling her and homeschooling. She’ll continue homeschooling through the end of this academic year, but in the meantime, I’m visiting Jackson Harbor schools to figure out my options. I’m happy homeschooling is an option, but I don’t think it’s the best long-term choice for Abi.”

  “You’ll find something.” I give him what I hope is an encouraging smile. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll send her to the same public schools we went to.”

  He smiles at this and stares into his coffee. I wonder if he’s remembering those days. Before college. Before the NFL. When everything was simpler in his life and mine. “I owe you a huge apology, Shay,” he says, lifting his eyes to meet mine.

  I put my coffee down. Right, the whole reason I came over. “I’m pretty sure you have that backward.”

  “I had no right to interfere in your relationship with George. I know it doesn’t excuse anything, but I couldn’t stand the idea of you being with someone who doesn’t treat you right. For what it’s worth, I believed I was doing the right thing.”

  “I shouldn’t have lost my temper that day outside the library. You had every right to be concerned.”

  “I deserved everything you said to me. I never meant to make you feel like I don’t think you’re capable of making decisions for yourself.” He draws in a deep breath and hesitates for so long I get the impression that the next part is hard for him. “I have to accept that there’s nothing about you being with someone else that will ever sit right with me, but that doesn’t mean I have the right to judge your relationship. You know yourself. You know what’s right for you.”

  I don’t know why I told him George and I were seeing other people. I didn’t want him knowing the truth, but I could’ve just said we’d broken up. I think, at least in part, I was trying to keep some distance between us, but I’m pretty sure that ship sailed the minute I unbuttoned his pants in Jake’s office. “George and I aren’t together.”

  He straightens. “You’re not? Since when?”

  “Since before you and I . . .” I make a circular motion with my hand. “And you were right. About George. Sort of, at least.”

  “What does that mean?”

  I blow out a breath. “He wasn’t cheating on me with someone else. He was cheating on someone else with me.” My eyes burn, and anger pulses through me at the reminder. That lying sonofabitch. “He’s married.”

  Easton blinks. “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish I were.” My eyes prick with tears. I’m not heartbroken, but my pride is so battered it has a limp. “After we broke up, I decided I wanted to find out who Buttercup was, and . . .” I shrug helplessly. “I guess I know now.”

  “What a fucking asshole. Jesus, Shay, I’m so sorry.” His eyes are full of anger, but he shakes his head like he’s trying to keep his emotions in check. “If it helps, I take no joy in being right about this.”

  The sincerity in his voice makes the tears spill over. “I feel like a fool.”

  He puts down his coffee, cups my face in both of his hands, and wipes away my tears. “It kills me to see you cry. To know he had your heart to break. He didn’t deserve you.”

  “I wasn’t in love with him. I’m embarrassed and my life is a little confusing right now, but my heart isn’t broken.” Not like it was when you walked away from me. “You know what hurts the most?”

  He shakes his head. “What?”

  “He made me the other woman. I never got the choice, but that’s what I was, and now I need to tell his wife the truth. She deserves to know.”

  Something flashes across his face. Pain. Regret. I know he’s thinking of the night of Dad’s funeral. I haven’t stopped thinking about that night since I followed George home. I felt like Easton cracked my entire foundation with what he said that night.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” he says. “But it’s not the same. Your situation is different.”

  “His wife still deserves to know.”

  “Of course,” he says. “You do what you think is best.”

  I step away from his touch and pull in a long breath. “I’m sorry I lied to you about George and I seeing other people. I was too much of a coward to admit the truth.”

  He flashes me that crooked smile and takes a step closer. “Does that mean you’ll give me a chance?”

  If only it were that simple. I bite my bottom lip and study his beautiful face—the blue-green eyes, the hard lines of his jaw, the faint stubble he hasn’t shaved away today. I have no business pursuing a relationship with anyone unti
l I figure out what’s next for me, whether that’s in Jackson Harbor or somewhere else entirely. “I think we should only be allowed to touch when we’re in Paris. I tend to lose my mind when we do it stateside.”

  Hurt flashes in his eyes. “Shayleigh, what happened in Chicago—”

  I put my fingers to his mouth before he can say more. “Don’t say it was a mistake.”

  Gently, he takes my hand from his mouth and squeezes my fingers in his. “The only mistake I’ve ever made with you was not trying harder to choose you and my daughter both.”

  I melt. “You’re not making this no-touching thing easy, East.”

  “I have no intentions of making it easy for you.”

  “I just broke up with a married man, I’m about to defend my dissertation, and I have to decide where I want to live next year—assuming I even get a job. You and me? We can’t happen right now. I’ll be your friend, though.”

  He searches my face, and the tenderness in his eyes makes me want to yank him to my side of the line I just drew in the sand. “I’ll take it.”

  Shay

  September 22nd, seven years ago

  “How’s Dad today?” I ask in a whisper, quietly shutting the door behind me.

  Mom bows her head. It’s brief, but the quick movement speaks volumes. She’s steeling herself to share bad news. “He wants to talk to you.”

  I put my purse on the foyer table. “He’s awake?”

  “Yes. Go on in.”

  But I don’t want to. I already know. I can hear it in her voice.

  The grief isn’t new. We’ve all been grieving on and off for four years as we rode this roller-coaster cancer buckled us into without our permission. But what I hear today is different. A resignation. A . . . lack of hope.

  My throat clogs with a sob and my eyes burn, but I lift my chin, swallow back my tears, and pull back my shoulders. I can’t fix this, but I can be strong for them both. It’s the only thing I have to offer.

  Death has a smell, the scent of decay and rot, and it’s shoved up my nose when I step into my parents’ bedroom. Dad’s hospital bed is raised so he’s sitting up, and his frail hands are wrapped around a cup of water.

  “Hi, Daddy.”

  His hands shake as he sets the water on the bedside table. “Shayleigh.” Even his voice is weak. This disease has stolen everything from him—his career, his strength, his pride. But not his family. Fuck cancer. Never us. “Come here.”

  I’m not sure how my legs get me from the doorway to the chair beside the bed. With every step, I think they might collapse. But I make it, each step steadier than I feel, and lower myself into the chair, taking his hand. “Hard night?” I ask. It’s a space-filler question. There’s no point to it when every night for months has been terrible. And every day.

  I ask it for myself. Because I need a few more breaths in a world where no one has confirmed what I’ve suspected for weeks now—that there’s no fighting this, that treatments will only make him sicker, and that it’s time to let go.

  “Not terrible,” he says.

  I laugh for his benefit. “You liar.”

  He wraps his fingers around my hand. My dad used to be so strong. These hands picked me up hundreds of times. They gripped my knees when he carried me around on his shoulders, showed me how to hold a baseball bat, checked my forehead for fever, and turned the pages of my favorite bedtime stories. “We’ve talked to the doctors.”

  I nod. Because I know. Because I’m hoping he won’t make me hear the words if I can just show him that I get it. I know what comes next, and my chest aches until it’s an effort to breathe through it.

  “I want you to know that I would suffer for years if it meant I’d win this fight. I’d do it for you kids. If I had any chance of winning, I’d do it just so I could come to your wedding and walk you down the aisle. I’d do it just so I could watch you become a mom.”

  Tears rolls down my cheeks. I try to be unshakable, to be strong for him, but I can’t. “I don’t want you to hurt,” I whisper. “Don’t worry about me.”

  He strokes the back of my hand with his thumb. “I do worry about you. My only girl. My sunshine. You’ve always carried so much for your brothers—always been there to help them navigate the emotionally muddy waters when they struggled. You’re like your mom like that. A light in the darkness.”

  My chest shakes, and I draw in one ragged breath, then another. A tear plops onto the back of my hand, and Dad rubs it away with a trembling thumb.

  “I hope you know how proud I am of you.”

  “I do. I know.”

  “I know you have more to worry about than boys and falling in love, but since I’m not going to be here, I want you to promise me you’ll protect your heart. Don’t give it to anyone who will be careless with it. Don’t settle for anyone who doesn’t make your soul sing.”

  “Dad . . .” I shake my head. This isn’t fair, but we’ve had years we didn’t think we’d get, and I know it’s time. “I love you.”

  He pats the back of my hand. “I love you too, sweet girl. To the moon and back.”

  Another sob rips from my chest, and I sink to my knees beside his bed, letting my daddy stroke my hair with those frail hands that used to be so strong. Letting him comfort me through my tears one last time.

  Easton

  “Can’t you call him or something? Tell him who I am and that I want to see him?”

  “Ma’am, no one is allowed back to the players’ rooms without prior authorization.”

  I thought I recognized that voice when I got off the elevator, but I can hardly believe my eyes when I see Shayleigh Jackson arguing with security in my hotel.

  “Please? We’re friends. He’ll want to see me.”

  “If you’re friends, you should call him.”

  “She’s with me, Troy.” I rush forward before Shay can do something reckless like try to push by him. I can’t see her face, but I can hear the desperation in her voice, and I wouldn’t put it past her.

  Shay spins around and barrels into me, throwing her arms around my waist. I wrap her up against me and close my eyes as I memorize the feeling. It’s been so long and . . . God, when did she get so small? She feels tiny in my arms.

  Troy arches a brow in question, and I nod, reassuring him that she’s welcome here.

  I smooth back her hair and tilt her face up to meet mine. The tears rolling down her cheeks slice into me and hurt nearly as much as the news Carter delivered yesterday. “Let’s go somewhere we can talk in private.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I couldn’t fall apart on my family. I couldn’t do that to them.”

  I kiss the top of her head. “You can fall apart on me. Come on.” I thread my fingers through hers and lead her to my room.

  “You know? About Dad starting hospice?”

  The door shuts behind me with an ominous thunk. Shay turns, folding her arms and searching my face as I nod. I haven’t been home in years, but tomorrow, when the Demons head back to L.A. on the team plane, I’m going to rent a car and drive up to Jackson Harbor. I have to see Frank one last time. “Carter called. He’s pretty torn up.”

  “Me too.”

  “Come here.” She doesn’t move, doesn’t drop her arms or rush toward me and bury her face in my chest like she did in the hall.

  It’s as if now that we’re here, now that we’re alone, she’s second-guessing her choice to come to me, and I can’t have that. I close the distance between us and pull her into my arms. Her arms are still folded against her chest, but I stroke her hair, her back. “I’m so sorry,” I say. “It’s not fair.”

  And I am. So sorry. Frank Jackson’s the closest thing I ever had to a father—which is a sad state of affairs, considering the man who provided half my DNA is still alive.

  I feel the moment Shay surrenders to the need to be close to me. She drops her arms and wraps them around me. She stops reinforcing that dam inside her and lets it break. Her tears rack her small frame and she trembles in
my arms, shakes and clings to me like I’m the only thing keeping this grief from pulling her under.

  I don’t know how long we stand there—just inside my hotel room, my arms wrapped around her, her tears soaking my shirt—but when she pulls away, it’s with a deep breath and a lift of her chin that tells me she’s determined to be strong.

  I search her face—those deep chocolate eyes I’ve dreamed of so many nights and the sweet pink lips that are pouty without trying. She searches mine in return, and I wonder if she’s missed me as much as I’ve missed her.

  “I should probably go. Your wife . . .”

  I cock my head to the side, waiting for her to finish that sentence. When she doesn’t, I say, “Scarlett might not like you being here, but since she’s currently living with Grant Holland, she doesn’t have much room to talk.”

  Shay grimaces and looks away.

  “You already knew.”

  She shrugs. “I try not to pay attention to celebrity gossip. I don’t believe most of what they say.”

  And rightly so. I’ve had some un-fucking-believable shit written about me since entering the league. But the recent round of media attention regarding Scarlett is at least partially true. Partially because there’s all sorts of speculation about our recent separation, and most of it involves me being cold, unfaithful, an ass, or all of the above. Nobody’s come close to the truth—that I married her because she was pregnant with my daughter and we were never really in love. Or that it gets lonely being married to someone who doesn’t love you—a feeling I’m as familiar with as Scarlett is.

  “We’re separated.” I shrug as if it’s nothing. As if I didn’t spend years sacrificing everything to try to give my daughter the family I wanted for her, only to see it fall apart anyway.

  “I’m sorry, Easton.” She swallows. “How’s your daughter? Abigail, right?”

  I nod. “She’s amazing. Talks up a storm, sings all the time. But she’s going through this fussy phase where she never wants to eat, and I think she’s losing weight.” I shake my head. Abi has a doctor’s appointment on Tuesday. “I’m sure everything’s okay. She’s stubborn, and when she doesn’t want to eat, she doesn’t want to eat, but the protective father in me needs a doctor to tell me that.”