by K. Bromberg
“There’s no need to thank me. I didn’t do anything.”
“You got me to London today. And you were trying to do more. And no one has ever—”
“You’re worth it.”
“Thank you. Truly.” We both fall silent. “It’s early there. You must be exhausted. Get some sleep.” I say the words, but would sit in her silence all day long if I could.
“Okay. I’ll talk to you . . . later.”
“Yes. Later.”
And when I hang up, it takes everything I have not to call her right back to tell her what’s on the tip of my tongue.
I love you.
I sit on the thought before I dial the next person I need to speak with. He picks up on the third ring. “Rush.”
“Rory. Mate. You didn’t have to do that. You—”
“Yes, I did.”
“But what about—”
“I’m a big boy, Rush. They’re my cock-ups, and I’ll damn well own them. It’s time I did the right thing and be the friend to you that you’ve been to me all these years.”
“I don’t . . . Fuck, mate.”
“I’ve spoken to Mum, and she cried. And wants to meet Esme sometime. Well. Not yet.”
“She loves you, Ror.”
“Yeah. It’s just . . . But Dad. God. He’s livid. I’ve lived so much of my life desperate for Dad’s approval, but I just couldn’t. It doesn’t fucking matter if I can’t live with the man I’ve become. . . and I couldn’t. I couldn’t stand by and let you ruin everything out of some skewed loyalty he made you feel.” There’s shuffling on the other end of the connection. “I was weak in letting him ask you and in going along with it. There’s nothing more I can say other than I’m sorry for everything, and I’m the sorriest that I let it get this far.”
“Rory. Are you—” I stumble over what to say because his apologies have me fearful they are more of a goodbye than anything. “I mean . . . you’re okay, right?”
“Good God, yes. I’m still on the mend, but life is glorious.”
“What about the club?”
“Let the team transfer me for what I did. I don’t care so long as I still get to play. Besides, Esme will stand beside me regardless.”
“I don’t even have words.” My thoughts are coming too fast to put a voice to them. “All I can say is I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks again, mate. You’re a saint, and I don’t deserve you.”
“I’m pulling down my street right now, Finn, and after not being home since June, I’m ending the call so I can enjoy the silence of my house without you yakking in my ear.”
“Understood. Be ready for the club to want to push you in front of the press sooner rather than later. You look like a goddamn saint right now, so let them use it to erase all of the bad press—”
“I’ll do a public signing of the contract, Finn. That’s it. No one is going to capitalize off a personal decision I made. No interviews about it. No exclusives. I’m not budging on this.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“Because the pitch is where I perform. Nowhere else.”
“Fine. Yes,” he says, but I can already hear the wheels turning so loud in his head that he hasn’t heard a word I’ve said. “Hey, Rush.”
“Hmm?”
“We did it.”
I hang up without answering, unsure and unsettled over how I feel about his comment.
We didn’t do shit.
It took months.
Back and forth, Rush. Communicating every day, Rush. Utter shit.
I have wondered why I don’t feel the same resentment toward the club. And I don’t think it’s simply about who is employed by whom. But deep down I think that’s where it partly sits.
I employ Finn. So, even if out of fiscal loyalty, he should have been shouting from the rooftops, as Lennox said. He was supposed to support me one hundred percent publicly, and shouldn’t have doubted me in private.
The club is essentially a business. Yes, it’s my career, but I can understand that they had to look at the financial aspects of whether or not to trade me. Their loyalty is a bit trickier to define, and I never suggested that the photo wasn’t of me. That loyalty was driven by the pound.
Does it make me feel good knowing they doubted me? Of course not, but . . .
“Welcome back, sir,” the driver says with a chuckle as my house comes into view. The gates are just as overloaded with paparazzi as the night I left here but this time, the questions aren’t accusations. This time, the shouting of my name isn’t with derision but out of desperation to get the first quote. Bloody vultures.
And just like last time, I hurry through the lot of them without giving a single comment.
I’ll let Rory’s press conference speak for itself.
Besides, there’s not much more I can say.
But when I sink into my own bed after a quick shower, when I let the silence envelop my thoughts, there’s only one thing missing in this balls-up day.
Lennox.
She’s not there to hold on to.
There’s no hair of hers to tickle my cheek as I rest my chin on her head.
There’s no soft snore of hers to fill the room.
There’s just the silence and solitude I used to crave that feels fucking rough now.
LENNOX
“THINGS GOOD?”
I hate that tears flood my eyes when his face fills the screen. “Yes. And you? Has the media attention died down some?”
“I don’t really pay attention,” he murmurs.
But I do. I’ve scoured all websites for any real-time glimpse of him and by the looks of it, he’s still being hounded.
“Is it good to be home?”
I miss you.
“There’s nothing like your own bed.” He chuckles.
Your arms holding me tight.
“I know. All I wanted to do was lie in it for hours the first day I got home.”
Your raspy voice when you first wake up in the morning.
“Things are good with your sisters and Dad?”
Knowing I could reach out and touch you to know you’re real.
“If you’re asking if we’re bickering, the answer is of course we are.”
Do you miss me?
And so yet another conversation where we talk about nothing, because we’re too afraid to address the elephant in the room, and that elephant is us.
RUSH
Lennox: I saw you called. Sorry I missed you. I’m about to catch a flight to Florida to corral a wild-child athlete. You’ll be asleep by the time I land. Have a great team workout today.
I stare at the text and hate this feeling—wanting to talk and knowing I can’t.
Wanting to be with her, but she’s thousands of miles away.
Needing this ache in my chest to go away instead of steadily getting worse.
LENNOX
“DID YOU WATCH?”
I look up at where Brexton is standing in the doorway of my office. “Watch what?”
“Jesus, are we back to you pretending like you’re not sitting around this office moping all goddamn day?” she asks with a healthy dose of an eye roll.
“I’m not moping.”
“Then you watched.”
“Of course, I did,” I say, as I think of the twenty times I replayed Rush’s big contract signing with Liverpool on YouTube. How I devoured everything about it and him as if I were a stalker desperate for a fix of the person she was obsessed with. “Why would I miss it?”
“Because it was at four in the morning so I thought you might be, you know, sleeping.”
“Don’t be a bitch.”
“I’m not.” She shrugs and moves into my office to take a seat. Exactly what I don’t want—to be put under the microscope by my sister. “I’m just curious what’s going on.”
“I’m trying to get a contract reviewed for Johnson, and I have a meeting in two hours with Berringer. That’s what’s up,” I say with a sarcastic smile to reinforce my bra
ttiness.
“When are you going to see him again?” The playfulness is gone from her voice this time, and the compassion in her tone has me looking up from the contract to meet her eyes.
I shrug, because I don’t trust my voice at first. “Probably in passing somewhere.”
“And why’s that?”
“Because that’s who we are.”
“And who is that? Two people who seem to be perfect together but are too goddamn stubborn to admit it?”
“That sounds about right.”
“Then do something about it.”
I lean back in my chair and look out at the city below. The hustle and bustle of Manhattan never ceases to amaze me regardless of the time of day or the weather.
“I don’t know. I’m feeling a little restless. I might head to Chicago for a few weeks for the draft. See what I can see there. Maybe engage in a little retail therapy.”
Her silence remains until I look back toward her. “You just got here, though.”
“Three weeks ago.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you talk?”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“That sounded enthusiastic.”
“You know how it is. When you’re together, you share the same world so your conversations make sense. When you’re apart it’s like you’re on an island trying to describe what it’s like so the other one understands.”
“That made absolutely no fucking sense.” She laughs.
“At what point are you just talking and calling and responding simply so you don’t hurt the other person’s feelings?”
“You’ve moved on that fast that you’re already feeling obligated to respond?” she asks.
And the answer is no, but I don’t dare tell her that. The real answer is when will I know that he’s doing that to me? At what point do you realize that your feelings are on a way different level than his are?
“I’m just thinking out loud,” I finally murmur.
She studies me for a second more before pushing up out of her chair. “I’m going to say one thing and then I’ll be out of your hair.”
“Thank God,” I joke as I look at the mini-globe on my bookshelf behind her and wonder where I should go.
“Sometimes love is hard to hold on to but if he’s the one, if he’s where you keep wanting to wander to when you look at that globe, then maybe he’s the one you’re meant to have.”
“Did you read that in a fortune cookie somewhere?” I tease.
“You know the minute I walk out of this office that you’re going to repeat it in your head and know I’m right.”
“Whatever.”
“Take the chance, Lenn. You never know until you do.”
“How?” I ask, my stoicism finally shattered as the emotion hits me. I want to say I miss him. I miss him so much every moment of every day. I miss his touch. His smile. His laughs. His gorgeous accent. But I can’t form those words on my tongue. “How am I supposed to do that? His life is there and my life is here. A cross-Atlantic relationship is not exactly the kind that keeps you warm at night. I don’t want an Instagram romance where the only time I get to see him is when I check what he’s posted.”
She stops at the door and turns to face me. “You’re a smart woman. You’ll figure it out.”
RUSH
“AFTER ALL THAT FUCKING WORK to get you back here and that’s how you play your first match of the season?” Louie asks from where he’s leaning against his car parked next to mine. “Did playing with the Americans rob you of your skills? Did they taint you?” He mock shivers, but his grin and our history together tells me he’s joking.
“Sod off. I was rusty.”
“Rusty?” he says with a snort. “Bush league is more like it.”
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It’s an American term. I’m surprised you didn’t learn it while you were busy shagging that agent broad.” I lift a middle finger in response. “What gives, mate? You sign a big contract and then decide to suck?”
“I’ll tell you what you can suck all right.” I laugh.
“Is that it? Do we need to hire someone to suck you off before the next game to take the edge off? Whatever you need, I’m at your service.” He salutes.
“It’s definitely not you I’d be looking for service from.” I chuckle. “Besides, I don’t think anyone can provide what I need.”
“What’s that?” he asks, and as I stand inside my open car door and stare at him, I shouldn’t be surprised at the answer, but I am.
Knowing the answer, really, but there’s nothing anyone can do about it.
But fuck, I miss her.
“Nothing. I gotta get home. I have shit to do.”
“Hey? You okay? You know I was joking, right?”
I meet the eyes of one of my closest friends and nod. “I’m good. And you’re right, I was rusty. Tomorrow’s another day to improve.”
“Ha. You should tattoo that shit somewhere.”
“Maybe I will.” I laugh and raise a hand. “Later, Louie.”
“See you tomorrow.”
When I slide behind the wheel and rev the engine to life, I should be replaying the game in my head like I typically do. What I can do better next time. How I was beat down the line on that one breakaway. Why my headers are veering too far right.
But I don’t think a fucking thing, because I’m too busy fucking missing Lennox.
Too busy hating myself for scouring the crowd tonight in the odd hopes that she’d show up for my first game.
Too preoccupied realizing that she’s already moved on, while I’m stuck here like a fucking sap.
Could I get laid to help me get over her?
Of course I could.
Do I want to?
No.
I’m still hung up on Lennox.
Scratch that.
I’m in love with Lennox Kincade.
LENNOX
“DAD? WHAT ARE YOU DOING here?” I ask when I see him standing on my doorstep.
“Figured I’d come and see if your suitcases were packed,” he says as he walks into my place.
“Suitcases?” I ask.
“You’re getting restless again,” he says with a soft smile. “I figured you’d be itching to go somewhere.”
“Suitcases are still stacked empty in the closet.” I motion in a sweeping gesture around my family room.
“Why?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask as he takes a seat on my couch.
“You’re not happy. You wander when you’re not happy.”
Out of reflex I reach up and finger the charm on my necklace. “It’s not that I’m not happy. It’s just that I’m . . .”
“Scared.”
“Scared?” I cough the word out. “Scared of what?”
“Of showing up in England with your bags packed, and finding out he’s not as in love with you as you and your family thinks he is. Of telling us you’re going there and worrying that we’ll think you’re crazy. Of doing what you need to do out of your loyalty for the company.”
I stare at my dad, slowly realizing I’m nodding at everything he’s saying.
“It’s okay to love him, Lennox. I’d never be mad at you for loving him. What I’d be mad at is if you didn’t follow through to see if it’s real.” He leans forward and picks up a framed picture on my end table of me with my mom before she died. “What I’d hate is for you to look back on this moment in ten, fifteen, twenty years, and wonder what if.”
“What are you telling me, Dad?” So many thoughts and hopes are colliding inside of me.
“I’m not telling you anything. I’m sitting here waiting to listen to what you have to tell me.”
“Who said I have something to tell you?” I ask, amazed that he knows.
“The way you hang around the conference room a little longer waiting for your sisters to leave but they never do. The way you come in early only to find one of the girls have too.” He sets
the picture down. “So, what is it that you want to tell me?”
“You’re right, I’m restless.”
He nods in response.
“And miserable.” I twist my fingers together. “I can work from anywhere, really. That’s the beauty of this job. And so, what if I head to the UK for a bit to play this out and see if this thing between us is legitimate? Like it’s actually real and stronger now that we’re back to our everyday lives versus the bubble of Johnny’s house.”
“Go on.”
“And if it is, if things with Rush just keep getting better . . . isn’t it time KSM opens a satellite office somewhere? There’s a whole market we’ve yet to tackle over there. I’ve done some research that I can send over to you. Data on the number of players, the other agents I’d be competing against. Of course, I’d keep my current caseload. It would give me an excuse to come home and see you guys often and . . .” My words fade off and I stop talking, as I suddenly feel shy now that I’m voicing the silly fantasy I’ve been concocting every night when I go to bed.
That I’d call Rory and he’d tell me where to find Rush. That way I could show up in Liverpool or wherever Rush lives undetected. I’d surprise him and we’d still be so madly in love that we’d vow never to part. I’d open a small office and would work my way into the football industry there until KSM has a foothold in that market.
“You’re not responding, Dad.”
“What happens if you get there and set up shop and get restless again? You’d be the person in charge there. It’s a lot harder to run when you have that level of responsibility, Lenn.”
“I won’t run.”
“And how do you know this?”
“Because I found my home in Rush, Dad. He’s the one who quiets my restlessness.”
A slow, bittersweet smile slides onto his face. He blinks back tears I pretend not to see. “That’s all the answer I need.”
RUSH
THE PUB IS SLOW FOR a Thursday night, but it’s exactly what I need to quiet my head and take a step back.
We’re three games into the season and the pressure has obviously gotten to me, because I’m not playing up to par like I should be.
