by J Santiago
“How did you end up so drunk?”
“Girls’ night. What can I say?” She shrugged before breaking out into a peal of giggles.
“I don’t think I want any details.”
She reached up, patted his cheek, and winked at him. “It’s probably better that way.” She moved to sit, clutching the sheet to her chest. “So, are there any plans for the engagement?”
Tank felt squirrelly all of a sudden. “Yeah,” he answered, hoping to keep the anxious anticipation out of his voice. “Next Friday night.”
“That’s quick.”
“Yeah, it’s just a party. Nothing crazy. You know, Keira is pretty low-key.”
“Don’t tell me they’re doing something at the Bear’s Den?” she asked, incredulity in her voice.
Tank managed to laugh. “Not the Bear’s Den—although I am sure that was her first thought. But I offered up my house, so we’re going to do something here.”
“I wanna help. I’ve got a great caterer who can do amazing things on short notice. We can stock the bar and do some small favors. I can make it seem like it’s been planned for months.”
Tank hesitated. He’d already known it would come to this. If he had written a script on how this conversation was going to go, he’d have nailed it. There was really no way to get out of having her act as the hostess for this party. “Thanks. But don’t you have an assignment next weekend?”
“I can move some stuff around.”
“Okay.” It was easier to agree. Although it might complicate things, he wasn’t sure he could face this part of his past without her unwavering support.
“What does the guest list look like?”
“Exactly what you think it looks like.”
She smirked, and he knew she was remembering the last time he’d had to attend an event of this nature. He’d blocked the memory for the better part of the last two years. He didn’t appreciate the knowing look in her eye. Things had been different between them then, so she’d handled her discovery in stride. He vaguely wondered what she’d think about a similar situation now. The knowing gleam she sent his way annoyed him.
Tank stood up, not really caring about her feelings in the moment. “I’m going to make some coffee.”
He left his second-story bedroom, walking into the hallway.
When he’d signed his contract three years ago, he’d made two purchases—a modest town house and an outrageous car. He’d fallen in love with the new complex being built in the Oakhurst part of Decatur. The three-story homes were modern, sleek, and roomy enough for his needs. On his agent’s advice, he’d bought two of the units and merged them. His top floor was split in half—part open deck, part playroom with a pool table, dartboard, and a TV large enough to take up one whole wall. The roll-up doors he’d installed gave it a loft-like feel. He loved the place. Though he’d bought it as a slightly anonymous owner, even his growing fame and recognition hadn’t changed the way his neighbors viewed him. The close-knit community treated him like the guy they’d met when he moved in.
As he turned on the coffeemaker, he found himself speculating on what she would think of the place. The errant thought aggravated him. Suddenly impatient, he yanked open the cabinet above his head, grabbed a mug, pulled the pot from beneath the steady stream of steaming coffee, and filled the cup directly from the drip.
He trudged up the two flights of stairs to his third-floor loft. Throwing himself on the couch, he flipped on the TV and stared at it sightlessly.
Over the last week, he’d found himself thinking about Amber Johnson a lot. He blamed it on the inadvertent viewing of Signing Day coverage, but in reality, the triggered thoughts were numerous and random. Like the way his head coach would look at him sometimes or when he saw supply closets or the green and silver colors of his alma mater. It really didn’t take that much once he let himself think about her. Like a favorite, poignant scene in a book, his brain seemed to be earmarked on the moment at the wedding when she’d ended up slamming into his body as she exited the restroom.
He could conjure it at will, remembering the split second they had settled into the embrace, their bodies reacting for them before their hearts could protest.
Her hands spread out on his chest, her fingers gently caressing, testing reality. He moved closer to her, and his steadying hands on her hips flexed. He’d been covertly watching her all day. He knew her hair was longer, her confidence stronger. He could tell by the way she held herself that she’d gotten more comfortable with her scars, more at ease with herself.
“Hi,” he murmured. Then, he wanted to kick himself for the lame opening.
She immediately stepped back. Looking above him, maybe for divine intervention, she reached up, gathered her hair, and pulled it over her right shoulder, covering her scar.
Tank looked away from the motion, hurt by her discomfort with him.
“Hey,” she returned finally, her gaze meeting his. “How are you?”
“Good.”
“Congratulations on the Rookie of the Year honors.”
“Thanks.”
The awkwardness of the stilted conversation threw him. They’d never been awkward, even when trading insults in the beginning.
“Well, it’s, uh, good to see you, but I should get back. I’m sure I’m supposed to be doing something.” She took another step backward, putting more distance between them.
He almost let her walk away, but as she turned, he reached out, grabbing her hand. The jolt of desire raced through both of them, a convergence of need. Amber inhaled sharply, and Tank noted the pulse point beating in her neck.
His fingers moved without his acknowledgment, clasping her around the nape of her neck, his thumb finding its spot on the scarred skin of her jaw. Her eyes glazed over, and she shook her head—to deny what was between them, he guessed.
“Don’t walk away yet,” he begged. He heard the desperation in his voice and wondered where in the hell it’d come from.
Tank had never had to beg for anything. But this damn girl seemed to be the one thing he wanted but couldn’t have.
She tugged against the hand holding hers—maybe attempting to break their connection, but he couldn’t be sure. And, because he didn’t want to know, he moved closer to her.
“Not yet,” he whispered in her ear as he ran his nose along the perfect line of her neck. When she didn’t resist, he placed kisses down the column before dragging his nose against her scar. “I can’t believe I forgot your scent,” he whispered, his voice rough with longing.
She’d been passive until, suddenly, she wasn’t. Her hands came up to coast over his closely sheared head. Her body followed as she gave in to the same urge that had driven him to grab her hand.
Suddenly flush, their bodies molded together, he finally moved his mouth to meet hers. He sank into the kiss, not allowing her any space or options for escape. His tongue pushed against her lips, begging for the second time tonight for her to allow him something she seemed determined to withhold. But, this time, she acquiesced quickly, capitulating absolutely. He couldn’t hold on to a thought as he got lost in the depths of her mouth. He wanted to sink into her completely, to lose himself in her like he hadn’t been able to do with any other woman since her.
He slowly ended the kiss. He rested his forehead on hers, working to catch his breath. She fidgeted before seeking space.
They both glanced about, aware of the empty hallway directly outside of the restroom where, at any moment, someone might see them. It didn’t matter to him, but he could tell she was bothered by it. Before she had a chance to end what they’d both willingly started, he searched for somewhere private. He couldn’t see anything directly around them, so he grabbed ahold of her hand and pulled her to the other end of the hall where he turned into the massive lobby. He looked for a door, someplace he could get her alone.
“That’s what the descent into the bottom of that bottle was about?” Madison’s voice pulled Tank from his reverie.
He r
efocused on the TV, hoping to appear enthralled by the edition of SportsCenter playing in front of him. Slowly, he took a sip of his coffee before he looked up at her. “What?” he questioned, feigning confusion, like he didn’t have any idea what she was talking about. But he knew. God, he knew, and yes, he wanted to shout, Yes, I drained a bottle of tequila so that I wouldn’t have to think about Amber Johnson walking into my house.
“Amber will be here, right?” Madison settled herself on the arm of the couch.
He shifted uncomfortably before finally looking at her. “Possibly. Tilly wasn’t sure.”
Madison’s eyes narrowed. “You’re full of shit. There’s no way she’d miss Keira and Tilly’s engagement party.”
His shoulders lifted in an involuntary shrug, one born of staunch denial and fading indifference. “I’m sure she’ll make it. Along with Steele and Iman. Franco and Molly. Keira’s family. Twenty to twenty-five people, tops.”
Madison looked away from him, toward the open loft. She lifted her finger, the manicured pink tip tapping against the glossy surface of her lip in a cadence of calculation. “You know what that means?” she asked, cutting her eyes back, a glint of mischief on her face.
He cocked his head, bracing himself. “Nah. What does it mean?”
“We’d better lock all the closet doors.”
With a groan, his head fell back to the couch in defeat.
When Tank had purchased his house he’d viewed it as an investment property, one he’d unload when the time was right. The clean lines of the space, the nonintrusive neighbors, and his access to the city outweighed the lack of a yard. He’d worked with the architect to build exactly what he wanted, and since he’d moved in, it had become his haven.
In the last ten days though, as Madison had been preparing for Keira and Tilly’s engagement party, his home had become a place he wanted to escape. When the day arrived, Tank realized it was more than the commotion in his house that had been making him antsy; it was the thought of Amber attending the party.
It had been almost exactly two years since they saw or talked to each other. He supposed the time in between had dulled their last interaction. And it had. He hadn’t thought about her in a long time. But, with the impending encounter, he found himself thinking about her—often.
Their lives were totally intermeshed. Amber’s father was his coach. Her best friend, Keira, was marrying one of his closest friends, Tilly. And his other close friend Steele worked with her. Tank had a suspicion that Amber and Steele were much closer than he’d let on.
Tank might have skipped out on a couple of invitations when the likelihood of seeing her was involved, but with their many connections, he was amazed they had been able to avoid each other for such a long time and that he’d skillfully dodged any conversations about her. He wouldn’t be surprised if their friends had made a pact after Franco’s wedding to not mention Amber to him. He didn’t know if she had a boyfriend, how she was doing at her job, or if her injuries from the accident had stopped taking a toll on her.
Amber Johnson existed in the vacuum of his past.
And, now, he wanted to know about her.
Grabbing his iPad from the docking station in his office, he stepped out into the kitchen and sat at the counter. Protein shake in hand, he opened Facebook. He didn’t have an account anymore because his team’s publicity department handled his social media. In a moment he could only label as insanity, he typed her name into the Search bar. And he got thousands of results, but none of them were her.
Must still not like social media.
He grinned, liking that he still knew at least one thing about her. But it only made him curious about other things. It was an impossible situation. He knew the people closest to her, but he couldn’t ask any of them one single thing about her. Not what car she drove or what her address was or if she had a boyfriend.
He rubbed his hand over his head, trying to erase his thoughts. Agitated, he stood. Checking the time, he jogged upstairs to change into workout clothes. Grabbing his phone, he texted Steele.
Tank: ETA?
Steele: 15 minutes.
Tank: Hope you’re ready to hit the gym.
Knowing he wouldn’t be sitting around for much longer helped him relax. He definitely wanted to be absent when Madison’s posse arrived, and if that meant leaving Steele to fend for himself, Tank would.
In his first off-season a couple of years ago, Tank had started swimming. One of the athletic trainers had suggested it as a way to keep in shape and expand his cardiovascular capabilities. He tried it and loved it, partly because it challenged him. He’d never been a strong swimmer, so he took some lessons, learning the proper techniques.
No matter how much swimming he had done, it never came naturally to him. He had to work at it, talk himself through it. The monotony of his internal dialogue—Stroke, stroke, breathe, stroke—enabled him to escape from the constant barrage of thoughts in his head.
Had a bad game? An hour of swimming allowed him new perspective on what he’d done wrong.
Got a random phone call from his absentee father? Breathe, stroke. Richard Howard who?
Lost the AFC Championship Game in spectacular fashion?
Well, swimming hadn’t quite eased the ego-bashing of that game.
But, as he lowered himself into the tepid water, he hoped to achieve a level of blissful thoughtlessness today to specifically drown out the thoughts of Amber. He didn’t want to rehash their last encounter. His one stumble through the portal of the past had been enough for him.
Steele followed him into the pool, jumping in to douse himself rather than the slow dip Tank preferred. He watched as Steele began his laps before joining him.
Tank liked to think he was solely responsible for convincing Steele to include swimming in his rehab regime.
Tank had been watching the game when Steele suffered the break to his femur that would end his career. He often wondered what the families of the injured players went through when the sports channels made the call to continually show the plays over and over again.
Tank had seen Steele go down, and before they even went back for the replay, he knew it was bad; the unnatural angle of the hit, the gangly fall, the prolonged inertness as Steele lay on the ground. But, on the replay, Tank swallowed the bile that had collected in his throat. And, as they continued to show it, to analyze it, Tank sat in horrified silence, his thoughts racing, his heart pounding.
If he’d been able to, he’d have been on a plane. But he was in his rookie season, on a road trip, too far away to get to Steele and hold his hand and ease his worries. Instead, he called Franco, who had called the team doctors, who’d made sure Steele would have the best of everything. Because Steele had come from absolutely nothing, and there was no one who could be in his corner when the horror of his future crystallized.
When Tank was able, he showed up at the hospital with information and options. He talked Steele through his recovery, then his rehab, and then his choices for his future.
Some strange twist of fate had put Lamarcus Steele in the path of Amber Johnson. And, while Tank and Steele could and did talk about anything, share everything, she was never part of the discussion.
Stroke, stroke, breathe, stroke.
They swam for an hour. Then, after they rinsed off and changed, they did some light weights. By the time they were finished, they were pleasantly tired and very hungry.
Tank drove them back to his home and parked, suggesting they walk to the pizza joint around the corner from his house. After they placed their order, they sat back in a booth and talked.
“Where are you headed to first when you can get back on the road?” Tank inquired.
“New Jersey, believe it or not. There’s this player in Elizabeth that our Director of Ops thinks could be a good fit.” Steele delivered this with a straight face and a direct look.
“Really?” Tank said, crossing his arms over his chest. “Director of Ops.”
Steele r
eturned his stare, not batting an eye. “Yeah.”
“You can say her name, you know.”
Steele cocked his head to the side. “Whose name?” he deadpanned.
“You’re fucking funny.”
Chuckling, Steele leaned back against the seat. “I’m just messing with you. Amber is all over this kid. Thinks he can be a player!”
“What do you think?”
“I think I trust her instincts.”
Tank wasn’t surprised. Amber was a football savant. Her analysis was spot-on—and not for a woman, for anyone. If she thought someone had talent, he would trust her, too.
Tank played with the wrapper of the straw, winding it over his finger, only to unwind it and do it all over again. He felt Steele studying him and looked up. “I’d trust her, too. She knows football.”
“She does.”
Neither of them said anything for a moment, the first awkward pause in their friendship.
“We’re pretty—” they spoke at the same time, “You guys are—”
“We’re tight,” Steele admitted.
“I know,” Tank confirmed.
The waitress delivered their food, interrupting their conversation. Serving up the pizza, they inhaled the first piece before Steele picked up the conversation right where they’d left off.
“When she first showed up, I didn’t really know what to make of her. She didn’t seem like she was the same person you’d lost your head over.”
“Interesting way to describe it,” Tank muttered.
“You know what I mean. You were riding high that year, and then, suddenly, you were in love. And it seemed weird to have her around. Anyway, we didn’t become friends until I started rehab. I liked to go early before the guys were there. I didn’t want to be around them. She worked out at the same time. We started talking, sharing war stories, and became friends.”
“She’s still rehabbing?” Tank couldn’t help but ask. It had been a long time since her accident.
