Superstar

by J Santiago

  “Yeah, I was corback.”

  “Corback, huh? Why didn’t you let Tank play quarterback? You know, that’s his job.”

  “But Papa said he chokes,” Alexis told her.

  Amber couldn’t stop the snicker her baby sister had startled out of her.

  For the first time, she glanced up and met Tank’s eyes from across the kitchen. He was staring at her the way she’d been drooling over him earlier in the day. She recognized that heated gaze that was heavy with future possibilities. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. She wanted him to look at her like that every day, to see her and know every dream could be found with her. He walked to her, trancelike, as if he were on some mission he had to fulfill. When he was a couple of inches away from her and the As, he dipped his head between the three of them and dropped a sweet kiss on her mouth. She almost combusted at the enchanted moment.

  “Hi,” he murmured.

  “Hey,” she managed to get out.

  Tank stepped back from her but not before Alexis launched herself into his arms. Amber pushed her nose into Andy’s neck, inhaling the sweet fragrance of little boy sweat mixed with grass. He giggled, and the sound grounded her. Pulling away, she looked around the room, and she saw that Franco and Molly wore identical expressions of wonder.

  Tank leisurely ran his hand along the planes of Amber’s back, loving the feel of her pliant, smooth skin under the ministrations of his touch. Tucked up under his chin, she sprawled along the length of his body, her left leg bent across his hip and her right aligned with his. They’d been a tangle of limbs throughout the night, reluctant to leave the cocoon they’d woven.

  “I love being able to touch you.” There was nothing overtly sexual in his delicate tracings, more just an appreciation for his ability to actually do it.

  Amber snickered. “Skype wearing thin already?”

  He pinched her on the hip. “Funny.”

  “What are we doing today?” she asked.

  “Feel like working out with me?”

  Amber pushed up onto her right arm, peering at him. The look on her face told him all he needed to know.

  “Yes. Are we swimming?”

  “No. I want to throw.”

  She wrinkled her brow, her displeasure as obvious as her interest only seconds before. “I’m a shitty target.”

  Tank feigned shock. “Sunshine, are you trying to tell me that you can’t catch a ball?”

  She scoffed at him and dropped heavily upon his chest. His hands found their places, little magnets drawn to the coves of her body.

  “I can catch, just can’t run very fast,” she mumbled, like he didn’t know her running ability was hampered by her the ankle she shattered in the accident.

  His fingers trailed down, offering comfort with the easy touch.

  He nuzzled the top of her head, peppering it with kisses. “You know I just like to get you on the football field.” He rolled them over and trapped her body, gathering her hands in one of his and pulling them up above her head. His mouth latched on to the scarred tissue under her ear, and he gave an exaggerated suck, eliciting a giggle and wiggle from her body.

  “Shit, that tickles,” she gasped out as he continued to tease her.

  “You, on a football field?” He nipped and sucked his way over to her mouth. “So damn hot.” He lifted his head so that they were looking at each other.

  “Oh,” she said, understanding dawning, “this is to fulfill some fantasy you have.”

  “I’ve had to get creative over the last four weeks,” he explained plaintively.

  “I’m sure you have. Not used to waiting for what you want, huh?” she teased.

  “I’ve been waiting years for you,” he stated, the mood suddenly shifting from light and playful to intense and heavy.

  They stared at each other. Tank knew she was trying to figure him out. It wasn’t about if he was being honest. Him wanting her seemed to be a universal truth, like one plus one equals two. And she wasn’t measuring his desire. Whatever she was seeking, he wanted her to find it. He wanted to be a playbook she could easily decipher.

  She looked away from him, and he let her.

  He dropped his scruff-covered chin to her collarbone, gently rubbing against it, making her squirm. Her head moved back and forth, attempting to dislodge him.

  “Tank!” she exclaimed on a laugh. “Stop, please.”

  When he looked up at her, their eyes connected, the seriousness of his last statement evaporating in the silliness of the moment.

  Tank dropped a quick kiss on her lips before springing his next bombshell on her. “After we work out, lunch with my mom?” he said like a question even though he had no intention of letting her get out of it. Then, he released her hands and rolled off of her. “I’m going to shower,” he stated, escaping quickly.

  He should have stayed, taken the brunt of her refusals. But, instead, he hightailed it into the bathroom, leaving Amber alone with her thoughts about his plans. He needed to play all of his cards, to add up all the deficits for her.

  Chantel Jones would be a problem. As much as he loved and respected his mother, she did not approve of Amber Johnson. He didn’t have to think hard to remember his mother’s shock when he’d introduced her to Amber. Just closing his eyes, he could practically feel the bite of the tension in the air. In the aftermath of everything that had happened on that fateful day, he sometimes glossed over his mother’s reaction to Amber. He didn’t mean to keep pushing Amber’s limits with little things. But he had to address this part because the two women in his life needed to get along.

  He hadn’t been exactly forthcoming with Chantel. There were things you shared and many you didn’t. His guilt and remorse over his actions toward Amber stayed hidden away, buried deep under the persona he’d erected. Chantel knew things had gone bad. She also knew Tank had wallowed in the outcome of those events. She, like no one else but Tilly, could see the shadow of sadness underneath the veneer of greatness. Had she known the whole story, Chantel would have undoubtedly championed Amber. But, with just smatterings of truths and a host of evasions, she could only see her son’s sorrow and hurt. Holding Amber accountable for a morose Tank seemed the only course of action. Chantel and Tank hadn’t spoken of any of it, but Tank knew his reunion with Amber was not something his mother was likely to celebrate.

  To make matters worse, Chantel loved Madison. On paper, Madison was perfect for him. She was brilliant, funny, connected, and African-American. No matter how many times he’d attempted to explain the relationship they shared, Chantel had been secretly—perhaps not so secretly—hoping for Tank to make his relationship with Madison official. Madison was Chantel’s choice for Tank.

  “Like follows like,” she was fond of saying.

  But how could he explain to his mother that there wouldn’t, couldn’t be anyone else for him?

  Chantel had called him when the pictures of him and Amber in the park surfaced.

  “Is it her?” she had asked, like she’d been waiting for it.

  When he affirmed Amber’s identity, Chantel didn’t spout off and warn him away. She knew better than to try to sway him. She didn’t tell him to be careful or to think about what had happened last time.

  He heard something like a, “Harrumph,” on the other end of the phone and just managed to hold back a smile.

  That was why her parting words, “Don’t hold out hope for something that’s never going to happen,” irritated him.

  Turning on the shower, Tank stepped into the spray, wondering what today might look like. He scrubbed vigorously, washing away a layer of guilt. He knew Amber needed to trust him again. But, as he let the scalding water wash over him, he wondered if maybe he needed to absolve himself of the guilt he felt for his actions and for what had followed.

  The door to the shower opened behind him, and he waited. Amber stepped to him, her arms wrapping around him as the front of her body molded to the back of his. Her hands rested on his abs. She didn’t speak, an
d he didn’t try to make her. He laced his fingers through hers and held on, enjoying her feel. Most often, be it the distance between them or the complete lust he experienced when he saw her, their touches led somewhere. A kiss to a deeper one, a caress to a flame, a lick to a taste. All morning in his bed, his touches had been explorations and chartings, familiarity and knowledge. Wrapped in her arms right now, he experienced an unfamiliar intimacy. Immobilized by the warmth spreading throughout him, he tried to hold on to the swirling emotions, to keep it all within his sights, a moment to savor. Without words, she communicated some point to him, and if he concentrated, he’d get it. Her fingers tightened around his, and he wondered if she was agreeing without a fight.

  Did she sense, as he did, that they stood on the proverbial cliff, poised to step over the edge?

  The last time he’d suggested she meet his mother they’d butted heads, both testing their respective boundaries. He conjured the look of horror on her face and bit back a smile at the memory. He’d always pushed her. Even when he’d deliberately pushed her away, he believed she’d come back to him. When she didn’t, he was genuinely, shockingly hurt. But, really, what right did he have to that?

  He couldn’t spend their lives constantly thinking he needed to make it up to her. His thoughts drifted back to the night they’d been together in his kitchen when sex had been about distance, not intimacy. If he wanted a future with Amber, he needed to find a way for both of them to move beyond the past.

  Playing with Tank on a football field made the idea of having lunch with Chantel Jones something Amber could live with. Tank the athlete should have been a persona she knew, someone she was familiar with. But, as they traversed the field, a cloak of focus descended between them. Amber became part of the background of his workout.

  A little unnerved, she wondered if there was anything, any activity in the universe, that was so engaging she could cease to see, feel, or hear Tank Howard. If it existed, she’d love to explore it, so she could escape him, even for a moment—like during this weekend. Tank overwhelmed her, made her want so much more for them.

  She thought about Molly’s unexpected job information the day before. Any decision she made today would bring her closer to Tank, so she shrugged it off, putting it away to contemplate when she could achieve some physical distance.

  Tank sauntered toward the bin holding the footballs. He picked one up, flipping it around. Even from where she stood on the other side of the field, she could see the ball dance on his fingers. She pictured those fingers moving along her skin, digging in, and heat flooded her face. Grateful for the space between them, she turned, hiding her embarrassed smile. For her, just the thought of him was enough to make her blush, enough to have her rethinking her life.

  “Sunny,” Tank called across the expanse of the field. She turned back to him when he yelled, “Catch,” and sent a ball on a perfect trajectory.

  She barely had time to put her hands up before it was upon her. The sting of the ball hitting her hands could have made her drop it, but she held on, mostly to maintain her dignity. She wouldn’t have heard the end of it if she’d dropped it. She glanced down at the ball and looked up in triumph. But Tank was already on her, his hands gripping her at the waist, as he half-tackled her to the ground. He pillowed her head with his hands, cradling her skull, absorbing any impact. But he couldn’t quite hold himself away from her. His leg slid between hers as he hugged her to him, rolling over so that she was above him.

  “Nice catch,” he commented, his smile radiant.

  “Did you mean to throw it so hard?”

  He grinned his answer before he leaned up and nipped at her bottom lip. “I knew you’d be ready.”

  “Like I’m ready to have lunch with your mom?” she quipped before she could think better of it.

  “I had dinner with your dad last night,” he reminded her.

  Rolling her eyes, she moved off of him and dropped to her back on the turf. He turned to face her and pushed up onto his elbow, so all she could see was a backlit Tank, haloed by the sun. She almost scoffed at the image of an angelic Tank.

  Tearing her eyes away, her gaze settled on his shoulder. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to spend time with Chantel. On the contrary, she wanted to get to know her, to pick her brain, to discern the secrets to Tank. But, much like the invitation he’d offered her all those years ago, it felt premature.

  He traced the outline of her mouth before his callous hand cupped her jaw, the hardened patches somehow comforting her. His thumb swept her mouth. And she forgot what she’d been thinking about.

  “Look at me,” he said gently.

  She met his gaze.

  “Lunch is probably not going to be fun. She’s either going to subtly ignore you, making you uncomfortable, or she’s going to grill you, making you uncomfortable. I can never tell. But you’re going to be a part of my life, and she is a part of my life. I want to start to connect the two.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she murmured. “I got it.”

  He gave her a half-smile. “I know you do.” He leaned down, his mouth hovering. “I have total faith in you,” he said.

  And she knew he meant it.

  His lips brushed against hers, more a touch than a kiss. “We gotta go,” he whispered, the vibrations ghosting along her mouth.

  She pushed up and kissed him, hard to his soft. He climbed to his feet and held out his hand to her. When she twined her fingers with his, he tugged, and she was suddenly on her feet. They walked off the field together, the footballs forgotten, the moment heavy.

  They quickly reached the car, and the nerves Amber had held at bay came rushing back. All of her self-talk about taking this slow and concentrating on sex washed away like a wooden bridge in a roaring flood. She was thinking about leaving a job she loved for an unknown quantity. She was actually contemplating relocating. Casual had left the building a long time ago.

  So, what was a little lunch with the mother of the man sitting next to her?

  If she could think about moving, whether or not the job was potentially perfect for her, she could certainly handle lunch with Chantel Jones.

  Lunch with Chantel Jones was a disaster from the moment Tank and Amber walked into the restaurant.

  They’d left themselves enough time to clean up after Tank’s workout. But showering together wasn’t the best idea, and by the time they got out and dressed, they were late. Tank’s tension filled the car, an unpleasant odor of suppressed nerves permeating the drive. It left Amber on edge. The restaurant was another eclectic café. The old, converted house had crown molding and a coffered ceiling. Amber studied the building as Tank pulled her through the restaurant to a four-top table off in a corner where Chantel waited with an aggravated look on her face.

  “You’re late,” was the auspicious greeting.

  Amber’s hope for a pleasant meeting dimmed.

  Tank merely smiled. He pulled a chair out for Amber before greeting his mother with a kiss to her cheek. “I was practicing,” he said, a light tone that was in direct opposition to the heaviness of the mood in the car.

  Amber appreciated his ability to defer but felt the color in her cheeks heighten as she thought about why they were truly late. He might have been practicing a different position in the shower because they’d left the field in plenty of time.

  “You remember Amber,” he introduced. His knowing smile in Amber’s direction told her that he had picked up on her blush.

  “Hi, Miss Jones.” She stumbled over her greeting, deciding in a split second between Chantel, Miss Jones, or Mrs. Jones. Complicated salutation. Complicated past. Complicated present. Amber maintained eye contact, almost daring Chantel to rebuff her.

  “Nice to see you again,” Tank’s mom said.

  Somehow, Amber knew it was genuine.

  They made small talk while they looked over the menu, while they waited for their food, while they ate. Amber settled in, belatedly feeling stupid for the angst she’d harbored for meeting Chantel.
This was nothing like she’d imagined.

  Tank leaned forward and pulled his phone from his pocket. Amber watched as Chantel grimaced, her displeasure apparent.

  “Hawk,” Tank offered as an explanation. “Be right back,” he said before he stood and walked toward the door at the front of the restaurant.

  Amber continued to study Chantel, whose gaze remained locked on Tank’s retreating form. Here, she appeared more demure than Amber remembered. Maybe her memory was tainted, but the day they’d met in the tunnel, Chantel seemed like she was six feet tall. Now, Amber knew Chantel was actually a couple of inches shorter than she was. She had beautiful almond-shaped eyes that reminded Amber of Tank. Her black slacks and silk shell were classy. Amber wondered if she always dressed so formally, but then it dawned on her that it was Sunday, and Chantel had likely come from church.

  “Come to any conclusions?” Chantel’s voice snapped, catching Amber off guard.

  Amber’s eyes jumped up to meet Chantel’s angry gaze. “No, I really haven’t.”

  “About my son, too, if I’ve read the situation right.”

  Amber leaned back in her chair, relief coursing through her. This was what she’d expected, primed for on the ride over. Amber didn’t want to play coy, but she was so tempted. “You’re correct,” she said instead.

  “He has to get down on his knees for you to forgive him and move on?”

  Amber wished she knew the answer to that question herself. She fought off the urge to shrug and roll her eyes. “I haven’t quite figured that out,” she answered more honestly than she’d intended, Chantel’s stare like a truth serum.

  “You probably need to get to figuring that out. Tank’s too good of a man to have to prove himself over and over again.” Chantel’s gaze never deviated from Amber’s, issuing a challenge.

  Amber contemplated asking if Chantel knew what Tank had done, but she found that she couldn’t conjure up any of the residual anger she’d clung to for so long. Finally, Amber glanced away, searching for Tank, hoping he would come through the door and save her from this conversation.