When Marc pulls away, my shoulders fall with disappointment.
“Time to go. Promise me a date when I get back?”
“Sure.”
Marc grins. “You definitely like me.”
“You just better hope I still do once you get back.”
His smile falters. “How concerned should I be?”
“Don’t be concerned; I was kidding.” I lift up one last time and kiss him. “Time to go.”
Marc takes a step back, opens my car door for me, and watches me leave. Once I arrive at work, I settle into my routine. I like my job. Over the years, it’s become familiar. There are regulars and I know their names. My workspace is organized with everything in its place. The time passes slowly as usual until it’s time for my lunch break.
When Sylvia called yesterday and she found out Marc was over, she made me promise to have lunch with her. I’m not looking forward to it, especially since I think I like Marc. Sylvia will spot it a mile away. She’ll be over the moon happy. Who knows what to expect after her squeal of excitement or whatever she’ll do? Then, she’ll tell Scott.
Just thinking about it is making me feel bad again. I don’t necessarily feel guilty for liking him because I know Roger would want me to be happy, but it feels wrong to like, want, and be with anyone who isn’t Roger.
Wait.
Let me correct myself.
It mostly feels wrong to be with Marc when he’s not standing near me. When he’s close, I’m too distracted by him to dwell on it. It’s only when I’m alone that I start to rethink everything. Not to mention, there is guilt that I deal with on a daily basis. No one can help me with that, though. I shove that thought out of my head because it’s only a downward spiral from there.
“Lizzy?”
I snap out of my trance and turn at the sound of Sylvia’s voice. I’m standing outside of our favorite go-to breakfast and BBQ restaurant, Bagels and Butts. Faintly, I wonder if Marc even knows what our version of BBQ is and if he calls it that or pulled pork or if he has some other name for it. I hug my coat tighter since the wind seems to be particularly bitter and sharp today. “Hey. Let’s go on in since you’re late.”
She loops her arm through mine as we walk in. “How’s it going with Marc? Oh! You’re blushing! That has to be a good thing.”
“Two, please,” I tell the hostess, ignoring Sylvia. I’m relieved that we’re seated right away. It can be super busy and with Sylvia being late, the last thing I need is for us to have to wait for a table.
“What did you two do last night?”
I swallow hard and wish the waitress would hurry up and take our drink orders. “We had dinner with Noah and Meredith.”
“And then you went back to your house.” She waggles her eyebrows at me.
“Nothing happened.”
She rolls her eyes, no doubt thinking I’m lying. The waitress finally appears and we place our full order since it’s almost always the same. “Then what did y’all do?” she asks.
I find an interesting spot on the table. There’s no way I want to tell Sylvia we baked cakes. She’ll have a fit and blow it out of proportion.
“Lizzy, tell me.”
Sighing, I say, “We baked cakes. He wanted a bake-off.”
Sylvia’s jaw drops and she stares at me. This may be the first time I’ve ever seen her speechless. It’s starting to make me uncomfortable, so I start talking.
“He asked what my passion was, so I told him. Then he takes me to the grocery store, says we’re having a bake-off, and walks away from me to buy his own ingredients. I wasn’t too sure about it, but it didn’t suck.”
“That’s it? That’s all you have to say? He forced you to bake a cake, something you used to do almost once a week, and all you can say is it didn’t suck?”
“Yep.”
“Wow.” After a beat, she asks, “Are you happy?”
Now I’m the one rolling my eyes. “I haven’t even known him that long.”
“Yet he’s already made an impact.” I don’t comment on that and Sylvia doesn’t like silence, so she asks, “Are you going to try to work through your issues so you can see him play?”
I stiffen at the thought. My body immediately says there’s no fucking way that’s happening. My husband died on the ice while not playing professionally and she wants me to work through my panic attacks to watch another man play a pro game? She really has lost it. Instead of saying all of that, I repeat what Marc has told me. “He said he didn’t need a person to support him like you do Scott. That he doesn’t need to talk hockey with me or have me watch his games.”
Sylvia’s eyes widen with surprise. “Really?”
“That’s pretty much what he said. It shocked me too, but I’m not complaining.”
“Well, that’s good, I guess.”
“Do you think he actually means it?” Even Roger loved me coming to watch him fool around on the ice with his friends.
The waitress sets our food in front of us and Sylvia seems to take time to think about it. “That may be a better question for Scott. Maybe there are hockey players out there who don’t need that kind of thing.” However, she says it as if she doesn’t think such players exist.
That stays with me all day. The thought of watching a game sounds as tortuous as it was to attend the one I went to. The thought of doing that now or in the future sends my pulse skyrocketing and my lungs can’t decide if they want to go on strike or not. Even though I’m sure he won’t answer for a while, I send Marc a good luck text.
I’m sitting on my couch with some TV show on in the background, a slice of cake resting on the cushion next to me, and my laptop resting on my thighs. I go to the website for the team and first venture to the roster. Turns out, Marc is six feet three inches. He’s two inches shy of being a full foot higher than me. I can only imagine how he’d be a giant on the ice with the added height skates would give him. My cursor hovers over his name and I giggle as I click it. His photo is hilarious.
I’ve never seen him with such a straight face! It doesn’t even look like him. Why didn’t he smile? They can smile, can’t they? Marc without a smile on his face is as unnatural as it comes. I wonder why he didn’t smile. If he was going for the tough guy look, I think he failed simply because he looks so strange being smile-less.
Next, I check out the schedule. He’s in Texas tonight. The game has just started, it looks like. I wonder if that team is any good. I scroll up and see that the Rebels lost by three goals when they played them earlier in the season. Maybe they can do better this time around. If Marc can force me to bake a cake and enjoy it a little, if he can be completely supportive in his own little way, then I need to find a way to do the same for him.
An icon on the right catches my attention. You can listen to a broadcast of the game? That would be like watching it, right? Sort of? Close enough, I decide. I click on the icon, mute the TV, and suddenly, the booming voices of the broadcasters are coming from my laptop. Please don’t let my brain start visualizing what they’re saying. This can be my way of supporting Marc in a way that doesn’t cause me to completely freak the hell out.
“It’s not a great start for the Rebels. A bad line change leads to an early goal...”
Well, that sucks. Five minutes in, I realize I have a problem with listening because I’m easily distracted. My attention is dragged back to the game every time the announcers get riled up about something. The two guys are kind of funny too, and often go off on a tangent. It’s more enjoyable than I thought as long as I can pay attention.
It doesn’t help that it sounds like the Rebels are being crushed. Liam, their goalie, is doing the best he can. That, or the broadcasters really love him. The score at the end of the first is two-one, but no goals are scored in the second period, which is both good and bad for the Rebels.
“Ouch. That was a massive hit on Polinski along the boards, and he looks a bit shaken up,” one of the broadcasters says; I keep getting them mixed up.
“Yeah, and it lo
oks like he’s going down the tunnel.”
“Let’s hope he just needs a moment. The Rebels do not need to lose one of their best defensemen right now.”
Okay, that’s it. I close my laptop and un-mute my TV the second the broadcasters say he’s back on the bench. I don’t want to hear about a close call for a potential injury. Maybe I can’t do this. Yeah, I know injuries are possible, and no, I’m not overly worried that hockey will kill him. What happened to Roger was a freak accident. However, that doesn’t mean I can listen to how he may or may not be hurt. I don’t want to see him injured any more than I want to see him play a game. Frustrated with myself, I decide to go to bed early after eating another slice of cake. Maybe I won’t share it with anyone and eat it all myself.
The shrill ringing of my cell phone wakes me up. Who’s the fucking idiot calling me? The call ID display says it’s Marc. I don’t know whether to scream or smile.
“Do you know what time it is?” I snap as I answer, resting my head on my pillow again.
“I’m sorry.” Marc Polinski, the always smiling, will crack a joke in a heartbeat, always ready for a good time goofball, sounds defeated.
“Is everything okay?”
“Fine. I just wanted to talk to you.” He’s a terrible liar.
“You’re not hurt, are you?”
“What makes you think that?”
“Well, I decided to listen to the team’s radio until you apparently had a ‘massive’ hit. I couldn’t listen after that.”
“You don’t have to do that, Elizabeth,” he says softly. “I’ve told you—”
“Yes, I know what you said, but I’m not sure if I believe it.”
“You think I’m lying?” He sounds completely baffled, and it sucks that I’m making this a thing after he tried to get rid of my worries.
“Well, not really. I just felt bad, okay? So, I thought I would give it a chance. All I really want to know is if you were hurt or not. Answer me and then we can forget all about my stupid attempt at finding a way to support you.” Why do I try? Why am I even in this situation? I should’ve ignored his call.
“I’m not hurt.” And then, he says, “Thank you.”
His words stump me.
“For what?”
“For finding a way to support me. I meant what I said, though. You don’t need to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”
“Is that why you said it?” I blurt out.
“No,” he sighs. “How about we don’t talk abut this? How was your day?”
I welcome a change in subject. “It was good. I had lunch with Sylvia and rendered her speechless when I told her we baked cakes. That’s never happened before, so it was kinda cool.”
He chuckles. “That’s good. You know, you could probably hang out with Meredith too if you wanted. She and Sylvia are friends. Are you really a big fan of hers?”
“I didn’t stalk her or anything, but I liked watching her play on TV. She was a fantastic player. I still can’t believe I didn’t realize it was her. Is she really as nice as she seemed to be?”
“Yeah, she is. A lot of people thought she was either made up or Noah was an idiot.”
“Why?”
“He has her name tattooed on his chest, but he never talked about her. So, you can only imagine what people thought when they saw him, saw her name, but knew he wasn’t seeing anyone named Meredith. Or, if they didn’t know him, there was just a lot of mystery there, I guess. But now, she has his name tattooed on her and they’re together. It’s a bit of a bummer.”
I laugh. “Why is that?”
“Because I created an Instagram account for Noah, which he didn’t know about at first, but now he does and he’ll post sometimes, and they both start hashtagging about me being their third wheel when we’re out together. If I’m honest, it’s still fun being a third wheel, especially if I can annoy Noah while I’m at it.”
“Is there anyone else on the team you like to annoy?”
“No one is free from my awesome personality, but I might not bother some of them as much. Like, Captain Hook, for example. He’s a bit stiff. Never really know when not to bother him, so I pick and choose carefully. Then, there’s a young guy, Bruiser, he’s easy. He’s always on his phone, texting some girl, but always seems unhappy about it. Savage is too fucking steady to annoy, but he’s a cool guy and unlike Scotty’s Stella, his daughter, Ainsley, likes me.”
“Stella doesn’t like you?” I carefully ask.
“Well, you know she’s shy with people, right? I’ve been trying to win her over since I met her, and nothing. She ignores me. It particularly hurt when she had only met Meredith twice and that’s all it took to warm up to her. They’re like best friends now. It probably sounds bad to say, but I’m a little ticked with the little girl. What’s wrong with me? All kids love me, except her. She wants nothing to do with me. I don’t get it. What’s worse is it actually bothers me.”
I can’t help but laugh. “If it makes you feel better, Stella doesn’t particularly care for me either and I’m related to her.”
“Really?” Finally, he sounds like Marc again. He’s perked up and totally excited that Stella might not like me either.
“Don’t sound so excited!” I chastise while I laugh. “She doesn’t seem to love me as much as Stephanie does. Sometimes, I think she wonders why she has to tolerate me at all.”
“Do you see them often?”
“It just depends. I usually see them at least once a week, but I haven’t lately. Maybe I’ll get them this weekend. The girls like staying with Scott’s parents more than anyone else, so they get first babysitting dibs, unless they have something going on since they genuinely want them each time they’re asked.”
“That’s cool. I’m sure Stephanie will enjoy that if no one else. Do you want kids one day?”
So many answers rush forward, but none of them will do. What’s the best, most honest answer I can give him? Marc surprisingly doesn’t say anything when it takes me a minute to answer him. With a deep breath, I say, “I haven’t really given it much thought since Roger died.” That’s all I can say that’s one hundred percent honest. “You?”
“I love kids, but I’m not sure yet.”
“I think we’re supposed to have our lives figured out by now.”
He laughs. “I know you probably think I am, but it might surprise you that I’m just like you.”
“How so?”
“I’m not perfect either.”
That is what makes me grin. Maybe it’s because he didn’t add any more of his stupid lines, or because I don’t know. Maybe because that’s his way of admitting that he’s somehow screwed up, too. The thought makes me lose my smile. In what ways could he be screwed up? Maybe those stupid lines are a show. But, surely, his smile isn’t.
What if it sometimes is?
A trickle of fear begins to ice my veins. The reason I like Marc so much is because of those stupid lines and those smiles and that personality. What if there’s another version hidden underneath? I need to hold my breath and hope that he is perfect. I don’t know if I can handle someone else who is dysfunctional when I was drawn to seemingly overwhelming strength that I was sure could be found at his very core.
“Elizabeth? Are you falling asleep on me? You better not be, or I’ll be insulted and I might even cry.”
I force a laugh. “I’m not asleep. Yet,” I tease.
“I should let you go back to bed. It’s late here, so I know it’s late there. I just...” His voice trails off as if to confirm there’s a demon lurking behind his smile. “I just wanted to talk to you, and I’m glad I did.”
“Feel better?”
“Yes,” he answers simply.
“Me too.”
“I feel even better now.” I laugh, but he speaks again before I can. “Good night, Elizabeth.”
“Good night, Marco Polo.”
I hear him chuckle before he hangs up, and I wish we were video chatting, so I could’ve seen his
smile. Surprisingly, I fall asleep with ease even as I realize just how much I’ve come to like a man I wanted nothing to do with.
I MADE THE mistake of answering a call from my father. It’s the worst decision I’ve made in a while. Sometimes I feel guilty for how I feel toward him because he did raise me on his own when he could’ve given me away, but at some point, the gratefulness fades and all that’s left is this plywood on my shoulders that carries the heavy weight of anger and hatred in one pail and helplessness and responsibility in the other. It’s hard to balance the two when it comes to Francis Polinski.
Thank fuck for Elizabeth. I’ve talked to her every night this week, and hearing her voice is all it takes to make me feel a little better. She tells me about her day. I’d thought she’d tell me the same thing every day based on how mundane she makes her job sound, but she talks about different regulars. There’s an older gentleman who likes to go in and flirt with her. He brings her a cup of sweet tea every time. There’s a woman who likes to talk about what’s going on with her children while her transactions are in progress. There’s a guy in his early twenties who adds “man” or “you know” as his every third word, she swears.
She’s supposed to get Scotty’s girls Saturday night. I’ve actually been a little worried that she’ll be too busy with them to talk to me. Which, by the time I can call after the game, it’ll be so late, I probably shouldn’t call anyway. With a glance at my phone, I realize I’m late to meeting Noah.
We’re in California. We had a “free” day that was spent mostly doing fun team bonding activities, but the night is ours to do as we please. Noah and I are about to grab some dinner. Well, as soon as I meet him down in the lobby.
Ian Rhett, aka Bruiser, is on his phone, which is no surprise. He hasn’t noticed me yet, so he hasn’t lowered his voice to make his conversation more discreet. “Why don’t you want me to take a day to visit, babe? You don’t want to see me?” There’s a pause as he pushes the button for the elevator. “Why the fuck not?” I step to the opposite side of the elevator doors and his eyes narrow when he sees me. He looks away as the doors open and we step inside. He pulls his phone away from his ear to stare at it. “Fucking bitch hung up on me.” With a huff, Bruiser folds his arms and leans against the wall. “What? She can be a bitch and if she hadn’t hung up on me, I’d let her know she was being one.”
Because It's You (Carolina Rebels Book 2) Page 7
