by Mara Jacobs
She’d been devastated. And what was worse than having her heart broken was her stupid pride. Not only had he cheated on her, he hadn’t even tried very hard to cover it up. And certainly didn’t deny it when she’d confronted him.
Her family and friends had rallied behind her. She’d even flown to San Fransisco for a long weekend with Anna to try and ease the pain and humiliation. They’d gone shopping, and drinking, and had a great time. One of Anna’s sisters was getting married soon and they’d gone shopping for shoes for Anna to wear with her bridesmaid dress. Over margaritas they’d both gotten a little weepy over their lack of someone special. Then they’d made a makeshift voodoo doll of Justin Jones and rubbed it in the salt on the rim of their drinks.
It was just what she needed, but then Marlee came home just in time to see Justin’s face plastered all over the Boston papers during the World Series, and she felt the wounds opening all over again.
It had taken time, as all broken hearts did. And Marlee was just to the point where she was willing to brave the dating world to find the man she could settle down with and start the family she badly wanted.
But she wasn’t stupid enough to think that it would ever be another pro athlete who traveled all the time.
“Marlee? Marlee? Where did you go?”
Declan turned from putting away the groceries to see Marlee, water glass frozen halfway to her mouth, deep in thought.
“Nowhere, Declan. We’re going nowhere,” she said. Her shoulders drooped every so slightly and her head bowed. He knew those body movements, had copied them his fair share over his career.
It was the motion of defeat.
Dinner was good, one of his best. Marlee said she wasn’t sure she could do better herself. Declan laughed. He liked that she didn’t fawn over him, but geez, she could do a little better than that after the awesome meal he’d just fed her. “That’s the most back-handed compliment I’ve ever received, and believe me, I’ve gotten a lot of those.”
“Actually, if you knew how well I cooked, it wouldn’t seem back-handed at all.”
“That sounds like a challenge, Professor Reeves. All right, it’s your turn tomorrow night.”
“Deal.” They shook on it and began clearing the table. They settled into an easy routine of doing the dishes. Marlee had a dishwasher, but they both lined up at the sink, seeking the physical contact they got by Declan washing and Marlee drying.
He was happy that she was joking with him. After that cryptic “We’re going nowhere” comment earlier, she’d been very quiet. She’d watched intently while he’d prepared a spectacular fresh pesto sauce and made spinach pasta, but only spoke when he didn’t know where to find something in the unfamiliar kitchen.
Hip to hip, they finished the last of the dishes. Drying their hands on a dishtowel at the same time, they tangled both the towel and their fingers, drying each other, looking for any excuse to touch.
“What’s on the menu for dessert, Chef Tate?”
Declan handed the towel to Marlee and walked to the refrigerator to retrieve the item he had placed there earlier. He turned and held it up to Marlee.
“A can of Reddi-wip? What’s it go on?”
He gave her a grin as he walked by, taking her hand as he passed, and led her from the immaculate kitchen to the stairs. “You’ll see,” was all the answer he gave.
And she did.
Later, Declan put his stuff away in Marlee’s closet. She’d also cleared out a drawer for him in her dresser. Neither one spoke about how smooth this transition seemed to be. Declan, having been an athlete his whole life, was very superstitious and reasoned that talking about how natural this all felt could possibly jinx it. He put the book he was currently reading on the left-hand bedside table, just as he’d envisioned the first time he saw Marlee’s bedroom. But they didn’t get any reading done during the night, though they were certainly up late. They didn’t get much sleep, either.
They continued in their domesticity the following morning. Declan made a feta omelet, which they shared, and Marlee packed them both a lunch of the leftover pasta to take to the studio.
He came up behind her while she stood in front of her closet, contemplating which suit to wear. When Declan saw a few pairs of jeans in the closet, he tried talking her into discarding her suits in favor of denim.
“But I always wear suits when I’m working. Just because you can spend your workday in T-shirts and jock straps doesn’t mean I can.”
The vision of Marlee in a skin-tight T-shirt and the female equivalent of a jockstrap—a thong—raced through Declan’s mind. It’d be a short tee, too, showing lots of Marlee’s smooth, white tummy, and hugging her amazing breasts.
“Do you have to be anywhere but the studio today?”
“No.”
“Then come on, wear something casual. I’m wearing jeans.”
She hesitated. Declan realized that her wardrobe was a type of armor for Marlee. It projected the image she strove to achieve: conservative, stylish, polished, professional. But did she really need to uphold that image with Declan? The man had seen her in much, much less over the last two nights. And she wouldn’t be taping herself at all today, just Declan, so ultimately she let him talk her into heeding his request.
Over her cream satin panties and bra, which Declan had personally picked out for her, she donned jeans and a soft cashmere turtleneck sweater in a green that complemented her eyes and auburn hair. She even wore her hair down, and Declan figured this was indeed a triumph. She still wore the tortoiseshell glasses, but Declan had come to like them and didn’t want to suggest she lose the specs as well. They were part of the Marlee he envisioned.
At first Declan was going to object to the high-necked sweater until he saw how clingy the garment was. It cradled her curves and left very little to Declan’s imagination. Not that he didn’t have the sight of Marlee’s naked body seared into his mind. He’d studied her body so closely last night during their lovemaking that he’d never have to imagine anything about Marlee ever again. The memories would always be crystal clear.
The drive to campus was short and filled with merriment as he regaled Marlee with a story of his brother and he trying to milk their first cow on the farm when they were kids. He had Marlee near tears of laughter, and she placed her hand on his arm as he drove. A current of electricity and heat shot through the many layers of winter clothing they were both wearing, as it always seemed to whenever they touched. Their eyes met for a moment, then they both looked away, lost in their own thoughts, smiles on their faces.
In the afternoon, they sat in the talk-show chairs and ate the leftover pasta, which Marlee warmed up in the microwave. They were both happy with the work they’d done in the morning.
They’d set up the camera facing the newscaster stage and filmed Declan behind the desk on one side. Marlee had checked scores from NBA, NHL, and college basketball games from her home office earlier while Declan was making their breakfast, and placed printouts on the desk for Declan to read.
He’d been as delectable on camera as Marlee had imagined he’d be. The green of his eyes was mesmerizing, and the rich sheen off his wavy hair made it seem even more luxurious. And she knew firsthand how soft it was. His broad shoulders and sturdy chest seemed to shoot from behind the desk like a sturdy tree trunk rising from the ground. He had that deadly combination of being drop-dead gorgeous and instilling confidence and trustworthiness at the same time.
He was a natural. The scores rolled off his tongue and Declan even winged it a few times, adding fake stats and pronouncing several Russian-born hockey players’ names with ease. At least, Marlee thought Declan got them right. Athletes’ names were all Greek, or in this case Russian, to her.
As she ate her lunch, once again appreciating Declan’s culinary skills, Marlee thought back to the session.
“You were really good. You have nothing to worry about. You’re going to be great next week. The networks will be fighting over you.” She had tossed her
boots off and was now sitting in the big chair with her stockinged feet curled under her legs.
“Thanks. Yeah, it was okay. It should be all right next week. Guess I was worried over nothing.”
“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call your future nothing.”
He shifted in his chair uncomfortably, almost dropping the paper plate that was resting on his lap. Marlee picked up on it immediately. This man was never anything but completely at home in his remarkable body. She quickly replayed the taping in her head to come up with an explanation.
“Declan?”
“Hmmm?” He shoveled another forkful to his mouth. The man did have an appetite. Which was fine with her—anything to keep his furnace stoked.
“Did you enjoy it? The being on camera, I mean?”
“It wasn’t as uncomfortable as I thought it’d be.”
“But did you enjoy it? Do you think you’ll enjoy broadcasting?”
He rose and took his now empty plate and plastic utensils to the garbage can. He looked to Marlee’s lap to see if she was done, and when she indicated she was, he discarded hers as well. Then he sat back down in the chair and stretched out his long legs in front of him. They almost touched Marlee’s chair, and if she’d had her feet on the ground they would have made contact.
She sensed he was stalling, but she didn’t repeat the question or change the topic. She waited.
“Enjoy? No.” As she made to comment on that, he rushed on, “But I’m not really sure what I’ll enjoy anymore. I did something I loved for my entire life, a living little boys grow up dreaming of, and I never, not for one day, took it for granted. I know how fortunate I’ve been. I can’t expect the rest of my career, whatever that entails, to be nearly as rewarding.”
“I guess not. Still, that sounds so, I don’t know, final. I don’t have any pity for you, Declan—you’re right, most people would love the life you’ve had, but…” She was not sure what she wanted to say, or if Declan even wanted to hear it.
“But what?”
“Well, just because you’re grateful for your past doesn’t mean you can’t desire a future that will be as fulfilling. You might not get it, but you certainly won’t if you don’t think you deserve it.”
He mulled on that for a second, slowly nodding. “Yeah, I get that. You’re probably right.”
“So, if you decide you’re allowed to love the next phase of your life as much as the previous one, what steps do you take to ensure you get it?”
“Pretty heady stuff. Sure you aren’t a shrink and not a professor?”
“No. You’ll get no analysis from me. It’s just…I’ve asked myself a lot of those same questions recently.”
“Yeah? And how are you going to get over being a sports hero?”
“Okay, we’re coming from slightly different places…”
“Not really. I was only teasing. From what you said before, we’re at the same place, trying to figure out how to get to the next phase.”
“Exactly. It just so happens our next phases are completely different.”
He shrugged his broad shoulders. “I wouldn’t even say that. Your next phase includes getting married and starting a family, right?”
At Marlee’s nod, Declan continued, “Mine too, eventually. I just need to get a handle on what I’ll be doing for a living first. But marriage and kids is definitely in the plan.” He said the last part slowly, and met her eyes as he delivered the information.
She felt a moment of panic, which quickly subsided. Surely he didn’t mean her as a candidate. He knew as well as she did that their lives were too different to be anything more than a week-long fling. And there was no way in hell she’d ever let herself become involved long-term with a pro athlete again. She didn’t think she could go through that kind of pain again.
Even if the sex with Declan was the best she’d ever had.
“For a smart woman, you sure can be stupid,” he mumbled under his breath, but Marlee heard.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“It means you’ve put a label on me—if only in your mind— and reduced my future, and that of my family-to-be, to some level that you would never stoop to.”
He was angry now, and Marlee had never seen him angry. Even the night they’d met, after a brutal loss and the end of his career, he’d been nothing but jovial. Anna had made some comment about the famous Tate temper on the field, and Marlee was now seeing it up close.
“Declan, you obviously think you saw some reaction from me that just wasn’t there,” she said, not quite truthfully.
“It was there, Marlee, and you know it.” He leaned forward in the chair, his legs coming up as he rested his forearms on his knees. A flush of red rushed his face.
“Okay, then. What was it you think you saw from me?”
“Panic.”
“Panic? Declan, I don’t panic.”
“It was panic, all right. You saw where I was going, and the thought repulsed you. You were trying to figure out how to stop the line of conversation. Fast.”
Damn, how could he know her so well? Decipher her looks so easily? Still, she didn’t want to hurt him, so she’d bluff her way through. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I think we should get back to work.” Cutting off a possible response, she rose and went to the laptop.
Declan didn’t say another word.
Chapter Eleven
Marlee had known where Declan was going. Or at least she thought she did. His future wife and children. She didn’t want to think about them, this mythical woman she began conjuring up when he mentioned a family. Instantly a picture formed of a woman wearing spandex and three-inch heels, and cracking gum while she balanced a son that looked just like Declan on her hip. The image was meant to amuse Marlee, to lessen the hurt she felt that it wouldn’t be her hip Declan’s son dangled from, but it didn’t. She was surprised at how much her heart ached, and that emotion was what threw the look of panic into her eyes.
She could talk with Declan about his future profession, even about a far-off family, in generalities, but she didn’t want to hear any specifics. She didn’t want to put a face and, heaven forbid, a name to the woman who would get to share Declan’s life. She didn’t know if Declan had already chosen a candidate from the myriad of women in his life to be the mother of his children, and she didn’t want to.
They were lovers, and with time spent together in the studio and Marlee’s kitchen, they were also becoming friends. She had encouraged Declan to confide in her about his misgivings attached to the broadcasting career he was pursuing. She couldn’t in all fairness decree that he couldn’t discuss anything more personal. That must have been why Declan got so upset.
She hadn’t been fair to him. But who ever said life was fair?
Still, a niggling of a notion crept into Marlee’s brain. What if there wasn’t a particular woman in Declan’s agenda? What if the deliberate eye contact and slowing of speech for emphasis when speaking his plan was to get Marlee’s attention? So that Marlee would sit up and take notice that she and Declan wanted the same things out of life. Could he possibly have her in mind when he spoke of the future?
That thought brought a whole different type of panic to Marlee, and she almost stumbled over the TV cart as she was loading the file they’d made of Declan.
The rest of the afternoon was spent working. They watched the tape of Declan’s performance from the morning. Marlee gave a few suggestions—simple stuff, like for Declan to watch the use of hands. He tended to wave them around and make gestures while he talked. He nodded, and she could see he was absorbing all she said. She even gave him some simple tips she’d given different politicians over the year about holding a pen so that his hand felt more weighted and less likely to wave about.
They edited the file in iMovie, taking out the spots where they’d stopped and discussed things, then copied it to a thumb drive that they put in Marlee’s satchel for Declan to take with him to New York. He’d take all the fi
les they’d film in the next two days to give the professionals in New York an idea of Declan’s weak spots, and bring them up to speed with his ability.
“Thanks, Marlee. Good tips. Let me think about them, then I’d like to try it again tomorrow. Is that okay with you?”
“Absolutely. Let’s do you again tomorrow and then on Friday, if you’re still willing, I’d like to try some of the basketball things you were talking about for my lecture.”
“I’m more than willing, I’d love to tailor your stuff for each university. I love college sports, all kinds, and I still follow them all really closely. My Buckeyes aren’t doing so well in B-ball this winter, but the Big Ten could have a shot at a couple of spots in the Final Four this March.”
Marlee grasped maybe half of that analysis, but didn’t press for clarification. It really wouldn’t matter after this week, anyway. “Thanks. If we’re done here, let’s go home. It’s my night to cook for you.”
It became a ritual for them. That is, if you could create a ritual after three nights. A sumptuous dinner that tickled their taste buds. Warm conversation filled with childhood anecdotes from both their families. Then the hours of being together without intimately touching each other would become too much, and their desire would win out.
After hours of making love, Declan would invariably slip on his jeans, throw his shirt at her, and make for the kitchen. She always added his scarf to the ensemble, stopping to retrieve it from wherever he’d discarded it.
He would glide through the living room like it was his own, and he’d remark, once again, at how much alike their homes were.
“Same living room layout, same photos above the mantel, same appliances, I’m going to start feeling spooked if there’s a pint of Häagen-Dazs Dulce de Leche in the freezer,” he said as he entered the kitchen.
Marlee stopped in her tracks as Declan mentioned her midnight vice. “There isn’t a pint. There are several.” She was starting to feel spooked too. Much to her chagrin, she hadn’t seen Declan’s kitchen the night of the party, and his living room had been swamped with people so she didn’t get a good look at it. But if he were telling the truth about how similar their houses were, coupled with this new discovery about the ice cream…she didn’t want to think about it.
