GRIND

by MEGAN MATTHEWS

  Ryland stands and I use the opportunity of his closeness to poke him in the chest. “Don’t call me Ki—” my words cut off by the seal of his lips on mine.

  His tongue traces my top lip and I open, wrapping my arms around him and squeezing. My fears and worries from the last few days release into the room and I sigh, happy to have Ryland home. I fought the fact I love this man for way too long. I never knew love could feel this way. That it would make me feel so complete.

  But I’m still cranky and Ryland needs to know he can’t do crap like this. Disappear for a few days and make decisions on his own. Not for this marriage to work. I push back ready to keep this argument going, but Ryland’s hands reach around my butt to lift me in the air. Before I work up a good struggle, he deposits me on my back on the couch his body over top of mine. He holds his weight off me, but lays close enough I can’t work up a good fight.

  We’re lined up eye to eye and I narrow my brown ones at his deep blues. “I’m mad at you. Let me up.”

  He shakes his head once. “No.”

  “Ryland…” A good threat doesn’t come to mind, but I’ll think of one eventually and then he’s in trouble.

  Rather than cower with worry, he smiles. “This way is safer for me.” When I don’t lose the irritated expression, he continues. "I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about England right away, but I wanted to say this in person, face to face.”

  He’s not helping my annoyance level. “Fine. Here I am.” I widen my eyes and attempt to spread my arms but he’s too strong. “Tell me already.”

  “We’re staying in San Francisco.”

  My eyes narrow again. I’m suspicious. Did he find a kayaking team to join? “How?”

  He grins and tightens his arms on either side of me. “You, Marissa, are married to the new assistant Men’s soccer coach for Stanford University.”

  “What? You’re not going to play soccer anymore?” Friday he rushed off to resign a contract with his old team. Now he’s a coach?

  “Nope.” His hand between me and the couch moves up my stomach lifting my yellow t-shirt with it.

  “Ryland!”

  “But I missed you.” His hand inches up again until I slap at it. “I couldn’t do it, Marissa. I can’t go back to that life.” He sighs and his entire body slackens. “I stepped off the plane and the media was there. How did they even find out so quickly?"

  He’s lost the small amount of playfulness of moments earlier, and I miss it. Ryland exudes tiredness. My free hand reaches up and rubs a small circle over his cheek.

  “Reporters yelled questions and took pictures. It’s been quiet in San Francisco. I’d forgotten how horrible my life used to be. I almost turned around and flew home right then. I would have, but James made me attend the meeting.”

  The words stop, but there’s more to the story. “What happened at the meeting?”

  “The entire time I didn’t hear a word anyone said. My only thoughts were about getting home to you and whether I’d make practice at the center."

  I can’t let him lose focus before he finishes the story. “Okay, I still don’t understand how you ended up a coach for your old team."

  “Because, Marissa, don’t you see?” When I’m silent he continues. "Coaching is the answer to our problems.”

  We have problems? “Okay.” I’m silent again and only hope he’ll hurry up and spit the rest of the story out.

  “Coaching is the best of both worlds. I love soccer — I hate playing soccer. College teams get less hype. I have connections in the field, which will be helpful to players like my college coach did for me. The schedule is less intense and we can stay right here.”

  His smile grows with each point and his body becomes tense again, but with excitement. “Pierce, the current head coach plans to retire in five years and I’ll step into his position.”

  I’m so frustrated with his crappy story telling skills, I’d shake him if I had access to both my hands. Instead I do the only things available to me, roll my eyes and huff my displeasure. “That’s great, Ryland, but how did you end up as the new coach?”

  Ryland realigns his body to the open area of the couch and lies on his side next to me, forcing me between him and the couch. “Fate.” My eyes go huge as I level him with my best “I will hurt you look” until he keeps talking. “Parker, a college teammate sent me a text with news they’d fired the old assistant coach. He's an asshole and we hated him.”

  He plays with a piece of loose hair, tucking it behind my ear. “I took it as a sign and called Pierce asking about the job. He tried to hire me over the phone, but I flew back and met with him and the Athletic director today to finalize the paperwork. They’ll make the official announcement tomorrow.”

  Everything about his relaxed posture screams happiness, but there are so many unanswered questions. I’m worried he hasn’t thought this through. “Are you sure about this, Ryland? What about the talk of playing ten more years?”

  He sighs. “I feel old and there’s so much I want to do now. I’ve chased the glory. Shakespeare was right, all that glitters isn't gold. And those bright lights are cancerous to your soul.”

  Dead composers and now Shakespeare? “What about your endorsement contracts?”

  “James will handle those. It’s his job. Some will drop me, but as long as you don’t plan to buy a two-hundred-million-dollar house on the water we'll be okay. Plus, I do get a salary coaching.”

  I scoff. It’s not about money. I don’t want him to face legal trouble.

  “That’s it. What do you think?” he asks as his fingers run through strands of my hair.

  “Now you ask me?” I push on his chest, but not hard enough to knock him over the edge of the couch.

  He laughs. Again not fazed by my attitude. “I promised you I’d be home when I’d taken care of it. I wanted to keep the promise." I narrow my eyes at him as he raises a hand in the air. “But for now decisions are a team effort. From here on out it’s you and me, Kitten.”

  Team Bates, huh? I could get used to that.

  He suddenly becomes serious. “You’re okay that you’re no longer married to a pro soccer player?”

  “I’ll survive,” I respond and pull his head closer.

  Our lips connect in a sweeter kiss than he greeted me with. His stubble bites into my chin and I pull back taking his bottom lip with me.

  “Kitten.” He sends me a warning. When I don’t respond, his large palm rolls up my shirt exposing my belly button.

  His hand continues to run up the exposed skin and higher underneath the shirt until he reaches my bra. He pulls the fabric lower and with two fingers pinches my uncovered nipple until I moan. “Hmm. Where did we leave the handcuffs? We need them tonight.”

  His body leaves mine taking the extra warmth with him as he walks out of the living room leaving me behind on the couch.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  “Ryland.” I yell his name into the empty condo space when my hot new husband doesn’t greet me as I step off the elevator.

  I haven’t figured out where he’s storing the damn orange kayak, but every day I suffer from nightmares I’ll walk in to a matching one waiting for me. No way am I paddling for my life on the bay. I’ve seen the YouTube videos. There are sharks out there. Throwing my purse on the kitchen counter, I yell for him again.

  “In here,” his faint response comes from the master bedroom.

  The bedroom resembles mine so much my steps falter and I stop right outside the doorway. Clothes are strewn over the floor in a large disorganized pile. Others are stacked in nice neat rows on the bed categorized by item. There’s a pile for shirts, shiny basketball shorts, jerseys, and even a few pairs of jeans. None of this is my fault. I haven't moved my clothes over yet. After the excitement of Ryland’s return home yesterday, we planned to do most of it tonight.

  I scan the room again to check, but none of the items in question are mine. He hasn’t started without me. “Did we have an earthquake today?” Simone di
dn't call me in a panic, so she’s either adjusted or this is all Ryland.

  He pops out of the open closet practically vibrating with excitement as he juggles his weight from foot to foot. A pair of stone washed jeans cover Ryland’s legs except a few rips placed too symmetrically to be accidental. A white t-shirt with the words “Classically Trained" and an old Nintendo remote cover his chest. If he’s going to mess up the place he could at least do it with less clothes on.

  “Nice nerd shirt.” I point at his chest. He had to have borrowed the shirt from Finn.

  He pulls on the collar. “Isn’t it? I forgot I had this here. My best college shirts are in this closet.”

  There are more of those shirts around here? That’s concerning.

  “I thought I’d get a head start and clean out part of the closet so you can fit your stuff in here.” Ryland leans back into the walk-in and pulls a black long sleeve shirt from a hanger tossing it on top of the growing pile in the middle of the room.

  Ryland’s walk-in closet might match the size of my entire apartment. Gym pants can’t take up that much room, but his enthusiasm rubs off on me and I smirk. “What's with the piles?” I ask and point to the items on the bed.

  “I made space in the dresser too and gave you the top two drawers.”

  My smirk grows into a full-fledged radiant smile at his thoughtfulness. “Thanks.” Who knew this big hulking guy who yelled about a few boxes the first time I met him would turn out so sweet?

  Ryland walks in the room and turns to the bed putting his back to me. “No problem. With you being high maintenance, you’ll need as much space as possible. Figured it’d be a good idea to get ahead.”

  My smile falls. “I’m not high maintenance.”

  He turns back to me with a raised eyebrow. “You really don’t know, do you?”

  “Know what? I’m not high maintenance,” I insist.

  “Of course not.” He laughs it off, but I’m suspicious. Just because I don’t walk around all day in gym shorts does not mean I’m high maintenance.

  “Did you update your name at work today?” he changes the topic before I grill him to give me examples of my high maintenanceness.

  “How could I forget? You sent me a reminder every hour. It will take a few days, but my next check will be correct.” Ryland digs through the pile of jeans on the bed, tossing a pair on top of the clothes piled behind him. “What else did you do today?” When I left this morning, he went on and on about everything he had to do before starting his new job Monday, but he never told me what any of it was.

  “I met with the guys at Finn’s office to finalize our May fourth plans since I’ll be in San Francisco. We’ve decided Sundays are video game day so you girls either need to move back to where you used to meet or start sharing couches at Cosmo’s.”

  “So today you made plans to watch movies in May and then kicked us out of our brunch spot?” I pop a hip out, but it loses effectiveness since Ryland can’t see me. Honestly I'm not upset. He’s like a kid in a candy store every time he talks about being able to spend more time with his best friends. He’s missed them more than he let on.

  “Yeah. Oh I also scheduled a company to pack up and list my house in England since there’s no way I’m flying back before Monday."

  Well at least one thing productive got finished although I’m sad I’ll never get to see his place in England. Ryland switches his attention from the jean pile to the stack of jerseys. He stares for a moment and then lifts them and hurls the entire stack in what I've assumed is the donate pile.

  “What are you doing?” I walk to the pile and pick up a jersey. The logo commemorates a southern California invitational tournament.

  He turns to me with a look that says I’m the crazy one here. “Making room.”

  “Ryland, these are your old jerseys. You can’t get rid of them.” I throw the jersey back on the bed and reach for the next one. There must be at least ten he tried to throw away.

  “I’m pretty sure I can. That’s what the pile is for.” He throws the jersey I saved back on the top.

  “These are important.” I try to toss it back on the bed, but his damn athletic hand snatches it out of the air.

  “Marissa, my mom saved everything. I have boxes of trophies in the other room. They’re pointless.” He waves the jersey around in front of him.

  “If you need more room, get rid of the nerd shirts.” I point to his current attire.

  A horrified expression greets me when his head raises from his shirt. “No. We’ll get rid of the jerseys to make room for more of these shirts as I buy them.”

  I grab two more jerseys from the top of the pile so I have more in my hands than him. It’s petty, but whatever. “Ryland! These are your accomplishments. There’s an extra bedroom with nothing in it. We’ll store them in there. Maybe get shadowboxes.”

  “What the fuck is a shadowbox?”

  I put my arms out trying to make the shape without dropping a jersey. “It’s this thing…” Giving up, I shake my hands. "It doesn’t matter. I’ll get a few.”

  “I have more soccer crap coming from England, and I’ve made plans for the extra room.”

  What’s more important than retaining these memories? “Plans for what?” I ask with my hand back on a hip, the jersey hanging from a few fingers.

  His answering sigh could be heard around the world. Paired with his open mouth and raised eyebrow expression, I start to feel if I’m the one missing a major point.

  “Kids. Isn’t that what a newly married woman thinks about?”

  Holy shit. Kids? I try to breathe through my clenched stomach to help my heart restart. “Not this married woman.” The rumors are true you can't be married for more than a week before people start asking about kids. Who knew it’d come from my husband too.

  “Well we’ll need the space until we can get the apartment turned into an extra bedroom.” He sounds so logical, but I worry he's developed a fever.

  “We’re turning the apartment into another bedroom? I thought we were letting Amanda rent it out.”

  “Amanda?” he asks tilting his head like I’m crazy.

  We discussed this, didn’t we? I swear Ryland and I talked this through… although maybe it was with Aspen. Either way, Amanda is a brilliant idea. Much better than filling the extra room with babies. At least right now.

  After two calming breaths, I decide to reasonably talk about this without running from the room screaming. “Yeah. I haven’t talked to her yet, but I’d like to give her the chance at it. She’s the last one of us not in the city.”

  He throws the jersey back on the donate pile. “Then we definitely do not have space for a trophy room. And I suppose I’ll need to change the lease to take out the rules.”

  “Hell no.” My response is quick. “The rules are staying. I’ve heard the type of music Amanda listens to. No one should enjoy Bieber that much.”

  Ryland laughs. He has no idea what we’d be subjected to if Amanda had her way.

  “Let’s keep the stuff for now. When the England boxes get here, we’ll pick out your favorite items and display those.” Look at us and our first marriage compromise. I’ve got this wife gig in the bag.

  He throws the jersey back on the bed and reaches to take the others out of the donate pile. “Fine.” There’s a ding from somewhere near him and Ryland reaches in his pants pulling out his black cell phone. It’s only seconds before his smile turns into a grimace and he tosses the phone on the bed.

  It doesn’t take a genius to know he’s read more crap about us, most specifically me, by the media. I said I wouldn’t read the blog posts, but it's easier said than done. Today’s favorite revolved around me being the Yoko Ono to professional soccer. It’s a step above two days ago when everyone took bets on how long our marriage would last.

  “You shouldn’t read that shit, Mr. Lennon.” I give Ryland my best smile with my attempted joke.

  He’s quick to figure out the reference and crosses the slight dista
nce between us in a heartbeat. One hand cradles my chin while the other wraps around my back pulling me to him. “Hey.” I relax against his chest and the movement created from his breathing until we’re in sync.

  When his hand prompts my head up, I don’t resist and instead meet his unguarded eyes with my own vision blurred from the tears building in them. “I’ve dealt with the media for years. It will blow over and they’ll forget about us until something major happens.”

  His lips find my forehead in a soft sweet kiss he lets linger. Of all the best Ryland traits, his ability to be gentle and caring when I need him to is my favorite. When the kiss ends, he lines up our foreheads pressing them together. “Trust me, Marissa. Someone more famous will fuck up eventually and they’ll move on.”

  I nod. He’s probably right, but in my current mindset it’s hard to accept. “I’m okay.”

  “No you’re not.” He wipes at a tear and caresses my cheek. “But you will be. We both will. We’ll be the ones laughing in fifty years.”

  Those words settle with me and I chuckle with a sniffle so he won’t see how much I’ve let the talk eat at me over the last few days. Right now being in Ryland’s arms is enough and he’s right. In fifty years we’ll be giving the doubters the middle finger.

  “And we’ll need a whole new set of rules,” he continues on.

  “No.”

  “Yes. Rule number one — always listen to your husband and do as he says.” Ryland chuckles at my unexcited expression.

  “No.”

  “Rule number two — no reading gossip blogs,” he continues to ignore me. “These are great. We’ll need to write these down.”