“Are you kidding me?” She jumps up.
I fall back against the sofa cushions in surprise. “I know you’re worried right now—”
“Yes!” she yells, throwing her arms out wide. “I’m sick to death with worry.” She grabs my hands. “Please. I love you, Ty. I’m going to love you while you are in Indy and I am with my dad. Do not do the stupid twin switch with your brother. I know you want to get number one. You’ve trained so hard. You’ve gone without. You almost dated that shark Kathleen. You signed with an agent you didn’t like. All to get to the top. You love Knox, but everything you’ve done is to beat his record. If you don’t go, I will always wonder if you resent me. Don’t put that on me. Please. Go to the combine. Blow their socks off. Let me see to my dad.”
I’ve never been able to tell Ara no. “I’m not happy about this.”
She kisses my hands. “Thank you, anyway.” Her phone beeps. “My Uber is here.”
I make a disgusted sound in the back of my throat. She’d already planned to go by herself. Slightly disgruntled, I grab her luggage. “I’m carrying your bag down to the car.”
“Good.”
“And I get to name our first born.”
“Whatever you say, Ty.” She pats me on the arm. “But it’s going to be Kintyre.”
“I hate that name,” I yell at her back.
She laughs. I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s going to be all right.
31
Ara
I know I made the right decision by sending Ty away, but I end up crying on and off the entire three-hour road trip. The poor Uber driver keeps asking me if I’m going to give him a bad rating on the app. I promise him that I won’t and give an extra-big tip, but I don’t think he’s going to drive me back to Southern.
Inside, the emergency room I find a mess. Holly is there. So is my mother. They’re sitting on opposite ends of the emergency room. Both of them stand when I enter. Pulling up my metaphorical trousers of courage, if there is such a thing, I force myself deeper into the emergency room. I avoid picking either of them to talk to and head straight for the registration desk.
“I’m Ara Martin, Arthur Martin’s daughter.” I shove my license in her face. “Where can I find him?”
She takes five years to type something into her computer and another decade to read the stupid screen. I’m close to climbing over the desk when she says, “It appears he is still in surgery.”
“Can you tell me what’s wrong? Where’s he hurt? What’s the surgery for?”
“Hmmm,” is my response.
I’m about to vault over the desk and read the screen myself when Holly appears at my side.
“I can tell you, dear.” She draws me away.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mom looking angrily over at us. I shrug out of Holly’s grasp.
“How’d you get the information?”
“I’m still his wife.”
“Right.” I feel terrible. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it. Your dad was tired and he drifted onto the shoulder. His tire got caught and pulled him into the ditch. Because of his speed, the car rolled. He was ejected.”
I gasp. “How is he?”
“Good. Asking for you.”
“How did it happen?”
“He fell asleep at the wheel, wasn't buckled in. May have been texting.”
I wince. My dad is such a child sometimes.
“How bad is it?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Mom get to her feet and walk toward us.
“Six stitches in his forehead, a concussion, but miraculously he’s okay. They’re keeping him for observation.” Holly tells me where his room is.
My knees feel watery. “He's a cat.”
“He's a fool,” Mom says sharply when she reaches us. She hitches her purse higher up on her shoulder and gives me a stiff nod. “Since you're here, I'll be going now. I've already given your dad a piece of my mind.”
I give her a sharp look. “God, Mom, really? He's in the hospital.”
“He's there because he has poor impulse control and little consideration of others.”
How like my mom to be judgmental. I want to chalk it up to fear. Kind of like how my dad yelled at me after I pulled down an easel of his when I was a kid. Later, I figured out it was because he was terrified I'd be hurt, but at the time, I thought he was mad at me.
With Mom, though, no one can live up to her impossible standards. She proves it with her next words.
“Your father said that you don't have your job at the gallery anymore.”
“I quit,” I admit.
“Just like your dad,” she says. “You don't have the persistence to stick with things.”
“I stuck with dad longer than you,” I shoot back, hurt by her insults.
Her eyes narrow. “That's because you, like your father, are foolish.”
I start to argue with her, but realize there's no point. At her age, she's not going to change her opinion about me. I'm my daddy's girl, but Mom was the one who left us—not the other way around.
“I'm okay with that,” I say. I summon up a smile for her. “I love Dad, because the part that makes him foolish is also the part that makes him so loveable. I'm okay with imperfect people and imperfect love.”
I don't wait for her response. I don't need her approval anymore. Unconsciously, I think I've always longed for it, but it was never going to come because I was my daddy's girl.
He nurtured and loved me when she walked away. She may say she walked away from him, but it was both of us.
I've been trying to be perfect for so long. I guess that is what Fleur was getting at. That I tried to please others, wanting their validation, but settling for whatever was tossed my way. Like the shit job with Marissa or the “just” friends thing with Ty, even though I'd wanted so much more for so long.
And then being stubborn about not accepting help when I needed it because that would just prove my mom's critical estimations right—that I was a weak and foolish child, incapable of really making it on my own.
But being vulnerable isn't a bad thing. It's what makes me human and real.
That's why Dad's art is so wonderful—because people are touched by the emotional quality of his work. That's why the post-breakup art of his is magnificent.
“That's a big sigh for such a little girl,” I hear from the doorway.
I look up to see that I'm at my dad's room. I push the door wider and walk in. Seeing my powerful dad in a pastel-colored hospital gown with a huge bandage around his head hooked up to what seems like a dozen IV lines nearly sends me to my knees. I curl my hands around the bottom of the bed for support.
“I didn't realize you were in this much need of attention,” I joke. “Perhaps you should have just had a local showing. Maybe rented out a stall at the farmer's market and have a buy one get one free sale.”
“I thought about the last one, but I don't have enough work to last longer than fifteen minutes.” He pushes a button and the back of the bed slowly starts to rise.
I rush over to the side. “Do you think you should be doing that?”
“Yes, I'm allowed to sit up.”
I stare at him skeptically until he lowers the bed with a deep exhale of frustration.
“I already have a battery of mean nurses,” he whines. “You should be extra kind to me.”
“Holly's out there if you need someone to flatter your ego.”
He makes a pained face, but I don't think it has anything to do with his physical injuries. “She left me food,” he says plaintively. “And I ate it. I don't think we're breaking up.”
“It will give you incentive to recover, then,” I say. I pull up an uncomfortable hospital chair and sit down. “Speaking of ex-wives, Mom was here.”
Again, he makes a face. This time I know it has nothing to do with his injuries. “I know. I had to get more stitches after she laid into me for being a foolish—”
“Child?” I finish
for him.
“Yes, that was actually one of the nicer things she said.” He shifts uncomfortably on the bed.
“You weren't wearing your seatbelt, Dad,” I remind him.
He flushes guiltily. “Yes, yes. I know. This is partly your fault,” he says.
“How so?”
“I was telling Stephen about your work. He says he knows the perfect person for you to mentor with. It's an artist in Michigan. She has a background in animation and now does experimental work with celluloid as a canvas. It's very innovative. I think you could learn a lot from her. If you want her help, that is.” He peers shyly out from under his lashes, almost as if he's afraid of my response.
My first instinct is to say no.
He must see it, because he looks away. Staring out the window, he says, “You don't want to, do you?”
I swallow the hard lump of pride. “No, but I think I should.”
When he turns back to face me, his face is lit up. “Ahh, sweetheart. I'm so glad.” He launches into a detailed explanation of the animator's work.
I listen intently, holding his warm hand in mine.
“You won't regret taking this opportunity, Ara. Every artist has help getting discovered, including me,” he says. “Don't you remember? It's why I can never be mad at your mother for leaving us. Not when she gave me the gift she did.”
I sit back. I'd forgotten, although I'm not sure why. Dad's discovery story is told in countless magazine and newspaper articles. A famous art critic had gotten lost on her way to authenticate a newly discovered Whistler piece. She ended up with a flat tire about a mile down the road. Mom found her, fixed her tire and brought her home.
“I was so embarrassed to show my work, but your mother insisted.”
And that was all it took. The art critic fell in love. The Whistler was abandoned, which didn't matter because the artwork turned out to be a fake while Dad was the real fucking deal.
“I don't spend one moment wondering if I could've made it myself. I'm so grateful for all the help. It was destiny, you know.”
“Because the Whistler was fake.”
“Right,” he says. “Because the Whistler was fake.”
“How hurt are you?” I suddenly ask because I can't sit here anymore.
There's a pull on my heart and if I don't respond, my heart may just be dragged away without me.
He arches a brow. “Does this have to do with my man, Ty?”
“He's at the combine.” I look at my watch. “Or should be. He wanted to come here, but I told him no.”
Dad clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “He shouldn't be sent into battle without your full support. Even your mother didn't withhold support while she was with me.”
“I know,” I wail. “I was stupid.”
“Well, go on and fix your problem.”
I leap to my feet.
“Wait,” he shouts from his bed.
“What?” I hurry back.
He hands me his wallet. “Take my NetJets card. You can fly direct to Indy.”
“Oh, bless you.” I kiss the wallet and then my dad.
He laughs softly. “I know you really love him.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because you accepted my help without even one word of argument.”
On the plane, I call Knox.
“Ara?”
“Yeah, it's me. Where are you?”
“Indy.”
“Oh my God. Are you going to pretend to be Ty at the combine? Where is he?”
“Calm down,” Knox says. “He's on his way here. I am not taking his place.”
My heart rate subsides a bit. “Good, because you wouldn't perform half as well,” I retort. Ty did not forgo beer and steak for eight weeks to have his combine stats ruined by his brother who has been loafing since January.
“If you're saying I’m not in game day shape, you might be right,” Knox concedes. “How's your dad?”
“He'll be fine.”
“That's good.” He pauses. “Is there a reason you're calling me, Ara?”
I pull up my Captain Courageous underpants. “Ty needs to be able to focus completely tomorrow, which means you need to run the test. Tonight.”
“What test?” Knox asks dumbly.
What test? Is he concussed like my dad? I slap my hand against my forehead. “The stupid twin test you're always going on about!”
“Ohhhh, that test.” There's silence and then, “Tonight? There's no flight from Southern U to Indy tonight.”
“I'm using my dad's NetJets account. Private plane whenever you want.”
“Oh, fancy. When do you get in?”
I hear rustling in the background. He must be getting up. “The screen says thirty-five minutes.” The plane is fancy. The people at NetJets explained repeatedly that it was more expensive than Dad usually took, but it was the only plane they had at the airport. Dad had to get on the line to approve it. Let's just say it was a good thing he was already lying down with professional medical experts at the ready when they recited the final cost.
True love is costly, apparently.
“Should we do it at the airport?”
“No. Hotel room. And make it convincing,” I order.
“Yes, ma'am.”
“By the way, the twin test isn’t for Ty, Knox. It’s for you. I’m doing it so you will believe that Ty and I belong together. He knows it. And deep down I think you do, too. But I don’t mind reassuring you or him.” I surprise myself with my own inner confidence. Before when I was just a new freshman I didn’t believe that. I didn’t have enough confidence in myself. Now, I do. “I want there to be zero distractions for him during the combine.”
“Welcome to the family,” Knox says smugly.
Despite the horde of athletes, coaches, agents, and press that descended on Indy, the player hotel is surprisingly not full. The desk clerk gives me a suspicious glance as she swipes my credit card. “Just for the record, we are not allowed to give out the private information of any guests that are staying at this hotel. And for the next week, you must know the number and name of the room guest in order to make a room-to-room call.”
“Got it.” She obviously thinks I'm a stalker. It probably doesn't help that I have no luggage. I left it back home, not wanting to take time to sort shit out. I say thanks, take my key, and while I'm walking to the elevator, text Knox my room number.
When I step off the elevator, he's waiting. He has a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.
“Took you long enough,” he says, pushing away from the wall. Another player pops out of a nearby room, throws a questioning glance in our direction, and then turns and walks the other way.
“You're blocking the path to the ice machine,” I tell him.
“You should've asked for a more private room.”
“I spent all of my dad's money just to get here. I'm lucky there's still space on the credit card for any room, let alone a more private one.” I wave my key card. “Should we go in, or do you want to have reunion sex out here in the hall?”
The player down the hall coughs suddenly. The one in front of me grins. “By all means, let's go inside.”
He waves me forward. “I take it your dad must be okay since you're here.”
“He's had better days, but he's going to be fine.” I cast a look to the right and then the left. No one jumps out of the shadows—not that there are many shadows in this hotel hallway to hide in.
I wave the keycard in front of the security pad and walk into the hotel room. He closes the door behind us. I fiddle with my card, wondering what I should do. Should I wait for the big reveal? Am I supposed to do something? Is there a special code word?
This is stupid, I decide.
Then he starts pulling his shirt up. I fly at him.
“Oh, for crying out loud. I can't take it anymore.” I jerk the shirt down. “You look ridiculous. Take those glasses off. Where's Ty?” I fling open the door only to find t
he mystery player walking by with a now-filled bucket of ice. “Where is he?” I demand.
“I have no idea who you're talking about, but I'm in room four twenty if you're unhappy with the big fella behind you.” He squints. “Actually, I take that back. I think I need some sleep because I'm starting to see double.”
A big hand flies out from behind me and slams the door shut.
“No soliciting strangers for sex,” he chides me. The big fella is clearly happy though. He's wearing a huge smile.
“He invited me,” I point out. “There was no solicitation on my end.”
Knox takes the glasses off and rubs them with a corner of his shirt. There’s a frown on his face. “I think we should do this again. Why don't you leave and come back in.”
“Are you for real?” I squawk.
Ty pulls me back before I can attack his brother. “This was good, bro.” He takes me by the shoulders and pulls me to face him. “What gave it away? The glasses? His clothes?”
“First, those are your clothes. Your mom bought that shirt for you two Christmases ago. Second, it's obvious.” I peek over at Knox, who's dropped into the chair by the window and is avidly watching us. I lower my voice. “Not to be mean, but your brother is not as attractive as you. His eyes are weird.”
“His eyes are weird,” Ty repeats.
“Yes.” I nod vigorously. “They're big and kind of creepy.” I shudder lightly.
“Creepy. His eyes.”
“Are you going to repeat everything I say?”
Ty hauls me into his chest. “No.” The broad expanse of muscle and sinew and tendon shakes beneath my cheek. “Time to go.”
Reluctantly, I peel myself away from his embrace. He doesn't release me, though. “Not you,” he says. He dips his head at his twin. “You. Time for you to go.”
Knox gets to his feet and ambles to the door. “Don't expend too much energy tonight,” he teases.
I give him the finger. Ty grabs it and holds my hand in his. “She says goodnight and that she loves you like her very own brother.”
“That's the fuck-you gesture,” I clarify.
“I'm the only Masters brother who gets to fuck you,” Ty says, pulling me away from the door so his brother can exit.
Played: A Novel (Gridiron Series Book 4) Page 22
