Getting Inside

by Serena Bell

  “Ty,” I say.

  “It’s none of your fucking business.”

  His words are tight and sharp.

  “Ty,” I say again. “Try me. Not because I’m your coach. And not because of what happened that night. Because I’m your friend and I know you’re hurting and—” I kick something out of my path, a piece of bandage material, maybe, and I think about how sometimes you can hide the truth inside a lie inside the truth—“I care about you.”

  I watch as his fingers loosen, just slightly, on the edge of the tub, and I feel my own body go soft and boneless like he’s done something terribly sweet and dirty to me.

  Ty

  I feel this surge of—something. Like there’s suddenly room to breathe in my chest.

  I feel weirdly lighter.

  So I say, “My brother.”

  Because she deserves to know. Because I want her to know.

  No one else really knows. I mean, a lot of guys know I’m not close to my brother, but no one knows why.

  “Oh,” she says. Quiet, like the fight’s gone out of her.

  “He’s moving here.”

  She raises a brow. She’s got beautiful, high-arched brows. Expressive.

  “He wants us to hang out.”

  “But you don’t want that.”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  Fucking fuck, my voice cracks, and she reaches for my hand, then draws back just before she touches me. I look up and our eyes meet, a crackling connection, and both of us look away.

  I can’t decide if I want her to leave or stay, if I want her to touch my hand or let me alone, if I want her to keep asking questions or shut up. But in the end I don’t really make a decision at all. I just find myself talking.

  “He’s not supposed to fucking be here.”

  “Yeah?” she asks. Not why, but yeah, like she’s prepared to agree with me no matter what I say next. Like she’s prepared to see it the way I see it.

  It makes me able to breathe. And talk. My voice comes out jerky, but it comes out, saying stuff I’ve never said before.

  “He walked out on my family. At a really bad time.” I laugh darkly. “Not that there’s a really good time to walk out, you know? But—it was just the three of us at that point. My dad died when I was six. Fell asleep at the wheel of his truck. So it was Mom and Derek and me. Mom worked like a dog to support us. And then this crazy thing happened, when I was fourteen. She got a cramp in her foot, and the bone broke, and they did a scan. Bone cancer. But we’re going to get through it, you know? Derek and I are eleven months apart. Best friends. We’ll step up, we’ll take care of things—”

  I grab onto the edge of the tub like I’m going to float away if I don’t anchor myself somehow. Remembering.

  “You were a brave kid,” she says gently.

  It’s a kind of anchor itself, like I could reach out and cling to her words. Or just to the sound of her voice.

  “She’d just finished a round of chemo. But it didn’t work. She was so tired, and they were suggesting something more experimental. Derek and I were both working, to try to make up for the income she couldn’t bring in, and then I—”

  She closes her eyes, which makes it easier to keep going because she’s not looking at me like she can read everything I’m thinking and feeling.

  “I came home first and got the mail and there was this envelope from Believe Big, you know, this organization that gets kids out of the inner city and into better high schools, addressed to Derek, and something made me open it. It wasn’t the kind of thing I ever did, but I guess—I think I thought it wasn’t anything, just junk mail, and it didn’t matter. But it was a letter, congratulating him, telling him he’d been accepted to this prep school with a full scholarship. He hadn’t even told me he’d applied. Even then, I wasn’t too mad, because I figured he’d done it on a whim, and of course he wasn’t going to go, not with things the way they were.”

  “But he did,” she says.

  I nod.

  “Your mom?”

  She doesn’t make me say it out loud. That she lived another six months, that she refused the experimental treatment, that I could tell Derek’s leaving had broken what was left of her will. Instead, I shake my head, a stand-in for a period of my life that I would rather never think about. That Derek’s fucking arrival has stirred back up to the surface.

  “When he left, I told him—I told him I never wanted to see him again. And I meant it.”

  She puts her hand over mine then. Just that. But it’s like—I want so bad to just—

  And suddenly it’s way too much. I can’t stand the sympathy in her eyes or her hand on mine, the way its warmth is spreading through me, like in a minute the ice will start melting, and I jerk mine away and say, “Coach Thomas.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Do we have to talk about this now? Because I’m supposed to meet the guys, like, five minutes ago, and besides, my balls have crawled into my throat.”

  She laughs, a bright laugh of relief, and the tension breaks. “We’re somehow always talking about your junk, Ty Williams.”

  “It’s tough to ignore.”

  She rolls her eyes, but she’s laughing, too, and now so am I. Feels good to laugh with her. For just a minute Derek’s being here isn’t such a big deal.

  And then she says, “We don’t have to talk about it right now, but I think we should talk more about your brother.”

  “What’s to talk about?”

  She gives me that look of hers, the don’t even try to bullshit me look. “We could start with what happened on Sunday.”

  “I played like shit.”

  “Right. And it’s my job as your coach to make sure your mind is easy enough that that doesn’t happen again.”

  I shrug. “It won’t.”

  She crosses her arms and glares. “Just humor me, Williams. Tell me we’ll continue this conversation later. Because I’m your fucking coach and I need to know what the fuck is going on in that head of yours.”

  “Iona,” I say.

  She gets a look on her face.

  “Sorry. Coach Thomas.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Even with my balls pulled up to my armpits, it makes me hard when you talk like that.”

  “You’re a total dick, Williams,” she says.

  But I don’t think she means it, because I see her pupils blow and her lower lip soften, and I catch the half smile she does her best to hide.

  I wasn’t being a dick, either. It was the fucking truth.

  Chapter 24

  Iona

  “Earth to Iona.”

  Julia waves her hand in front of my face. We’re out for burgers at the Den, surrounded by drunk, happy sports fans, even on a Monday night. She wants to pick my brain, so she’s buying.

  “Sorry,” I say. “Just—”

  She’d been asking how I felt about the fact that we’ve gone 4–1 since I landed in Seattle (good, although despite Julia’s outsize faith in my powers, I don’t think it’s all down to me, or even to the improvements in the pass rush). And then I guess I spaced out while my mind went down a rabbit hole involving last Thursday’s practice and the stranger on the field and yesterday’s game and everything Ty just told me about his brother.

  “You’re worried. About Ty.”

  I must gasp, because she reaches across the table and takes my hand, and says, “Iona, I see everything. It’s my job. Should I tell you who that guy was, last Thursday? Or do you know?”

  “You know who it was?” I blurt out.

  “His brother. Derek Williams. Vice president of the national chapter of Believe Big. Picked to start the Pacific Northwest chapter and launch a series of new programs around the region. He’s a graduate of Believe Big himself, and a Yale biz school grad in nonprofit management. Was a high school football star but didn’t end up playing in college. He and his brother have been estranged for more than a decade. But—” She gives me a careful once-over. “You already knew that.”
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br />   I nod. She knows all these very specific details, but I feel a stupid sort of pride that the stuff she knows means nothing and the little bit that Ty told me means everything.

  “Iona. What are you going to do?”

  “About Derek? I don’t think there’s anything to do.”

  “About Ty.”

  “Talk to him. Help him get back on track.”

  “No,” says Julia, slowly, distinctly, and everything around us in the bar—the smell of burgers and fries, the clink of glasses, the ebb and flow of laughter and conversation—fades into the background. “About you and Ty.”

  I flail around in my mind for any possible other interpretation of what she’s asking, but she squeezes my hand and says, “Remember. I see everything.”

  Shit.

  Julia and I have gotten to be good friends. We were already on track for it, but then she invited me to spend Thanksgiving with her and her husband and their completely adorable three-year-old son. Thanksgiving in the PFL is kind of a non-event—Christmas, too, for that matter. No way I could have flown back across the country to be with friends in Baltimore or family in New Jersey—it just wasn’t going to happen. So I was super grateful to Julia for not making me spend Thanksgiving alone in my apartment with a grocery-roasted turkey breast and prepared sides.

  I guess given all that, I shouldn’t be surprised that I can’t keep a secret this big from her, but this is my worst nightmare. Someone’s guessed. And not just any someone. A journalist.

  I take a deep breath, trying to give myself a moment to think, and I realize: She doesn’t see everything. She didn’t see us kiss, and she didn’t hear us talking in the ice tub room. She just thinks she knows what she knows.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say.

  She gives me a sure look. “I’m talking about the way you guys sneak looks at each other when you think no one else is watching.”

  I’m torn between being horrified that she noticed that and thrilled that Ty is apparently sneaking as many looks at me as I am at him.

  “Something happened, didn’t it,” she says.

  Not a question.

  “I’m not asking as a journalist,” she says. “I’m asking as your friend.”

  “Can you really keep those things separate?” I ask her.

  “I think so. I can sure try.”

  Just then, on cue, the vibe in the bar shifts and I sense the hush and anticipation that ushers in a group of players. Sure enough, it’s Ty and his boys, swaggering, talking, laughing.

  I can’t keep from feeling a swell of pride and affection for him. He’s so goddamned good-looking—all those stark chiseled bones in his face, the fit of his jeans over the perfect curve of his ass—and there’s something about seeing him in what has to be an expensive sweater instead of football gear—the way it lies so beautifully over his shoulders and chest—that makes him even more attractive.

  I see the moment he spots me sitting here with Julia. His face lights up, and I feel it everywhere.

  Julia sees it, too. Her eyes open wide.

  He waves.

  I wave back.

  I can’t keep from smiling, like the goofiest seventh-grade girl with the biggest crush on a boy.

  Julia’s watching me, a knowing smile on her face.

  “God. What am I going to do?” I mutter.

  “Have you thought about resigning? Then you could pursue something with him without worrying that it would ruin your career.”

  “I can’t pursue something with him, because there isn’t anything to pursue. It’s Ty Williams, Julia. You of all people know what he’s like.”

  “Do I?” she asks. “I know who he’s dated. And I’ve never seen him look at any of them the way he looks at you.”

  “Don’t,” I say.

  “Don’t what?”

  “Don’t make me feel hopeful. Do you understand what you’re suggesting? That I resign my dream job on the slim, tiny chance that a man who’s known for collecting models and actresses will decide to have a relationship longer than two weeks, with me.”

  “Is it?” she asks.

  “Is what?”

  “Is it your dream job? I mean, I know it’s a great job, but there are other teams, other opportunities.”

  I shake my head. “There’s no other coaching combo like Thrayne and Cross.”

  “I get that. I’m just saying, if this job never came around again, you could still be happy. But if you don’t give this thing with Ty a shot—”

  “Julia.”

  She shakes her head, but I keep going anyway.

  “I’m just trying to be realistic here. If I thought there was the slightest chance that Ty could ever be seriously interested in me, long term, that things could ever in a million years really work out, then maybe. Maybe. But to give up a job in the PFL—after I’ve worked this hard and fought my way here—? No. Just no.”

  Julia is gesturing with her hand like she’s trying to tamp something down, her eyes huge.

  Very slowly I become conscious that there is someone standing behind me.

  Ty

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Give us a minute?” Iona asks Julia, who jumps up and heads over to where Zach and Calder are holding down our table. O had split off to take care of something for his parents.

  I slide in next to Iona. I’d felt strangely light after our talk in the ice room, but the heaviness is back now. In the ice room—and in the conference room the night I’d kissed her—I’d let myself enjoy Iona. The way it felt to be near her, the crackle of it. The way she listened, the fact that she got my sense of humor, the fact that she got me. And didn’t judge—not what either Derek or I had done. But I can’t just enjoy her, not the way I want to, not without risk. And she said it exactly right. I can’t give her anything that would make it worth her taking that risk.

  “So,” I say. “Sounded like a serious conversation.”

  “Julia figured out something was going on.”

  Just another thing to like about Iona, that she puts it out there. No bullshit, no beating around the bush.

  She crosses her arms. “I shouldn’t have stuck around the night of the storm. I shouldn’t have told you what I told you about myself. I shouldn’t have asked you about your brother. I shouldn’t have gone in the ice room when you were in there alone. I shouldn’t even be sitting here with you right now.”

  She’s not saying anything she hasn’t said before, but the iron in her voice, the absolutely certainty—it’s a different, more real, rejection of the possibility of anything happening between us.

  “Let me guess. And I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

  She sighs. “No. You shouldn’t have.” She takes a deep breath. “Ty, we can’t be friends. Like, at all.”

  Something catches in my chest, and I cough but it won’t dislodge. “Wait a minute. I get why we can’t—kiss. But why can’t we do this? Shoot the breeze over a couple beers, head over in a few minutes to hang with our mutual friends?”

  “Maybe we can have beers in a group,” she says. “But you can’t tackle me and I can’t watch film alone with you and I can’t ask you questions because you’re hurting and I—”

  She breaks off.

  “—and you care,” I finish for her, because I want it to be true. If we can’t be friends, I still want to know how she feels. I wish I could hear her say it again, and I can’t tell you the last time I wished for anyone to say anything to me except maybe nice hit.

  “Right. I can’t care. And you can’t make jokes about your—”

  “—huuuuuge organ,” I supply, to try to bring back the lightness, even though I know it’s useless.

  She frowns, although I swear she’s hiding a smile. “Precisely. And if we can’t toe that line, I’m going to have to quit, because it’s not about getting caught or not getting caught, it’s about knowing what’s right and what’s wrong, and anything other than professional behavior is wrong.”

 
“And you’ve worked too hard and come too far to quit.”

  She sighs again.

  If Iona were a different kind of person, if I liked or respected her less, I might try to argue with her. Or toy with her. Like, I might try to talk dirty to her now, make the exact kind of jokes we were talking about a minute ago, or flirt, try to draw her into something. I might just kiss her, which is what I want to do so badly it aches in my teeth, my gut, and my balls.

  But Iona is too special, and this situation is too fucked up, to mess with. I don’t want to get her fired. I heard her loud and clear when she told me what it means to be one of the only women in the PFL. It means she can’t screw up, not just for herself, but for all women. And I know how far she’s come, and how her father and the other men in her life have gotten into her head, and I just want to be a guy who actually respects her. So if I have to do that instead of being the guy who shows her how beautiful she is, then so be it. As long as I get to keep her around. Team is more important than anything else I know. And more permanent, too, even if sometimes it’s like that joke about how if you removed the pieces one by one from a boat and replaced them, at what point would it be a different boat? At what point is a team that no longer possesses seven eighths of the players it did five years ago not that same team?

  It is, though. Team endures.

  “Okay,” I say.

  “Really? Okay?”

  “Yeah. You’re a good coach. I don’t want to get you in trouble.”

  I watch her face carefully, just to see if maybe I can spot the same disappointment I feel, but her expression doesn’t change at all. She just says, “So what now?”

  So I make sure my face stays neutral, too. A teammate’s face. “Now we go back to the other table and sit around with everyone and shoot the breeze.”

  And I figure out how to stop wanting her so bad it hurts.

  Chapter 25

  Iona

  In the car on the way home I update Julia, who’s driving.

  “But can you just do that? Shut it off like that?”