by Lexi Wilson
He trailed off into silence, and his whole manner changed. The anger turned to something else. I could only describe the new emotion that came over him as sadness and sorrow at something that had really hurt him, cut him right to the heart.
I was seeing a totally different Barrett Porter. This wasn’t the strong, confident, charismatic quarterback who’d led his team to win the Super Bowl. It wasn’t the guy everyone swirled around at a party like he had his own personal gravity. It wasn’t the guy who had women hanging on him like lights on a Christmas tree, or the guy who went to bed with a different girl every night of the week. And, it wasn’t even the guy who’d drunkenly nailed me in a bathroom in a penthouse and left me pregnant with his child.
This was another Barrett Porter, someone I didn’t know; someone who’s been hurt very badly, someone who was vulnerable in a way I never expected.
“It’s okay, Barrett,” I told him. “Listen, whatever it is, it doesn’t own you. It doesn’t define you, right? If it hurts you, it doesn’t deserve any place in your life.”
“I wish it was that simple,” he said. “Some things you don’t forget. Especially, if it’s your parents. Especially...if it’s your mother.”
“Oh…,” I reacted. This definitely shed a different light on things. “I don’t know anything about your family, your parents. Are your parents still together?”
“No,” he answered, sadly and bitterly. “Momma’s gone. It’s just him now. Just my old man. And…” He looked away from me. He seemed like a wounded animal in the forest, looking for a place to hide. “Momma’s gone, that’s all. And, I don’t want anything to do with that old man. I’m done with him.”
“I understand,” I said. Of course, I was only saying that for lack of something better to say. It was obvious that I didn’t really understand the first thing about Barrett Porter’s life. “Listen, it’s enough for me to know there was something that hurt you once, and you don’t have to tell me any more if you don’t want to. I just understand that there was something. And, I’m sorry.”
He finally looked back at me, still sad, still bitter, but with a softness in his expression that I’d never seen before. “Thanks,” he said. “Thanks for just listening. I don’t usually talk about any of this. It just hit me this morning when I wasn’t ready for it. So just...thanks, okay?”
“Okay,” I said. I was actually happy that I’d come along and run into him – literally – when I did. It had given us this little talk, this little moment, and it had given me the chance to see the man whose baby I was carrying in a way that I’d never seen him before. And, if we had just this little bit of trust growing between us, sometime soon it would help me to tell him what I needed to tell him the most.
There was also another side to this. Back in Montgomery, my own parents hadn’t been getting along that well lately. Whenever I spoke to my own mother, she mentioned that she and Daddy had been “disagreeing” a lot. Disagreeing had been my parents’ code word for fighting since I was little.
When I brought it up to my father, he admitted that he and Momma “hadn’t been seeing eye to eye” about a lot of things since I’d moved to Dallas. It chilled me to the bone to hear them talking this way. I didn’t want to think they might separate, or even worse, divorce. But if their “disagreements” had been getting more and more frequent… I didn’t like the sound of any of it, at all.
“Listen, Barrett,” I said to him. “We’re not our folks, are we? We’re our own people. And whatever we do with our own lives, it’s got nothing to do with any mistakes our folks make. The past doesn’t control us, does it? Our own past or the past of who we came from. It’s like, everyone is the quarterback of their own life. It’s your game and your field, and you call all your own plays. Right?”
For the first time since I ran into him in the lobby, Barrett smiled a little bit. That gave me hope that I’d actually said something halfway intelligent and helpful. It might not have cheered him up all the way, but it was a start. I’d done the right thing, giving him advice in exactly the kind of terms he’d appreciate the best.
“Maybe you should have been a coach instead of a cheerleader,” said Barrett.
Well, hearing that, I felt like the smartest girl who ever lived.
_______________
After Barrett finished his sandwich and I finished my tea, he asked me if I still wanted to go to the spa. I told him instead that I’d rather just go back to my room and lie down for a while. He asked me if I was okay, and I didn’t want to let on anything about the baby, so I just said I thought I should get as much rest as I could to be fresh before our next public appearance. I’d still have time to visit the spa a little later. Thankfully, he accepted that and walked me back up to our floor at the hotel.
He escorted me to my door, and I was just about to put the key card in the lock slot when Barrett took my hand. Surprised at this, I looked up into his blazing handsomeness. I was even more surprised when he pulled me close – and kissed me.
This was not a friendly “thank you” kind of kiss. It wasn’t a kiss to thank me for being a willing listener to the part of his story that he felt able to tell me. This was a kiss that took me right back in my mind to the night before the Super Bowl. His lips were saying the same kinds of things they had said that night.
At first, I didn’t feel the floor under my feet. But then I reacted in a way that both scared and excited me.
I kissed him back. I leaned into it, kissing Barrett right back with almost the same spontaneous feeling that had lit up inside me that night that changed everything.
Just as quickly as he started it, he stopped. He broke the kiss and pulled back, and we sort of hovered there outside my hotel room door, me in Barrett’s arms, Barrett looking down at me in a way that said we were continuing to connect, and that we’d reached some new kind of understanding – and that even more understanding was possible.
How could I respond to this? Did I want him to come into my room with me? Did I want him to do to me again now what he did to me then? And if he did...what next? I started to get scared, not knowing what to think or say or do.
But, Barrett made the decision for me. He released me from his arms, took a step back, and then started to walk away, back down the hall towards his own room.
He just left me there in front of my door, hovering on the brink of Lord knows what. He left me to wonder how long I would linger and hover there. No one else could break this impasse but me. I decided to end it by just going back into my room where I was safe, at least for the moment.
Chapter 14
Barrett
I started the next day with a game of “Why Did I/Why Didn’t I?”
Why did I open the door for Kim? Why did I let her talk me into going down to the restaurant to see her father? Why didn’t I just tell Bo to go to hell when he brought up my old man?
It gets even better. Why didn’t I just let Bama go on to the spa and have done whatever she was planning to have done there? Why did I take her to the cafe? Why in the hell did I go and tell her about my messed-up relationship with my old man and bring up my mother with her? Hell, I don’t even talk to my actual guy friends about all that. I never even bring that up with Cole. Why would I bring it up with Bama, of all people, getting personal with a woman I’d screwed?
Was it just that Bo Remington blindsided me so hard with the crap about my father that I needed someone to talk to who was outside of all of it, and Bama happened to be in the right place at the right time? Was I so hard-up for an ear to bend that I’d talk to a woman that I’d bent around me in a bathroom?
But, that was the least of it. That wasn’t even the biggest “Why did I?” for that day. There was one more that was the biggest “Why did I?” of them all.
Why in the name of hell did I kiss Bama when I took her back up to her room? What the hell came over me to make me do that?
I’d been talking to her and dealing with her in a completely non-physical way, without a hint of s
ex, up to that point – something I never do with women. With women, everything was always the lead-up to the main event, and the main event took place in bed. With Bama yesterday, talking to her was one of the few times that it wasn’t about the way I expected things to end up. And then, damn it all, I took her to the door of her room and kissed her.
Is it that I’ve never been anything but sexual with a woman, so sexual is the only way I know how to be? And seriously, goddamn it all, I never thought about stuff like this!
And what’s more, Bama had kissed me back. And, the fact that she returned the kiss and responded to it was enough to tell me that the kiss was a big whopping mistake. I’d let my reflexes take over and they’d taken me where they always took me, and I shouldn’t have let it happen.
But, damn it, she was beautiful and she was there, and we’d had that one thing between us before. Reflex just took over. And when she returned the kiss, I could tell where it was threatening to go because if experience had taught me anything, it was that after I’d done it to a woman, she’d have expectations of more if I didn’t shut it down, fast.
That was why I’d put the brakes on the whole thing and come to my senses, throwing a switch and stopping cold what was getting hot and threatening to get hotter. It was the best thing, both because it meant sticking to my rule and because I didn’t want this getting into our working relationship. It couldn’t go any further than that kiss.
But now, I was left playing this game of “Why Did I/Why Didn’t I?” And, I was kicking myself because I’d let things get out of hand, first with the Remingtons and then with Bama. In this game, I had to be my own coach. And my words to myself as coach were damn good ones, words that I shouldn’t have had to remind myself. Barrett, if you’re calling the plays in a game, you need to be calling the plays in your life.
This emotional crap was not what I needed now. We were just starting this publicity campaign, and I wanted my head clear for it. I hoped what was planned for us for today would get my mind back in the right place.
We were taking a shuttle flight from Denver over to Boulder for the day. There, we’d visit a teens’ football club where PowerShot had arranged for me to meet and hang out with the kids and join them in a little practice behind a community center where the club would meet. Some varsity cheerleader girls from one of the local high schools would be there, too, and Bama would show them some of her routines and let them try them with her. Vera was going along, and there’d be a photographer and someone with a video camera to record the whole thing, which would be edited for PowerShot’s website.
It would be a good day without all the glitter and glamour and showiness of the thing at the convention center. And it would be just the thing to wipe the old decks clean between my ears.
_______________
Bama and I didn’t say much on board the charter plane that we took to Boulder. It was one of those private luxury jets like billionaires have. My financial advisor had talked to me about buying one just for my own personal use, but I’d held off from getting one because then I’d have to rent hangar space to keep it in and there’d be fuel and I’d need a pilot for the thing... I thought it would just put complications on my life that I didn’t need.
I liked to keep things simple. Real estate was much simpler, and having all those apartments as well as my house was an investment that met with my advisor’s approval. I stopped short of buying rental properties. When you have tenants, you’re responsible for their needs. I didn’t feel like being responsible for anyone’s needs but my own. Maybe it was selfish, but it kept my life simple.
Bama and I were friendly with each other, but from the outside, you’d never know about the little heart-to-heart we’d had at the cafe or that kiss. Just like you’d never know about...the other thing. But, I suspected the kiss must be on her mind. She was a woman; the kiss had to be on her mind. Women don’t brush off things like that.
However, the subject didn’t come up, and we didn’t sit together on the flight. Bama sat with the photographer and the video guy. I sat with Vera, who went over again how I’d be responsible for just teaching the kids today and playing a bit with them.
I was cool with that. I had been like these kid football players once. My life hadn’t even started yet, just like theirs hadn’t. They were in a place in life where you’re looking forward to everything. Of course, you should always have something to look forward to in life. It’s just that at these kids’ age, what you had to look forward to was everything. It would be fun to be around them. It would be a reminder of who I used to be once.
_______________
I was right. The kids and their coach were great. They were excited to see me, and I saw my younger self reflected in the kids’ eyes and heard my younger self in their voices. It was like meeting a bunch of young Barrett Porters who hadn’t really experienced anything yet.
Most of them, I assumed, had probably never even been laid yet. That was one of the big things they had to look forward to the experience of girls. Everything about girls.
Or guys, I had to allow; one or two of them probably had those feelings for guys. I’d never had a problem with that. I’d even had guys hit on me a few times. It didn’t bother me; people are what they are. Truth to tell, there were some of my teammates on the Rangers that I thought were probably not of the same persuasion as the rest of us, and I frankly didn’t let that bother me, either. I knew who I was, and I was cool with it; I knew who some other guys were, and I was cool with that, too.
But regardless of who was who and who was about what, they were all thrilled to see me, and I was thrilled to be there. I thought we almost wouldn’t get a chance to play because the first thing we arrived there, everybody wanted to see the ring, whichled to a lot of storytelling. None of them had ever seen a Super Bowl championship ring in person, so I had to let them have a look at it and dream of the day when maybe they might have one.
And then came the stories. Everybody wanted to hear from my own personal recollection not just what it was like to play pro in the NFL, but what it was like to go all the way to the Super Bowl. So we all sat around as I told them some stories, and the cheerleader girls joined us for that.
Looking at those teenage girls, watching me in that kind of awe that you only feel when you’re a girl that age and you’re near a guy that you think is hot, I saw younger versions of so many women I’d been with. I felt a little creepy about it and had to push those thoughts way, way to the back of my head.
The photographer and the video guy got to work as I entertained my audience, with Bama sitting nearby and Vera looking on, with stories about memorable games I’d played and the most exciting plays I’d made in them. The kids hung on every word, which I’ve got to admit made me feel a little like Captain America.
I was used to being admired and the whole celebrity thing; in fact I’d surprised myself with how quickly I’d gotten accustomed to it. But there was something special about this kind of attention from kids, who didn’t really know the world yet, that made me feel special. I wanted to be – or maybe I wished that I really were – the amazing hero they thought they were seeing.
I was a guy who loved the life I was living and what I was doing with it. I loved the game, and I loved what I did when I wasn’t playing. To some people, yes, I was a jock and a player. But a lot of people out there would have traded places with me in a minute. I wasn’t the smartest guy around, but I’d done well for myself, considering I was really just a guy.
When these kids looked at me, though, they seemed to see someone with super-powers who could conquer the world. They didn’t really know the world yet, and they didn’t know a lot about how people could be – or did they? I thought. How much like me were some of these kids? Did they know yet about hurt, and disappointment, and heartbreak, and how they could happen to anybody, even jocks who win Super Bowls?
That was all a little much to think about, so I swept it out of my head and set myself to looking and sounding like
the hero they seemed to think I was. After a while, their coach broke it up, and the guys and I started playing.
At break time, I headed for the bathroom at the community center, and there were some picnic tables where the girls had gone with Bama. They were all sitting around, resting their pom-poms and megaphones, doing artsy-craftsy type stuff. I couldn’t quite make out what they were doing, but it seemed to be about using a lot of glitter and sequins and that kind of thing. And some of them were putting glitter makeup on each other.
It was one of the most “girlie” sights I ever saw, but Bama seemed to be loving it. The photographer and the video camera guy weren’t around; they were out on the center’s little field with the boys where I’d left them. Bama didn’t have to be doing this, but she looked like she was having fun anyway. They were all laughing and giggling away, making whatever it was they were making. I couldn’t make out whatever they were talking about, though I thought I heard one of the girls mention my name once, which was met with this rain of teenage-girl laughter.
I watched for Bama’s reaction. She looked at the younger cheerleaders as if she had a secret, which she definitely did. But it wasn’t like she could tell a bunch of varsity girls about that.
For the rest of the practice, and for the rest of that day, my mind kept going back to Bama at odd moments. I knew I shouldn’t be thinking about her or about that, but it kept happening.
Part of it was that I was used to just pulling up my pants and walking away from women, or sending them on their way afterward. I couldn’t do that with Bama. I’d been thrown into something with her after we’d thrown ourselves together in something, and now it was like my instincts were all screwed up and turned all around. Something in my head was messing with what was in my pants. It was a new situation, and I wasn’t necessarily sure of my reactions to things.
