Page 4

More Than A Woman – The Bee Gees

Declan

S weat drips down my brow as I jog back to the line of scrimmage, focus split between the uncomfortable itch behind my ear and the sideline.

I noticed.

It’s jarring how two simple words can have a resounding impact, but they’ve rattled through my mind since the elevator doors closed yesterday.

And now I’ve noticed her in every room. At team dinner, and after the position meeting this morning in the hallway. Addie runs rampant in my mind.

A blur of auburn hair darts on the sidelines, passing out water and Gatorade to players. She’s gorgeous this morning, hair pulled back into a messy bun, though strands have escaped and now frame her face. Her skin is flushed as she darts through huddles and around the coaching staff, and for a single moment, our eyes meet.

My skin lights with electricity.

I shouldn’t spend so much time thinking about Addie, but she creeps into my thoughts when my mind quiets. A few interactions and I’m drawn to her. I want to spend more time with her. Hear her laugh. Learn more about her vinyl records.

“What are you looking at?”

Henry’s voice filters in my ear, and I jump. Jack gives me a quizzical look as I scan the sideline one more time, but Addie is gone.

“Nothing.”

I shake off the urge to search for her and jog off the field.

Ben, the head nutritionist, and the one I have no interest in, hands each of us a squeeze bottle. He’s a nice guy, and great at his job, but he’s not the woman consuming my thoughts—who has managed to clear the fog over my life twice.

Jack sprays water over his arm, cleaning the new tattoo on his bicep. A starfish. Another dedication to his wife. Nearly all of his new tattoos are a dedication to her; to the love and life they share.

I have to look away before jealousy consumes me.

Wives and fianceés become the topic of discussion, and I slink to the back of the group. What can I say? There’s nothing I can contribute to the conversation, and the division has become so clear that my chest aches.

When will it be my turn? When will someone decide I’m enough for them? Alan, my high school football coach, was the one person I had, but he’s gone, and I’m alone again. When everyone else saw the lanky, quiet kid struggling in school, he saw me for more. Recognized my potential and need for a stable environment, and treated me like a son. Pulled me out of the group home where I struggled to succeed. Spent weekends on the football field, helping me train. Stayed up late to help with my homework to bring my grades back up.

I’ll never forget the day I walked into his home, all of my belongings stuffed into a garbage bag and nervous energy fluttering through my body. I had never had someone choose me . But he spent months working to get his foster parent certification, and when I walked into his home with my social worker, Denise, he took one look at me, snatched his keys from the counter, and drove to the store where he bought me every necessity I was lacking. Toiletries. New shoes. Clothes that fit me properly. I’ll never forget the duffel he bought and the words spoken after. No child deserves to tote their things around in a trash bag.

No matter how badly I messed up—and I have fucked up a lot—the love he offered me never faded. Not when he found out I sold my plasma to send money to my half-sister, even after she abused my generosity. Not when he discovered I was an ass to Sawyer. Not when I had a bad game, or wasted my first paycheck on clothes.

He was the best man I’ve ever met, and not a day passes that his absence doesn’t create an ache in my chest.

“What do you think?” Deon asks.

“Huh?”

He gives me an assessing look. “About having weekly barbecues at my house? We just built a new patio, and I bought a new grill.”

“Oh, sure. Sounds fun.”

I know what they’re doing. They’ve done it since Alan died. Checking in and hosting events so they can make sure I’m eating and surviving.

For a time, I appreciated it. Needed it. They each hosted me at their houses after Alan died so I wouldn’t have to grieve alone, but after a while, it felt like I was holding them back from living their lives, so I moved into a new place and tried to learn how to get through the day.

The grief is still there—will be forever—but I can stand on my own now.

Conversation moves on, but Henry leans over and whispers, “You good?”

“All good.”

He nods, then focuses on the field where the rookie wide receiver is dropping passes like a hot potato. Not a great look for the newbie, but Henry jogs over to talk him down from the ledge.

Now is the perfect time for a snack and to find the pretty woman who hands them out.

I’m halfway down the sideline when she intercepts me first.

Energy crackles in my chest.

“I was looking for you,” she says, voice whisper quiet.

“You were?”

Knowing that is not good for me.

“Yes.”

“Why are we whispering?” I lean in close enough to see the specks of deep brown in her hazel eyes. She blinks up at me, momentarily stunned by the proximity, and my hand brushes the back of her hand.

“I have something for you.”

“Oh?”

My heart thuds in my chest. It could be her proximity or the vague statement. Likely the former. Her hazel eyes, full of golden and brown flecks, flare when my eyes dip to her lips.

Does she feel the energy in the air? Like a fuse ready to blow.

Thank fuck she can’t hear the way my heartbeat quickens and skips under her focus.

“What is it?”

“Meet me at the tall plant by the elevator after dinner,” she demands, like we’re on a secret mission or planning a tryst. “The one with the floppy leaves.”

Pleasure rolls down my spine at the thought of a tryst with Addie.

She’s gone again before I can respond, but the peace she leaves me with lingers through the day.

It’s inexplicable.

I inhale the last piece of grilled chicken on my plate, having eaten the quickest meal of my life. All evening, Addie has run around, ensuring everything is organized, players have what they need, and nothing catches on fire. She’s doing a wonderful job.

She’s passed my table twice, and each time her footsteps slowed.

It’s been a torturous day, wondering about her ‘something’ and why we need to meet at the potted plant. The meeting location is throwing me through a loop. Floppy leaves. Does the shape of the leaves mean something?

A hint perhaps?

She glances over her shoulder before she exits the large ballroom, and I wait thirty seconds before I follow her. I offer quick goodbyes to my teammates, promising Henry I’ll wake him up for breakfast, and make my getaway.

The foyer with the elevator is quiet and empty.

I scan for the plant with the floppy leaves, but there are half a dozen plants, and all of the leaves could be described as ‘floppy’ if you look at them for long enough.

Where did she go?

I’m standing around like an idiot, surveying leaf shape, when Addie appears out of thin air, hands tucked tightly behind her back. Her eyes sparkle with excitement and nervousness, and I’m lightheaded from her presence. How have I never noticed before how incredibly beautiful she is?

It’s the kind of beauty that grows with her joy, and right now she’s radiant.

“Here.” She shoves a covered trash can into my grip. “They didn’t have a basket, and this was the next best thing.”

“You got me a trash can?”

I’m not ungrateful, just surprised by the unorthodox gift and why she needed to give it to me at training camp. Is she suggesting I’m messy?

The bin is heavy, and as it jostles into my hand, noise emanates from the container.

“Look inside,” she presses, hands clasped tightly together in front of her. I lift the lid, and air whooshes from my lungs. “I wanted you to feel special, too.”

I stumble and scramble to catch the falling trash can, full of snacks and small toys, like Addie raided the store for everything they sold. And like lightning crashes against my chest, I feel it—the elusive zing.

It’s difficult to pull air into my lungs, and Addie mistakes the silence. She steps forward, hands outstretched to take back her gift, and I rip it against my chest. Her steps pause, and uncertainty flashes across her face.

“I-I’m sorry. I overstepped. I just thought—”

“T-Thank you.” The words are thick with emotion. “This means a lot to me.”

There are few words to express how much this simple kindness means to me, and none I can express right now. Her eyebrows crunch together, then her features soften, and she takes a step and places her hand on my arm the same way as last night. It’s a comforting gesture, and though I don’t have the words, they don’t feel necessary, like she understands on a deeper level.

“There’s a note inside,” she says, her touch leaving tiny zaps along my bicep as she removes her hand. It seems like there’s more she wants to say, but she shakes her head. “See you tomorrow.”

She leaves me holding onto the trash can like a stuffed animal, heart racing, and I dig out the note with a shaky hand, desperate to read the words she wrote. Her handwriting is as beautiful as she is, all slopes and curves.

Declan,

I’m always here if you need a friend. I picked up a few things you like—which I know because it’s my job, not because I’m a creep. Just so we’re clear.

You deserve to be noticed and acknowledged.

- Addie

I stumble back to my room, barely holding back the tears that prick my eyes, and dump the contents onto the bed. There are my favorite snacks—brownie batter protein bars and kettle potato chips—and a box of the fruit snacks I steal from the nutrition room by the handful. Mixed in with the snacks are small toys and sticker books full of cartoon characters.

It’s one of the kindest things someone has ever given me, other than the recipe book the girls put together last Christmas.

The zing hits me square in the chest again when I pull out a face mask at the bottom of the trash can labeled with a Post-it note that says, something to keep you looking pretty. A small laugh pulls from my chest, and I fold the paper and slide it into my wallet.

A memento to remember this moment.

I’m assembling the small Lego toy—a bright red sports car—when the bubbles in my chest finally settle.

Oh my god, I zinged!

For about ten seconds, I sit catatonic on the bed before I scramble up, repack the garbage bin with my treasures, and book it down the hall toward Deon’s room.

Flutters as strong as a hurricane gust bang around my chest as I sprint down the hall. Pressure builds behind my eyes with overwhelming joy, and I bang on the hotel door, one hand holding tightly to my gift.

“Deon. Deon. Deon. Deon!”

The door flies open, and he stands in the doorway, shorts barely over his hips, one hand holding his phone close to his chest and the other covering his pelvis. His dark skin is flushed, and he’s breathing heavily like he was just…

Oh.

“Were you—”

“ What? ” Deon snaps, giving me a death glare for interrupting his private time.

Any other day and his glare might hurt my feelings, but I’m riding a high so strong that not even he could kill it. I just fucking zinged . This is officially the best day of my life.

“Hi, Nathalie!”

“Hi, Declan!” Nathalie responds cheerfully, though the sound is muffled by Deon’s bare chest.

“Are you dying?” Deon asks, frown deepening.

“No?”

Before I can say another word, Deon slams the door shut, leaving me standing in the hallway with an odd sensation in my chest that I’m pretty confident is my zing, but I need him to confirm.

I bang against the door again.

“Go away!” he screams, “I’m busy.”

He can get busy another time. Right now, I need the Seattle Super Spies. They’ve all zinged, so they know this sensation well.

“I think I zinged,” I admit, and a moment later the door flies back open and Deon stares at me with wide green eyes.

“You zinged?!” Nathalie screams through the phone. “How? Who? Where?”

The grin I offer Deon is so bright, so large, it could be seen from space. I bounce on my toes to expel some of the energy building in my body.

I zinged.

A deep voice calls out from the other end of the hallway. “You fucking zinged?”

My head jerks at the uncharacteristic swearing as Jack moves down the hallway, his phone in his hand and a bewildered look on his face.

“Wow, word moves fast,” I mutter.

“I texted Maren and Sawyer,” Nathalie calls out.

“I’ll call you back later,” Deon says, peeling the phone away from his chest. His eyes soften before he hangs up and drags me into his room.

“Declan Roosevelt Monroe!” I cower at the use of my middle name as Henry flies down the hall.

“Roosevelt?” Deon asks, grinning like he struck gold.

“I didn’t choose it,” I grumble. Nor do I know either of the people who chose it for me. It has no meaning or value to me.

The four of us pile into Deon’s hotel room, and I’m shoved onto the bed, barely turning before I crush the plastic bin and all of the important things inside. Once I’m positive nothing was broken, I turn to my teammates who stand at the edge, each with a different facial expression.

Henry is wide-eyed, confused, and slightly panting.

Jack is wearing a massive grin as he assesses me.

Deon is slack-jawed, but his gaze is wary and unsure.

Personally, I am floating on cloud nine.

Since I began dating again after my rookie year, a connection with someone has eluded me. I’ve gone on dates and I’ve been clear in my intentions, but I never found what my friends have found. Turns out what I was searching for has been right in front of me, I just didn’t know I needed to look.

“We’re waiting,” Henry says, tapping his foot.

“It happened.”

My heart does a one-eighty flip in my chest as I picture Addie’s tentative smile as she extended the bin in my direction.

“ And?” Deon’s voice jumps an octave. “You were down my throat about falling in love and zinging last fall, and all you’re giving us is ‘it happened?’ Details. Now.”

“She gave me this,” I lift the trash can, “and then I felt it. The zing .” I open the lid, and they lean forward to peer inside. “It’s a care package.”

“How long have you been dating? When do we get to meet her? Is she cool?” Jack reads out the questions from his phone. “Maren is a hard-hitting journalist, but I second her questions.”

He smiles down at his phone when another message dings, but he doesn’t share this one with us.

I blanche when all the attention is back on me.

How do I tell them I zinged with Deon’s favorite nutritionist, who happens to work for the team we play for, which could get weird, especially if she didn’t zing with me?

I’m still in a state of bliss. I haven’t quite made it to the point where I can digest the logistics and reality of the situation.

“You’ve met her,” I say quickly, hoping they miss it, then add, “She’s super cool. The best. Totally awesome.”

Deon’s eyes narrow, and he takes a step forward. “How long have you been dating?”

I don’t miss the undertone of suspicion in his question.

“Well…” My mouth opens and closes a few times, “The thing is—”

“Spit it out, man!” Henry yells.

“It’s Addie!” I scream in response, clutching the trash can.

Why does he need to yell? I was working my way there, just trying to find the words without sounding like a crazy man.

“ My Addie ?” Deon questions.

“She’s not your Addie. She’s my zing,” I counter.

“She’s also her own person,” Jack adds, bringing Deon and I back down to Earth. That was going down the wrong path.

Henry flops down onto the bed beside me. “I think I’m missing a few pieces.”

I explain how I stumbled upon her date from Hell and saved her, and the picnic we had after. How we called Deon to mess with him and her intercept after I gave them their boxes. They wince when I tell them why she asked how I was doing.

“I know it wasn’t intentional,” I add, when the quiet becomes suffocating.

“Just because it wasn’t intentional doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt you,” Jack says, laying a hand on my shoulder, “I’m sorry. You should never feel like you’re on the outside looking in.” He peers down at the bin, which I still hold tightly to my chest, as if it will disappear if I let it go. “But it seems like someone recognizes that.”

“What are you going to do?” Deon asks.

“I don’t know.”

“Ask her out,” Henry says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world and there aren't a million scenarios where that is a horrible idea.

“We work together,” I counter.

Deon waves a hand. “There’s nothing in our contracts that says we can’t date staff. Just have to declare it with HR and sign a waiver.” Every head in the room swivels to him. “Did none of you read the full contract before signing it?”

“My mom did,” Henry says.

“I got a lawyer. Said it was solid,” Jack adds.

“Nope.”

Retrospectively, not my smartest choice, but I was twenty-two, offered a salary with more zeros than I had ever seen in my life, and given a path where I could offer Alan the same generosity he offered me. No amount of legal jargon was going to stop me from signing on the dotted line.

“Insane, but your contract is not stopping you from seeing if she’s interested.” Deon pauses. “Do you want to pursue something?”

The golden question. When I think of Addie, it’s hard to contain a smile. But when I think of the scenario where she rejects me after I’ve zinged with her…it might crush me.

I take a deep breath and steel my nerves. I have to believe I zinged with her for a reason. Call it fate, or the universe guiding us to each other, but I would be a fool to ignore the feeling, even if it leads to rejection.