Page 23

Beckett

Lights hang from what seem to be carelessly strewn strings attached to poles cemented in planters, strategically placed in each corner of the rooftop. Tables litter the surface, with the occasional heat lamp standing over them, glowing a faint red against the smoggy night sky. It’s only mid-September, but Toronto can start getting cold at night pretty early.

I tug on the beak of my hat, pulling it lower over my face as I trail behind Pat and Nowak, the one beer a week I have during the season cold in my hands.

It’s pretty crowded for a random bar on a random rooftop—but Nowak swore up and down when we left the practice field that it was the best undiscovered gem in the city.

Seeing as it looks like it’s mostly college-aged hipsters, and we’re a group of twenty-nine-to-thirty-one-year-old men, I’m not sure I’d give it the same label.

But he might be onto something, because I doubt anyone cares that Beckett “Near Miss” Davis is here.

He stops abruptly at an empty table pushed up against the edge of the rooftop, swipes a hand through his messy brown hair, and pulls out a chair.

Pat looks around, eyebrow rising apprehensively before dropping into the chair beside Nowak. He clears his throat, tipping his beer towards us. “Thanks for staying late today.”

“Don’t tell Coach Taylor I was running.” I finally did what he asked, stayed late when the stadium was empty, practiced routes with Pat, using another skill I have that turned out to be useless, while Nowak watched and stretched.

It was his idea to come out. And if it was two months ago, I would have made up an excuse.

But I think a nice part of being real would be having real friends.

Pat smiles, one corner of his mouth kicking up when he shakes his head. “You can still catch, man. You sure you want to spend the rest of your career shouldering the expectations of a team, barely getting credit for a win but taking all the responsibility for the blame?”

No.

I’m not sure what I want, and I’m about to toss out a typical Beckett Davis grin and deflection. That I always get the credit. That I’m going to win and I’m going to break the next record.

And then I hear it.

They’re only a few tables away. She’s louder than usual, and her voice seems raspier. I can feel it against my skin, rolling down my shoulders all the way to my fingertips that clench against the perspiring bottle.

Dark hair pulled back into a ponytail, lights illuminating the planes of her face, and pillowy cheeks pink against the night air.

Her sister sits beside her, holding up a phone that looks like it’s in the middle of a FaceTime call, and a perspiring ice bucket with a bottle of wine sits between them.

Greer leans forward, this sort of wistful expression on her face. “I’d just love to grow a liver that could grow itself, you know.”

“No,” Stella answers.

“None of you are listening to me.” Greer waves her hands in front of the phone before pointing at her sister. “I’m saying that there’s an unexplored area of regenerative medicine that could eliminate the need for living donations. Only one percent—”

Stella groans, drowning out Greer, and I wish she hadn’t. I could listen to her talk all night.

I take my hat off, running a hand through my hair, before flipping it backwards. I don’t really care who sees me—as long as she does.

It’s quickly become the highlight of my day when Greer sees me. Whether it’s when she opens her door for me, eyes like that peering up at me from the low light of her hallway, full lips in a soft smile. Or when she gets to my place, eyes always wandering around the towering ceilings of the apartment, the worn exposed brick, until they land on me.

She’d never admit it, but she’s always happy to see me. I can tell by the way her cheeks soften, how her nose wrinkles and she smiles more freely than she does anywhere else.

I feel a bit more worthy when she looks at me, because it’s never just a look. Not with a girl like that.

A girl I wish was a lot more than just a friend. I’d consider bringing it up again, but I’d rather not scare away the best thing in my life, so I’ll have to sit on that for a bit longer.

“What are you—” Nowak squints at me before following my gaze. “Who’s that?”

I shrug, take a sip of beer, but I’m smiling. “Just a girl I know.”

“Look at his fucking face!” He hits Pat in the shoulder of his throwing arm, only glancing sideways when Pat jerks it out of his reach. “Oh, sorry. But look at that little smirk. Just a girl, Davis, really?”

No. Not even close.

I tip my chin. “I volunteered with her at the hospital. She’s a transplant surgeon.”

Understanding dawns on his face, and he turns around in his chair, hanging off the back like a child.

“Willa, Kate.” Greer’s voice rises, and she shakes her head. “Neither of you are being helpful so Stella and I are going to hang up now.”

“Hey!” Her sister jerks the phone further from her grasp. “I wasn’t done talking to them.”

Pat winces, grips his jaw, and shakes his head. He leans forward with a poor attempt at a stage whisper. “Bit like you’re eavesdropping, man. Let’s just go over there.”

“She’s with her sister.” I shake my head.

But Stella glances over her shoulder, eyes going wide when they land on me. Her mouth pops open before it shifts into a delighted sort of grin. She smacks Greer’s shoulder and turns back to the phone, now propped up against the ice bucket. “Sorry, you two, we do have to go. Greer’s special friend is here.”

Greer turns, ponytail swinging across the back of her jacket, and she angles her head, eyes impassive as she studies me.

But she says my name with the faintest hint of a smile. “Beckett.”

I clear my throat and raise my bottle. “Dr. Roberts.”

Her sister makes a big show of hanging up the phone and grabbing extra chairs while she waves us over.

I wait for permission, because I only really care about whether Greer wants me over there, and one shoulder lifts in a shrug, like it’s nothing, and she turns back to her glass of wine.

It’s not nothing to me—to be invited into this small sliver of her personal life—and I don’t think it’s nothing for her either.

Pat pointedly walks to the other end of their table, avoiding the empty seat beside her.

Stella swirls her wineglass against the table, liquid rising around the edges and trailing down, and smiles knowingly. “What are you doing here?”

“This is Grant’s favourite place.” Dropping into the seat beside Greer, I jerk my chin towards Nowak. I glance sideways at her and mouth, Hi .

One eyebrow rises and I think she smiles at me when she takes a sip of her wine.

“This is my favourite place.” Stella places a hand to her chest, chin tipping up in the same way I’ve seen her sister’s when she’s feeling petulant, emphasis on the “my,” like this shitty rooftop is something either of them could claim ownership of.

“Wanna arm wrestle for it?” Nowak grins, turning one of the chairs around and sitting backwards, resting his arm across the back.

Stella sits back in her chair, straightens her shoulders, and folds her arms across her chest like she’s considering it. One ringed finger taps against her jacket.

“This is Grant.” I point towards Nowak before he swipes everything off the table and does try to arm wrestle her, and I tip my head towards Pat. “This is Pat. We played together in college, actually.”

Greer glances between us, lips parted ever so slightly, lines of her Cupid’s bow defined in a way that makes me want to run my thumb along it, before she tips her chin up. “Did he bore you with facts about Napoleon, too?”

Pat shakes his head, confused. “No?”

I toss an arm around the back of her chair and tap her shoulder. “Those are just for you.”

“Lucky me.” She wrinkles her nose, eyes finding the sky.

But then she looks back at me, and I think it’s just us here.

“Okay.” Stella leans forward, snapping her fingers between us. “Obviously my sister has forgotten her manners in front of Mr. Gatorade, but I’m Stella, and this is Greer. Forgive her, she says she’s had a weird day.”

Greer inhales, eyes on me for a minute longer before she turns back to her sister.

She doesn’t say anything, and she stays quiet most of the night.

Stella and Nowak don’t shut up, so it’s not like anyone could get a word in edgewise anyway, but I don’t mind sitting in silence with her. With them.

Kind of like the me I used to be before—but I think I might prefer this version because he knows her.

At some point, they all get up with poorly veiled excuses about needing to request a song change, or in Stella’s case, claiming she needs to talk the bartender through the proper way to mix a Hugo spritz.

It’s just us here, and I’d have to glance sideways to see her, but I’m already looking because I’ve been staring all night.

I tap her shoulder again. “Why was your day weird?”

She turns to me, exhaling, like she’s considering what to say, chewing over her words the way her teeth find the inside of her cheek. “I was with my psychiatrist today, and he keeps asking me what I want to do when my fellowship is over. A lot of questions I don’t necessarily have the answers to.”

A small line of worry etches between her brows, and the corners of her lips turn down.

All that does is remind me how full they are—how she looks too beautiful to be sad.

“What typically happens after a fellowship?”

She shrugs. “You become an attending somewhere. In my case, I’d find a position here or somewhere else and I’d just ... keep taking from people.”

I reach up, brush my thumb along her cheek and shrug. “I think you give more than you take.”

She blinks up at me, eyes wide and bright under the hanging lights. She has a lot of secrets, and this seems like another one, so I let her keep it and press my thumb to her cheek before letting go. “I didn’t know you see a psychiatrist.”

Greer smiles ruefully. “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me.”

“You could tell me, you know. Friends tell friends things.”

She tips her head and sets the wineglass on the table.

She doesn’t kiss me hello or goodbye. She doesn’t kiss me if we aren’t having sex.

But she kisses me tonight.

She tips her chin up, like she’s considering something, weighing the merits of her choice, but something in her face softens and some part of her wins, because she leans forward and brushes her lips against mine.

Lightly.

Like she doesn’t want to add the weight of anything more.

She doesn’t realize she’s not a heavy thing.

Her fingers whisper across my shoulders, up the lines of my neck, until each one of her palms finds either side of my face.

Her mouth lingers against mine, and when she finally pulls back, her eyes are a bit hazy, lips slightly parted and cheeks flushed with alcohol.

“You’re drunk, baby.” I grin when I say it because I can start to see those wheels turning in her mind as she realizes she’s overstepped whatever lines she’s drawn for herself, and I think she needs something that’s going to give her permission to step back from whatever ledge she’s teetering on.

She narrows her eyes, something shutters behind them, and she points at me. “No baby .”

“I call all my friends baby. Just ask when they get back.” I tip my beer towards Nowak’s empty seat.

They do come back—Stella sans Hugo spritz, and the same tracks playing over the speakers—and they look between us, a bit like teenagers waiting for some big reveal.

There isn’t one.

If the girl beside me hadn’t made me real, I’d say the whole kiss was a figment of my imagination.

And it might as well have been, because Greer points at me before turning to Nowak and Pat. “Does he call you baby?”

“What?” Nowak looks confused for a second before he sits back down and decides to play along. “Oh, yeah. He does. Here.” He reaches into his pocket and tosses his phone onto the table. “You can check our texts. Baby this, baby that.”

Her lips pucker, and she eyes the empty bottle of wine on the table. “Stella, we should go.”

Stella glances back and forth between us, assessing, like she’s trying to parse out what did or didn’t happen, before she rolls her eyes and pushes to stand. “Fine. Nice to meet you both.”

“It was nice to meet you.” Greer echoes her sister as she stands, careful not to brush up against me at all. “Good luck this Sunday.”

She offers Pat and Nowak a perfunctory smile before she turns to me.

“Night, Dr. Roberts,” I whisper.

She blinks. “Good night, Beckett.”

We look at each other for probably too long before she grabs her sister’s hand and tugs her towards the door.

“Davis.” Nowak sets a palm on the table and shakes his head, messy brown hair flopping down over his forehead like it’s rueful, too. “You’re so fucked.”

I make a noncommittal noise and glance back over my shoulder.

She’s holding her sister’s hand, weaving through the tables, growing more and more crowded the later it gets. But she stops right before the door, and she looks back at me, too.

She doesn’t say anything, but she raises a hand and wrinkles her nose before disappearing through the open door.

I watch her go, and I’m not really sure about much anymore, other than the fact that she might have made me a living, breathing person—but he’s someone who wants something I’m not sure he can have.

The league has all sorts of stupid distinctions and awards they give out each week. If you’re someone like me, you’ve probably won a lot of them.

You’ve been to the Pro Bowl, and you’ve been named to the All-Pro Team.

My season is arguably off to a great start. And usually, I’d be all about celebrating that. I’d be chasing the stupid, meaningless awards each week because who am I if I’m not winning at this?

And it’s not that I don’t care. I do. But a few months ago, this would have been the only thing in the entire world I wanted, and I wouldn’t have even had to chase after it.

They all would have belonged to me, week after week.

Old Beckett Davis was a certainty.

This me, though—I’m not sure he’s certain about anything.

I don’t know what I’m going to kick like on Sunday. I don’t think I can trust these stupid legs anymore.

Maybe it’s because that was the only thing I ever knew about myself.

But I think I’m learning other things about me.

I think real me, whoever he is, might actually be a good friend—and it’s not because I pay for things for my family, or I deliver on the field. He’s allowed to have bad days and complicated days and all the other days everyone else gets to have.

He can be who he is and still be worthy of a girl who isn’t just a girl, a friend who isn’t just a friend, brushing her lips against his on a crowded rooftop bar.

Still worthy of her time and attention and the three seconds she gifted me when she let her guard down, even though I had a bad practice that day and couldn’t kick for shit.

Maybe whatever lives inside me behind the stupid grin and the stupid dimple might be worthy of a lot of things.

I wish I was with her now, not here in this stupid chair at the stadium.

Coach does this thing each week—when we’re back to practice after a game, no matter the outcome, we don’t open the week examining our mistakes. We sit in one of the conference rooms after the morning workout and we talk about everything that went well.

This week, he talks about me.

“Special Teams Player of the Week.” Coach Taylor points the football towards me, and I feel myself sink lower in my chair. I’d turn my hat forward and pretend I couldn’t see him if it wouldn’t be so obvious.

“Four field goals. All over 50 yards. That’s not counting the extra points. You haven’t missed all season. Special teams secure wins, and you do what you need to do to make sure the offense and defense can do their jobs.” He pauses again, like he’s mulling something over, while everyone else claps or smacks the desks in front of them. “That record is yours, Davis. You’re the best kicker in the league. We’re going to be with you when you take it. It belongs to you, just like a championship belongs to this team.”

He sits back against the desk, the knots in my shoulders loosen, and I think he’s done. He’ll move on to the next thing he deems necessary to laud and the next ego he thinks he needs to inflate, so we all go into this week feeling like we’re unstoppable.

“That”—he punctuates the word with another point of the football that feels a bit like it’s cutting me—“is the Beckett Davis we know and love. That’s the Beckett Davis we need. Welcome back.”

It’s supposed to be motivational.

That’s the Beckett Davis we know and love. That’s the Beckett Davis we need.

Like that’s the only version of me that ever mattered.

Welcome back.

Each letter in those two words lands on my shoulders at once, and I don’t feel particularly worthy of anything anymore. And I bet if I looked down, I’d see the legs of my chair cracking through the concrete flooring.