Page 21

Chapter Twenty-One

Scott

With every twist of the steering wheel, my shoulder tweaks. Pins and needles spread through my nerves, buzzing under my skin. The wild card game tonight killed me. My arm is half way to numb; my shoulder in pieces. The Pittsburgh defenders played the game of their lives tonight and made it their mission to sack me every chance they got.

I’m a wreck, exhausted and in pain, and the only thing keeping me upright is the idea that any minute now, I’ll be kissing my girl.

I haven’t been back to the apartment since before Christmas, when Mom and Dad were visiting. I’d let them into the apartment when they arrived. Ivy and I had dinner with them a few times, but when it had been time to call it a night Mom and Dad had gotten into my bed there while I’d gone home with my girl and gotten into hers.

My home is wherever she is and she is most comfortable in her own bed, so that’s where we sleep.

Playing the Sunday night football spot means we stayed overnight in Pittsburgh last night and got through morning physical therapy before flying home this morning. Tomorrow, a Tuesday, is a day off meaning when I get into bed with Ivy tonight I get to wake up to her too.

Normally, I’m up and dressed before she’s even fluttered an eyelid. I’m kissing her goodbye before she’s fully awake. But tomorrow, I get to stay. I get to watch her morning routine, pick out her outfit, listen to her talk about the day she has planned .

Life before Ivy was different: football, my parents, and more football. My Tuesdays were another day of reviewing game tape, and stretching, and training at the gym.

Now, Tuesdays are about slowly waking up with her in my arms and lazy mornings. They’re about cleaning up the house while Ivy’s at school, about going to the grocery store to get her favorite ice cream if we’re out, about visiting her Pops over lunch to get to know him and talk football with him.

My career used to be everything.

Now, Ivy is everything. Football is a bonus.

As the Boston brownstone comes into view, I relax back into my seat. Somewhere in the last few months, I fell hard and fast for the Boston born girl that lives on this tree covered street. I’ve been hooked since day one. Football feels almost like it’s nothing if she isn’t there cheering me on, too.

I park in the usual spot alongside the street lamp lit sidewalk in front of her house. Her car sits in the driveway and there’s light filtering out of the front window and illuminating the small garden. I grab my bag from the back seat, wincing as I throw it over my shoulder and head toward the house.

Something flashes behind me, lighting up the dark street. Then another, and another.

What the fuck?

I turn around to find two people carrying large cameras, extra lenses hanging around their necks, stepping around a car a few yards away from my own. They continue to snap pictures. The continuous flashing blinding me as I’m rendered motionless.

The fucking paparazzi?

What the hell are they doing here? Do they really have nothing else to do ?

I’ve seen the posts. The constant stream of those three photos that got leaked and continue to get posted over and over. A few of Ivy’s Instagram photos got reposted on gossip sites but following me home? Surely not.

“Hey, Harvey,” one of them shouts. “Rough game. Glad to be home? How’s the new relationship? Working out?”

I grit my teeth. None of that is his damn business. I hold my tongue, ignoring them and pulling my cap further down to hide my face. I’ve been through enough media training to know that I can’t answer them otherwise they get what they want but that doesn’t stop me tightening my grip around the handle of the bag thrown over my shoulder to stop myself swinging at the slimy idiot.

Does Ivy know they’re here?

Did they follow me home or were they already here?

I’d been so lost in my own thoughts; I didn’t notice until they started taking pictures.

I turn the key in the door, the feeling still new. After the Christmas day game, I noticed the new addition to my key ring. We didn’t speak about it but now, instead of knocking, I let myself in. I keep the door close to my body, shutting it as soon as I slip inside.

I kickoff my shoes and turn the lights out. I can hear the studio laugh track of what I think is a Friends episode echoing down the hallway. I leave my bag at the bottom of the stairs and make my way into the living room.

Ivy is sitting in her corner of the couch. She’s curled into the cushions and covered by one of the many blankets she keeps on the couch. As suspected, Friends plays in the background but Ivy’s attention is solely on her phone as she scrolls.

I’ll bet my Mercedes SUV that she’s scrolling through those pap photos.

“Hi, baby,” I say, keeping my voice quiet so as not to make her completely jump out of her skin. I fail and Ivy flinches anyway. I laugh but it feels hollow. “Sorry, didn't mean to scare you. I thought you would have heard me come in?”

She sits up, her hair falling over her shoulder as she stretches. The t-shirt she’s wearing lifts, giving me a nice view of the curves I love to trace endlessly in bed, or when we’re on the couch, or whenever I get my hands on her.

There aren’t any lights on. Just the reflection from the TV and the low light coming from the bright flames that flicker in the fireplace.

Ivy stares at me for a moment. Her navy-blue eyes look almost black in the low light but I can see her tracing my features. Like she’s taking notes. Committing me to her memory. I do the same when she falls asleep before me and I find myself not believing she’s actually real.

“Hi,” she whispers finally. She puts her phone down on the couch cushions beside her.

I move toward the couch, wanting to touch her. I feel her slipping. Like ever since those fucking photos got leaked, somethings been off and she’s pulling away. Becoming distant.

I feel helpless. Her hair is tired on top of her head in a messy bun. There are dark circles beneath her eyes. She’s tapping her foot against the edge of the couch in a random rhythm. I know she’s spiraling but if she doesn’t let me in, there’s nothing I can do other than watch from the outside as I lose her. It only makes me want to grab a hold of her tighter, lock my arms around her, do whatever it takes to convince her that we can work through this.

I kiss her but she doesn’t melt into me in the way I’m used to, in the way she normally does, like the weight of the world washes away when my lips touch hers.

“Did they follow you here?” she asks quietly.

Goddammit.

“I don’t know, baby.” I take a seat on the couch next to her. “They’ll get bored eventually. Someone will get done for drinking too much or a newbie will get in trouble for their celebration dance and they’ll move on.”

She shakes her head the tiniest amount.

“I’m sorry,” I say. Because there really isn’t anything else I can say. Her walls—the big ones I spent months breaking through—are back up and this time, they’re a few extra meters thick.

She’s staring at me again. Or, staring through me.

Then she’s moving. She flies off the couch, the blanket that was wrapped around her body falling to the floor. Ivy moves around the couch and into the kitchen, away from me.

Her hands wring together in front of her. It’s like she’s itching her palm, scrapping her nails over and over the skin. I stare at the movement. Her anxiety is flowing off her in waves. I slowly get up from the couch and move around it to stand with her in the center of the space between the living room and the kitchen. It feels so fucking familiar.

It feels like the night I told her about playing football and she told me to leave.

Except this time, there’s an edge to her movements. My bet is on her feeling like she’s losing control of the emotions she keeps locked up inside. All the stuff around her parents, losing her pops, the way she blames all of it on football.

She’s unraveling right in front of me and there is nothing I can do about it.

“Ivy,” I say. I don’t move toward her. I don’t reach for her even though every bone in my body is begging to touch her. The tension ripples between us and I fight with myself about what to do here. How to handle this. She’s pushing me away. She’s soft sand falling through the cracks of hands desperately trying to stop something as inevitable as gravity. I can’t help it when the doubt starts to creep in.

Have we been headed here the whole time?

Was I fucking naive to think we could work this out ?

After Christmas, after she started watching the games, I thought maybe there was a chance. Get through the season, see how we land in the off season and figure it out.

Contract talks and deals are being put on the table and I haven’t touched any of it because I’ve been terrified of this very moment. The one where she tells me to leave and I won’t be able to change her mind.

If deep down, I thought she really was done and really didn’t want me, I’d leave.

But she doesn’t want this to end either. It’s a hunch but my gut is telling me there’s more to whatever is going here. That this grudge about football, the anxiety around the press is only surface level. That they are masking feelings much deeper and much more unresolved after being left to simmer for so long.

She’s blinded by the past, and the unresolved feelings, and the hurt she’s been carrying around for so, so many years. I want to shake her. I want to make her talk to me. To talk about it all. If she got it all out, we could have our chance to make this work.

Instead, I am helpless. I stand on the other side of her walls simply praying for her to build a door to the other side for me. I can help her tear the wall down from the other side, but here? I’m stranded.

“I told you … I told you I can’t do this … I don’t want to deal …” she hiccups. There’s no tears on her face. Her eyes are glassy and the firelight is reflecting back at me as her chest heaves with the words. But she’s not crying. Not yet. Like she’s holding herself back

“Baby.” I start towards her. She takes a small step back but I decide that I need to touch her. I need to remind her that we, public or not, are still us.

I reach for her face, cupping her cheek in my palm.

“Please don’t call me that right now,” she whispers.

“Don’t do this,” I plead with her. My thumbs stroke the soft skin of her cheeks. I memorize her beautiful face and commit her every expression to my memory .

Silence falls around us. A single tear runs a lonely path down her cheek.

I don’t move away or remove my hands from her face or break away from her gaze.

If I do, she’ll close herself off entirely. She will hide away from the world until all the delayed grief that seems to be bubbling to the surface is back in a neat little box. I will lose her to her own mind.

“Are you breaking up with me?” I ask quietly, my thumb catching her tears.

She shakes her head, her eyes closing. Another few tears drip from the ends of her lashes where they rest against her cheeks. I wipe them away, too.

“It hurts,” she says shakily, “It hurts so much.”

“What hurts?” I have my suspicions yet I want her to say it out loud. To admit it to me.

She’s grieving.

“I can’t … I …” She sucks in air like the mere thought of vocalizing her pain only causing her more. I take a deep breath.

“Can I kiss you? Please?” I ask. I wait until she nods before pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to her lips. When I pull away, I rest my forehead to hers. She sniffs and it makes me smile, just a little.

My girl is trying to be so strong right now.

“It’s okay to be scared, Ives,” I murmur. “You’re working through a lot in that head of yours. I wish you would let me help you but I know that sometimes, admitting you need help is hardest even to those closest to you. Do you think talking to someone who isn’t me might help? I could do some research. Find someone—”

“No. No, I won’t … I don’t need to do that.” She is shaking in my embrace now. Shivering in my arms. “Maybe … maybe I just need some space.”

My stomach lurches. No.

No way .

“Are you breaking up with me?” I say through clenched teeth and try to remain calm. This girl is beautiful, and funny, and I’m pretty sure my soulmate but fuck she is infuriating.

I stroke my fingers down her throat, finding her pulse point and counting silently to ten in my head. Her pulse is racing. Beating so fast under the tips of my fingers. I wrap my arms around her and pull her into my chest.

If she isn’t ready to talk to someone, then I can’t force her.

“I don’t want to lose you,” she says into my chest. “But everything is too much. I can’t … I feel like I’m not strong enough to handle this. I’ll figure it out and then it will be fine.”

I can’t be sure if she’s talking to me or to herself so I stay silent, holding her close to my chest. The chest she fits so fucking perfectly against. Like she is custom built to fit me, in every way.

Yeah. No. We’re not breaking up.

“I’ll go sleep at my place,” I say quietly. The decision seems to break her resolve and I can’t be sure if it’s because she’s upset that I’m doing as she asks or just relief in not having to make the decision herself. “But we’re not breaking up. So no ignoring my texts for weeks this time, okay?”

She manages a small, broken laugh that muffles straight into my chest.

“We’re not breaking up,” I repeat. I pull back a little, my hands snaking up her arms to gently wrap around her neck, holding her head in place so I can say this while staring directly into her eyes. “You can have as much time as you need to get your head around it all. You can have your space. But we are not done. I’m not done. And when you’re ready, if you want, I am here to help you figure it out.”

Then because it’s probably the last time for a while that I’m going to get to, I kiss her.

Thoughtfully, and long, and sealing of a future that I will fight on both sides for until she’s ready.

** *

Waking up in the king-sized bed this morning felt all wrong.

I searched for her the moment I woke up and the events of the night before came rushing back to me the minute my hands found a cold, empty bed.

Fuck.

My chest hurts already and it’s been less than twelve hours since I was with her. Not for the first time today, I rub at the pain as I wait in the hospital room. I’m early today. The bag of cheeseburgers from Shake Shack sits on the table beside me and I fidget with my phone.

I lean back on the couch and close my eyes. Ivy’s face fills the black behind my eyes and I rub my chest again.

Just as I decide to send her a text—something I refrained from this morning even though it almost broke me—the door to the hospital room opens and Billy is wheeled inside.

“Aren’t you supposed to be walking around?” I ask, getting up to help him back into bed. When he’s settled, I shake his hand.

His grip is weak and his hand falls limply into his lap when I let go.

“Not today,” the nurse that wheeled him in answers for Billy. “We’re a bit tired today so only one cheeseburger and lots of fluids.” She eyes me sternly, pointing a warning finger at the bag before leaving us alone.

“How are you feeling?” I ask, pulling the chair Ivy normally occupies closer to his bedside.

“Like I’m dying,” he says dryly, I try not to laugh but I can’t help but crack a smile. The fact he still has some sense of humor at the end of his life astounds me. He shifts on the bed, trying to get himself comfortable. I itch to help him but after I tried the first time I came for a Tuesday lunch and he all but barked at me to sit back in my seat, I refrain. Ivy is the only one he’ll let fuss over him.

“So,” he says once comfortable. He reaches for the grease-stained bag and I pass it over. Gingerly, he takes out a burger and unwraps it. “How’s our girl?”

“She tried breaking up with me last night. ”

Billy shakes his head. “I was afraid she’d try to do that.”

“We’re not. Breaking up, I mean.”

“Didn’t think you would be,” he says, mouth full of his bite. “Have you seen you around her? You’re obsessed with my granddaughter.”

I laugh, lounging back in the chair and grabbing a burger of my own. I unwrap it and take a bite. Billy and I just sit in silence, enjoying the fast food and the company. When he’s done, he places the wrapper on the roll away table hovering over the hospital bed.

“I’m dying, Scott.” I swallow my bite without chewing and cough. Goddamn, this man has no filter. He stares at me hard as he continues, “I need you to look after my girl. No matter how hard it might be, I need you to stick with her. Have a bit of patience.”

I can only nod.

“I’m serious.” He shakes his again, eyes closing as the ghost of a smile crosses his face as if he’s remembering a fond memory. “She’s so stubborn. Just like her mother.”

“What were they like?” I reach for the bottle of water I brought with me, needing to clear my throat.

“Matty was my son so of course I loved him. But Sara? She was the daughter we never had. I remember when they came home one weekend in their freshman year and told us Sara was pregnant. I’ve never told Ivy this but Sara was out of her mind scared at the idea of being a mother.”

“Really? Ivy speaks as if she was a natural.”

“She was. We used to tell Ivy that all the time when she was little and it’s true. But at first, Sara was spooked. Matty was the one to calm her down, to convince her they could do it. He was smitten with his daughter from the moment they found out Sara was even pregnant.” He reaches for his own water on the side table with one shaking hand. “Sara had a plan. Being pregnant in her freshman year of college wasn’t part of the plan. She was convinced they wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

I dip my head, thinking of the walls Ivy puts up when I try to get her to talk about football and the connection .

“I love my granddaughter, Scott,” he says. “She’s the light of my life. But she’s stubborn. She has been holding a grudge against an entire sport her whole life and along the way, I think she’s forgotten what a connection it could be for her to her dad. She needs some time to come to that conclusion on her own.”

“I have no intentions of going anywhere,” I confirm. I clear up the burger wrappers and place the remaining burgers in the bag back on the couch with my coat. I’ll likely eat them later.

“I was so happy when she told me about meeting you. When she told me you were a football player, I was … well, happy.” He takes a small sip of his water, the straw shaking as he tries to capture it with his mouth. “You are her gateway. To move on, to let go, to find the connection with her dad and finally just start living.”

“She’s been watching more of my games. I think it is getting easier for her,” I say in agreement. “If only those photos hadn’t leaked …”

Billy rests his head against the pillows, exhaustion flooding his features. He looks more and more fragile every time I see him. Today is the worst he’s been.

Fuck.

“I love her, Billy,” I tell him quietly. My elbows rest on my thighs as I lean forward in the chair and watch him.

His eyes close and exhales in a sigh of relief. “I know you do.”

“I want to marry her. One day,” I add. “She’s it for me.”

“Good.” He nods with his eyes closed. After a moment, a tired smile spreads across his lips. He cracks open one eyes and glances over to me. “She wears Matty’s ring around her neck but Sara’s engagement ring is in the safe in my bedroom at the house. The code is Ivy’s birthday.”

“The … what?” He tells me all of this so casually that I do a mental double take when processing his words.

“You can buy her something new if you want to. But just in case you want to use her mom’s, I’m telling you where to find it.” He pauses again, shifting in the bed and his face screws up in pain. It’s only for a moment and when the moment passes Billy finally opens his eyes again. “We both know I won’t be going home.”

His words today continue to hit me like tidal waves. Over and over, they keep coming. I’m starting to think he’s being blunt on purpose, like he knows something we don’t so he’s hammering his points home.

Eventually, I nod.

“Okay. I’ll keep that in mind.” Billy only nods in answer. He leans back into his pillows before pointing to the remote and I take the wordless command to turn on the game from Sunday. He loves to walk through the plays with me.

We watch half the football game, keeping our conversation on the routes and the plays and the touchdowns.

Sometime in the fourth quarter, knowing my visit with him is coming to an end, I look over at him.

“I’ll look after her, Billy. I promise, I will.”

“I know you will, son.”