Page 3

Chapter Three

Ivy

He stands taller than everyone else. Did I notice that a few days ago? Did I realize how tall he is when he walked away from me?

I easily remember the way his hand felt in mine. Easily remember the way his eyes seem to change color, sliding from one shade to another with the slightest emotion.

“Fucking hell,” Katie says following my gaze.

Scott scowls at the number of people in the bar, hesitating by the door. I watch as he scans the crowd, his cap still pulled low over his face. A black t-shirt similar to the one he was wearing the other day stretches over his shoulders. His jeans are tight across his thighs, falling atop a fresh pair of sneakers. He clutches a jacket in his hand, knuckles almost white at the grip.

Maybe he doesn’t like crowds?

My gaze travels up those gorgeous arms finding his face, his eyes. They just happen to be boring right back into mine.

The blush is inevitable. This is the second time in as many encounters that he’s caught me staring. Damn it .

I need to get it together if he is going to continue frequenting the bar.

A few eyes follow him as he crosses the crowd toward us. There’s talk and whispers as he passes but as he walks toward me, no one calls out to him like they know him and no one stops him in his path. I knew I didn’t know him from school. My gaze flickers to the table of over-fifties gossip queens as they watch with wide eyes .

The blush deepens so much my cheeks are in danger of going up in flames as Scott stops in front of me. The mahogany bar top separates us and I swear there is a hint of a smile on his face as he leans over it toward me. “You allowed to drink on shift now?”

Katie looks between the two of us, shock evident in her eyes but a mischievous smile plays on her lips.

“What? No,” I reply, shooting a quick look over my shoulder at Katie before making my way around the bar. Coming to stand by Scott’s side, he turns toward me. I can only just see over his shoulder.

Yep. I definitely didn’t realize how tall he is.

I gulp, clutching the glass tightly in my hand. Waving my hand behind me, I introduce my friend. “This is Katie. Her parents own the bar.”

“Ah,” he replies. He nods a little in Katie’s direction as a greeting.

Katie jumps forward. “We haven’t met. You are?” She leans forward, hand extended, but Scott keeps his gaze firmly on me.

“Scott. New to town. Not just visiting,” he tells her without looking away from me. The heat positively burns in my cheeks as his eyes rake over my face, dropping down my body. I shift my balance from one foot to the other, and back.

Is it getting hotter in here?

Someone should crack a window or something.

I take a long sip of my beer, hoping to soothe the nerves jolting through my body.

He orders a drink when one of the bartenders that are actually working comes around our side of the bar. Another water, this time with some lime. Katie disappears into the crowd, her eyebrows wiggling suggestively at me as she walks backward behind Scott’s back.

I want to say something, anything.

The need to prolong his presence as long as I can steals through me and tightens my chest. “Settling into town okay?” I ask. He frowns, shaking his head, brows pulling together tightly .

“What?” He leans in and asks, voice raised. He can’t hear me over the music.

I laugh, taking another sip. The beer in my hand is almost drained now and my head is a little fuzzier for it. Resting a hand on his shoulder, I push myself onto my toes to close some of the distance between us. What I can’t close, he does himself, dropping his head.

Another shiver runs down my spine and my grip on his shoulder tightens. As I guessed, he’s made of solid muscle.

Damn .

I need to stop reacting to him like this. I don’t even know him.

“I said, are you settling into town okay?” I repeat. I feel his nod, face so close to mine if either of us turns our heads we’ll be less than a breath apart.

His words fall over my ear, warm and deep. It causes yet another shiver. Goddammit . “It’s been fine. I’ve never really liked Boston so I guess it’ll be an adjustment.”

“If you don't like it here, why did you move?” I ask.

“Work.”

He pulls back, a lull in the music making it easier to hear as I reply, “Oh. That’s right, you said you work for the Broncos right?” I try not to miss the feel of his warm breath on my ear.

I’m given another nod.

“You do?!” Katie’s excited squeal makes me jump. Oh good, she’s back.

He keeps his face neutral but the shift in his eyes, the slight crease between his brows, hints that he doesn’t like the interruption anymore more than I do. My heart thumps harder in my chest and I will myself to relax.

“What do you do over there?” Katie cries, rocking on the balls of her feet excitedly. I cringe. Katie is a football fan.

Well, her boyfriend is a huge football fan so that makes Katie a football fan by default.

“Um—” Scott shifts uncomfortably.

“My boyfriend is a huge fan. He’s around here somewhere. You guys should meet,” Katie babbles, her eyes darting around the room looking for Grant.

I sigh, my eyes dropping to the floor as I try to discreetly take a deep breath. I like Grant, I really do. But I hate talking about football.

I hate watching it.

Hate anything to do with it really.

“You wanna make an escape while she's distracted?” The deep voice purrs quietly into my ear, spoken so closely that the words are just for me.

I raise my head, meeting his gaze. Still no smile. But my heart clenches at the thought of saying no and before I know what I’m doing, mysterious man Scott is following me toward the fire exit out the back.

The small table and chairs in the alley are normally for staff. Half the kitchen chefs smoke and like to come out here every thirty minutes to kick stuff around as they complain about whatever is pissing them off: the quality of the fish delivered, the long hours, Doug sending back yet another steak dinner because it isn’t cooked just how he likes, even though it probably is.

Scott sits across from me, legs outstretched, bright yellow socks peeking out from the hem of his jeans. I sit cross legged on my chair, the empty glass rolling between my hands on the table.

“She’s intense,” he comments, breaking the settled silence between us.

I huff out a laugh. “You’ve no idea.”

“I haven’t seen her before.” I feel my brows raise in surprise at his comment. He waves a hand at the back door. “Around here, I mean.”

“You only came in for the first time a few days ago.” I cock my head, studying him. I am so curious about this man. Has he come here often since we met? Does he look for me?

I kind of hope so. Even though that thought has me wishing I worked more shifts.

“I’ve come most days since then too. I live in the apartment building next door.” He nods his head to the new sky rise built on the next block over.

“Ohhh, so you’re rich rich,” I reply, following his gaze to the high-rise building.

This almost pulls a laugh from him. I can tell by the twitch in his lips and the tiniest shake of his shoulders. And his eyes shine, the green shifting shades the slightest bit. I will crack him. I’m determined.

“Because of the apartment I live in?” he asks.

“It’s brand new. And I remember the walk through. They were selling for millions. Right near the stadium, a building with a rooftop pool, a gym, and a theatre. This whole area is going to be developed. Or so says Doug, I guess.” I shrug.

“Right. Well, it kind of came with the job.”

“They’re paying for you to live there?” Now it’s his turn to shrug. “Woah. That’s a pretty decent perk.”

“I was a tough sell,” he says slowly.

“Because you don’t like Boston?” He nods, fingers twitching before they start the same out-of-rhythm tapping that he’d done the day we met.

Silence falls between us. A comfortable, easy silence. He continues his tapping and the glass continues to roll between my fingers. Our eyes meet, catching a few times as I sneak glances at him, and every time they do my stomach does somersaults.

The third time it happens, I hold his gaze. Curiosity rises in me again. “You just look so familiar. I just don’t know where it’s from.”

“Do you like football?” he says as if to answer the question.

My shoulders tense. Eyes dropping as I set the glass upright. He stops tapping, sitting a little straighter in his chair. I let out a breath. “Uh, no. I don’t. I’m not really a fan of it. At all.”

“You … you hate football? ”

I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, nodding. “Well, hate is a strong word but I guess, yes? I hate football,” I reply, holding two fingers on each hand up to emphasize the word hate .

“Have you always hated it?”

This catches me off guard. I cock my head to the side. “No. I guess not. My Pops took me to games as a kid, when I was five or six maybe. But …”

He waits for me to continue on my own but when I don’t he presses on, eagerness slipping between the neutrality of his voice. He wants to know. He’s interested. Interested in me.

“But?”

“I dunno … I guess overtime I just lost my enthusiasm for it and as I grew up I realized that maybe if football hadn’t been a thing, my—'' I stop myself, pulling my bottom lip back between my teeth and chewing. I was about to unload my family history on this guy. On a guy I’ve met twice. On a guy whose last name I don’t even know.

“It’s just not my thing.” I finish, lifting a shoulder.

He nods, expression guarded and unreadable. Damn, I was making progress and now it’s all gone to shit.

The football talk definitely ruined it.

I swallow hard, trying to clear the lump forming in my throat like it did whenever football is up as the topic of discussion. “I guess working for a team, you must like it?”

He hesitates for the briefest moment before answering. “I love the game. It’s … it’s a safe space for a lot of players and I respect that.”

“Are you a psychologist?” I ask, throwing out a guess at his job.

His lips twitch. That hint of laughter is back and my heart soars at the small victory. “I majored in psych in college, yeah.”

“You must know a few players then?”

“A handful.” He studies me before asking, “Do they ever come into the bar? Have you met any?”

“Me? No. I would run the other way,” I say shaking my head.

“You don’t even like the players? ”

“The game is …” I pause, rolling the right words on my tongue before saying them aloud. “Intense. The people that play it, the rules, the fans. You get involved, even just a toe dip, and you're thrown into this world where between September and February, everything revolves around which team plays when and who wins and why didn’t they win and the ref is blind and it’s always the other players fault …” I smile, a memory churning in my mind. “I went through a stage in high school where I got back into it, sort of.”

“Let me guess, you were a cheerleader and you were forced to watch from the sidelines?” Scott leans back in his chair, smiling. I relax into mine a little as well.

“Ha. No. Although, I think it killed my Nan a little that I didn’t want to try out for the squad,” I say.

“If you weren’t a cheerleader then …”

I sigh, cringing a little as I admit, “I dated the quarterback. For a very long six months of my life I was dragged to game after game, practice after practice, trying my best to get into a sport I hated. He would get so annoyed that I didn’t give a crap about his stats or his throws.”

“So you dated a douche?” Scott says with a smirk.

“In high school.” I smile. “I hear he’s very respectable now.”

“Did he go on to play college ball?” Scott leans forward, resting those beautifully sculpted arms on the small table between us.

“Truthfully, he wasn’t very good. I didn’t keep track but I suspect he wouldn’t have made a starting line-up.” The corners of Scott’s mouth twitches upwards and I mark another tally, almost winning on the imaginary scoreboard.

There is a beat, and then he says, “You’re honest. I like that.”

“Am I?” I ask.

“Mm. Not a lot of people would live in this part of town, work in a sports bar so close to a stadium and have the balls to admit they hate their Super Bowl winning team with everything they have. ”

Laughter bubbles up and spills over. He takes off his cap and threads his hands through his hair, smirking. He waits for my laughter to die, watching me intently, before speaking again. “So you wouldn’t date another football player?”

“I’m a bit past my college boys phase.” I try to laugh the question off. “But no. Probably not. Athletes just remind me too much of my—” I stop again, changing directions. “It’s easier to just veto them all together.”

“I see,” he says with a nod. Silence settles again, this time thicker than before and less easy.

“Wait, you didn’t say what you actually do for the B—”

“Ivy?” Katie pushes open the door to the alley, the thumping beats of the music pouring out after her and filling the quiet alley. “It’s our—" she hiccups, giggling. “It’s our song. Come on!”

I smile at her, getting to my feet. When she disappears back inside, I turn to Scott. “She’ll kill me if I don’t get in there.”

“You best go then. Wouldn’t want you to end up dead on my account.”

Something stops me, one hand on the door, the other now being tugged relentlessly by Katie trying to get me to follow her. “I’ll see you ‘round?”

He smiles. A real smile, not just a hint.

Yes . Another point to me.

“Hope so.”

***

The sunlight filters through the cracks of my bedroom curtains. The red glow from the time on my alarm clock illuminates through the room.

It’s half past nine in the morning. Good god, I never sleep past nine .

I try to sit up. My empty stomach growls and the shots from last night pound against my head, reminding me of the terrible decision I made to stay and dance with Katie after my talk with Scott.

He had disappeared into the night and I hadn’t seen him again. At least, not until I’d stumbled home and into bed. My dreams were filled with his green eyes, that sharp jaw and those small lines that appeared near his eyes when I’d almost made him smile.

The dream had played the night over again, except every time Katie had interrupted us, I’d told her to fuck off and Scott had pushed me against the wall. Dream me had relished his hands on my body, in my hair and between my legs.

I groan, the dream slipping from my memory the more I try to remember the way his fingers had darted over my skin.

Fuck.

My phone chimes from where it lays on the floor next to my bed, along with the shorts I’d been wearing. I can see my bra hanging on the chair across the room and my shirt from last night is near my bedroom door. I’m honestly useless when I’m drunk. Once I decide it’s time to go to bed, nothing can stop me.

My skin hates me for it because I never remember to take my makeup off before passing out. Luckily for me, it’s rare that I ever drink. But I still pay for my one-track mind with a break out.

I swipe my phone from the floor and drag myself to the bathroom, setting it on the vanity as I turn on the water.

My mind screams at me as I splash the cold water over my face. My phone chimes again. Blinking through the water still dropping from my lashes, I tap the screen to life.

Katie’s replies to my ‘ home ’ text last night are first. Then a message from another of my colleagues this morning, asking about what day I plan to go in to set up my classroom. But the last two are from my Uncle Jeff .

He’s not really my uncle. He coached my dad when he was playing football in college and then moved down the street from us. His daughter is a few years older but we practically grew up together. She is one of my best friends.

Uncle Jeff: Hi kiddo, wanted to check in and see how you were doing with Billy still being in hospital? Do you need anything? Cathy is making lasagna this week for dinner, want to join us? No pressure but would be good to see you. Also, found this picture of you with your mom and dad at a game we played against UCLA. If I’m remembering right, this was the first road game your mom brought you out to. Same game your dad set his passing yards record. He showed off for you, kiddo. Thought you might like to see it. Love you. Come for dinner. Uncle Jeff x

Uncle Jeff: *1 Attachment*

I stare at the picture that now fills my phone screen.

No older than a year, I sit on my mom’s hip. But while my mom is smiling brightly at the camera, the Harvard football jersey she wears hanging off one shoulder, my dad stares down at me and I up at him.

We have the same eyes. Back then mine weren’t as defined and the color not as dark but they changed as I grew. I glance up at my reflection and then back to the screen in my hand. My hair color is the same as his, but the rest of me is pure mom.

I study the picture on my screen. Dad has sweat drenched hair and the black paint under his eyes is smeared down his cheeks but his smile is so wide, so bright. The edges of his eyes are crinkled. One hand is on the arm my mom is using to hold me, tight against my mom’s body as he holds us both close to him. The other is thrown up above his head .

I can imagine him trying to wave his hands around, trying to get me to smile for the photo, but I can’t remember the day. I can’t remember if I’d been tired and crying or excited and laughing through the game.

I can’t remember and I can’t ask.

Everything in me wants to know the story. I can probably ask Uncle Jeff.

But I won’t. I can’t.

I type back a text agreeing to dinner and thanking him for the photo.

Stepping under the hot spray of the shower, my mind is still reeling. My newest photograph of my parents and I takes center stage of that chaos. I pool water between my hands to wash my face. I lean my head back under the spray and let the water run freely through my tangled hair. Over and over again. The picture plays like a memory in my mind. My chest tightens. I feel the air in my lungs become heavy. I try to swallow yet fail. I gasp, trying to catch some air but water just runs over my dry lips, chasing down my neck.

Damn it.

I don’t need this while I’m hung over. I close my eyes, holding them shut as tightly as I can as I will myself to hold back the tears that sting behind my eyes.

The cruel reality of it all is that football makes me feel so connected to my dad. Every time I catch a glimpse of a game, of a play, I wonder if he’d ever run a play like that. Anytime I see a post on Instagram about a player and their stats, I wonder what it all means and if my dad’s stats had been better or worse. I have questions yet the only person I want the answers from is gone.

In the end, I can’t stand the reminder of what I lost. Every time I am, I’m thrown back into all the pain and the hurt and it feels as if it consumes me for days. The cycle repeats over and over.

So I avoid it .

The tears come despite my efforts and I let them. I allow myself to forget where I am for just a little while until the water starts to run cold. When my skin wrinkles and my eyes finally dry, I step out.

I wrap the plush towel around my body, swiping my phone off the vanity. Heading back to my room, I throw on some clean shorts and a t-shirt. I grab my keys, pulling my shoes on before heading downstairs and out the door.

By the time I get back from seeing Pops, a shorter visit due to the hangover and unexpected emotional overload thanks to Uncle Jeff, I’m exhausted.

I strip off my clothes and pull on some clean pajamas. Scrolling back through the messages, I save the photo from Uncle Jeff into the hidden folder on my phone and then connect it to the TV sitting in the corner of my room.

Scrolling to the beginning of the album, I press play on the first video.

My mom’s laughter fills the room. Squeals of delight from my younger self and a badly mimicked roar of a lion coming from my dad follows. On the screen, I watch them smile, and laugh, and live.

This is all I have left.