Page 15 of Sideline Play (Nighthawks Dynasty #1)

FIFTEEN

SCARLET

True to his word, Remington didn’t press for more once I stopped speaking. Instead, he spent the rest of the afternoon in bed with me, telling me about his own life before he came to the Nighthawks. How he read every cookbook in the library when he was 10 years old so he could learn how to cook for his mom on Mother’s Day and afterward slowly started taking over that responsibility for her; that he wouldn’t know who his dad was if he was standing right in front of him; how at 14 he tried playing matchmaker between his mom and the mechanic who lived two streets over who she had said “looks like he belongs on a romance cover,” and instead ended up learning how to diagnose and fix cars and earning himself a job in the guy’s shop; that unlike the stereotype, he didn’t major in Psychology to fix himself or someone close to him, that it had been a calculated decision to help him better read and analyze players on the field with the backup plan of going into Sports Psychology.

Then as afternoon turned into evening, his faded country accent having grown thicker, his speech lazier, the longer he talked, he showed me the hidden TV in the mirror above his dresser. Shoving his shoulder, I had playfully admonished him for hiding it from me to which he simply asked, “How else was I gonna get you to spend every night on the couch with me?” This earned him another heated session of us kissing with me straddled over his lap, his candor intoxicating.

After, it was dinner in bed, followed by him feeding me my dense cupcakes. More movies, more kissing, more cuddling, more hands wandering but never drifting from the silently agreed upon safety zones.

Despite what I had shared, it ended up being a perfect day. One that, as I started to fall asleep curled against him, had me wishing for a hundred thousand more just like it. Provided he could look past the rest of the story, Roman’s violence, the ensuing speculations that still get dragged out whenever I do anything scandalous, and what I did in the aftermath of it all.

The peace of our day unsurprisingly didn’t follow me into sleep. The shadows had crept in and I had invited them to stay—my mind still open and vulnerable after speaking about the past.

A phantom sensation of a hand keeping my face pushed to the side as another crawls down my stomach has me startling awake with a scream lodged in my throat. Sweat mists my skin, my stomach rolls with the threat of being sick, my breath short and sharp, my eyes darting around the dark room as I search for something to begin grounding myself with.

It’s faint but it’s there, the eucalyptus and rosemary of Remington’s soap and a lingering trace of vanilla buttercream. I push through my racing heart and short breath to breathe it in, the scent of home, safety.

One… two… three… exhale.

Repeat, longer.

I’m not there; he’s not here. It’s just a dream. A memory.

Closing my eyes, I slowly lower myself back down, only to spring up when I start to feel the walls move. They’re pushing in on me, trapping me, holding me prisoner. I can’t get out of bed fast enough.

Stumbling to the balcony, I wrench the door open and the moment my feet cross the threshold, I suck in a ragged breath. I don’t stop until I’m at the glass railing, feeling the cool, crisp air on my skin. Curling my fingers over the top, I sink into a squat, a tear dropping to my knees.

This is what I’m afraid of. Moving forward only to be wrenched back, that things will always be like this. The memories watching and waiting to drag me back down.

How long can I expect Remington to put up with this? As it is, I’m already a lot of work. High maintenance being used disparagingly by others but an apt description nonetheless. This, however—if this is to be what happens when I reach for sexual intimacy, it’s too much. I can’t ask him to stick everything else out and this too.

“You’re not asking though,” he says, the surprise of his presence being that it didn’t startle me. “And you won’t have to. I’m choosing to, as you say, ‘stick it out.’”

Turning to get a glimpse of him around my shoulder, I don’t even comment on the fact that I was unknowingly talking to myself. Instead, I let out a short, humorless chuckle as I demand, “Why? This can’t be how you pictured being with me and let’s be honest, Remi, you could easily find someone with a lot less baggage.”

“You’re probably right,” he shrugs, leaning against the doorframe, shorts low on his hips and shirt stretching tight over his chest as he crosses his arms. “But I’ve done easy, and I don’t want that. I want the feeling of counting down the minutes until I see you again, the way my breath catches whenever you walk into a room, the burning possession I feel when I have you close, the unquestionable certainty that this is exactly where I belong and you are exactly who I’m supposed to be with. I told you, things feel right when I’m with you. So good, bad, ugly, I want it all and I want it with you, on your own time, at your own pace.”

Righting himself, he says, “Now be a good girl for me and get on the daybed. I’m going to turn the outside heaters on and grab the duvet because your goosebumps have goosebumps, and I’m pretty sure it’s so cold out here my balls will need to be surgically retrieved.”

Barking out a laugh, I do as he says and walk down the balcony to the daybed in the corner. Plopping myself in the center, I look up at the star littered sky and am once again washed in the sense of feeling at home. Because beneath the worry I feel, Remi is right. I don’t want easy. I don’t want to stay like this. I would rather sludge through this with him, open up old wounds and secrets, and keep him and the way he makes me feel than stay comfortable and lose him and what we’re beginning to build.

When he comes back, it’s with the king size duvet wrapped around him like a python and Winnie wearing her pink puffer vest, trotting at his side.

“You dressed Winnie.”

Briefly glancing down at her, he says, “Well yeah, couldn’t risk the baby freezing.” Dropping the duvet on the daybed, he uncovers a worn Middle Tennessee baseball sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants, handing them to me, explaining, “Extra layers. Can’t have either of my girls freezing while we camp outside.”

Pulling the sweatshirt with his name and collegiate number across the back on, I bring the collar to my nose in search of his scent, quietly commenting, “Your girls?”

“If you want to be,” he casually throws out, before pointing at the sweats and ordering, “On.”

Drowning in his clothes, I meet his moon illuminated eyes and answer, “I want.”

“Then you are.”

“That was easy,” I smile as he gets in behind me, Winnie propping only her front paws up, prompting me to lift her butt the rest of the way.

Once situated, me between Remington’s legs and Winnie half burrowed between the daybed’s back and his side, his chin coming to rest on my shoulder as his arms circle around me under the blanket, he responds, “I don’t play games, Scar. You will always know what I’m thinking, what I’m feeling, what I want. I want you to be mine, and if you want me as yours, then for me, that’s the end of it.” Pulling me in closer and leaning back against the pillows, he murmurs, “Now tell me, baby girl, what do you need right now?”

Closing my eyes, I lean my head on his, taking another moment to ground myself in the present. Immediately I’m rushed with his scent, a blanket of calm following. Under that, I can smell Winnie—both the mist of her coat refresh and her unique doggie odor that tells me a trip to the puppy spa is imminent. Breathing even deeper, I pick out the crisp air, the earthy fragrance of changing leaves, and the sap of pine. Letting it all out, I begin again.

“I’m not stupid. I know what people think when they look at me. Blonde hair, dresses and heels, lots of pink, an overpriced car, and Daddy’s credit card. I guess I just didn’t think Castor lumped me in with that since we spent so much time together and I regularly out scored him in class.

“For our first date, I wore this frilly little skirt with ballet pink rosebuds all over it and a matching pink sweater that hung off my shoulder and, because we were going to one of the fall festivals, these thick heeled boots the color of whisky that came up over my knee.”

“I bet you looked stunning.”

“Thank you. I felt so pretty. At least until he knocked on my door. When I opened it, the first thing he said was, ‘You should change.’ Looking back, I should’ve slammed the door in his face and called it off, but I didn’t. I shrugged and told him if he didn’t want to be seen with me that was fine but I was going as I was, and he could take it or leave it. He quickly apologized, said he only meant my shoes might become uncomfortable with all the walking, and because it made sense to me, I forgave him. He was always so sweet, so why should I hold one poorly executed comment against him?

“So we went together and like I said, it was awkward. I was awkward. I had never done this before and I just kept thinking, ‘this isn’t how it is in books or on TV; maybe I need to lower my standards.’”

“Never,” Remi stresses, adjusting himself to look at me head on, his hands cupping my face. “And I mean never lower your standards for anyone. If any man isn’t meeting your expectations, communicate them clearly, and if he still isn’t, he’s not the man for you. Whether you’re with me or someone else, promise me Scar that you won't ever think that again.”

Leaning into his touch and kissing his palm, I respond, “I like that about you. I don’t know if it’s because you’re older or were raised by a single mom or if it’s just you, but I like how… healthy you are.”

Kissing my forehead, he sinks us back into the daybed and murmurs, “No one is perfect, but if he’s not trying every single day, he isn’t worthy. And Scar, if your feet are ever sore from wearing your pretty shoes that make me want to do absolutely filthy things to you, I’ll carry you.”

“I wish I could have experienced everything with you first.”

“No. I wasn’t ready for you then. My head was screwed up over the loss of my ma and I still needed to come to terms with who I was, what I liked, and what I wanted. I needed that time so I could be ready for you now. Besides, first isn’t what’s important; it’s last.”

Pushing aside the sudden and far too soon idea that Remi could be my last, I continue telling him about my first date and all the signs I missed.

“At times I had fun, but this feeling of it not being right kept lurking. I was stupid though and kept chalking it up to inexperience. We did several of the rides, wandered the booths where I probably took too long and bought too many things for it being a date, ate until I was stuffed on funnel cakes, cotton candy, and tacos, and then we went to do the games. And looking back, this was when I realized I should have called things off and asked Roman to come get me.”

Feeling anxious, I sit up and turn around to face Remington, shoving my fingers through my hair and pulling until my scalp stings.

Quickly letting go, I defend, “I didn’t know. I had never done this before, and dad always said I never needed to dim myself or be anything less to appease someone else. Plus I mean, hello! Castor was playing D1 baseball and living with Ro. It’s not like it was some big secret that our dad is Colt Jones. It should’ve been a forgone conclusion I would kick his ass, but I didn’t know girls were supposed to let boys win.

“You know the game with the bottles stacked on the table and how you not only have to knock them all down but off ?” Not even waiting for him to nod, I keep going. “Well, I love that game. I kick ass at that game thanks to dad. I was so freaking excited to show Castor how good I was, so when we played, I didn’t hold back.

“But the nail in my coffin wasn’t beating him. It was when I stupidly came up behind him and started critiquing his throwing and guiding him through what he was doing wrong. To be fair, I hadn’t meant to ‘emasculate’ him. He was the one who asked how I kept beating him.

“He was so pissed off. I mean livid. He shoved me off of him and I can’t even really remember what he said, just that it took everything I had not to start crying.” Curling my hand over my left tricep, I start to grip the muscle as if the pain is still there and I’m trying to rub it out. “I just remember thanking the vendor for my prize, collecting my bags, and Castor grabbing my arm and dragging me out of there saying we couldn’t stay after I made him look like such a fool.

“I don’t know why I didn’t tell Ro or how I let Castor talk me into another date with him, but after numerous flower deliveries, surprises of coffee and my favorite candies, apologies and promises, I did. I continued going on dates with him.

“All I can come up with is that I was too afraid of throwing off the team’s dynamic if things didn’t work out, so I made them work. Which you don’t have to tell me is stupid because I know Roman would have never, ever said anything remotely close to that if it hadn’t, but especially under those circumstances. I guess I just kind of convinced myself that since he promised not to hurt me again, it would be okay.”

Falling forward so I’m tucked under Remi’s chin, I wrap my arms around him, sliding my chilled hands under his sweatshirt and up his back.

Holding me close, he kisses the top of my head and murmurs, “Scar, you’re not to blame for any of this. It’s how abusers work. Using your fears against you, giving you just enough of their good side to keep you ensnared. It’s not your fault.”

“I know,” I sniff. “Logically I know that. I just feel so stupid when I think about it. I’m intelligent, have my own resources, a great support system, am well adjusted, and yet somehow I let this happen to me and I kept letting it happen. I knew it wasn’t right, but I was too embarrassed to say anything. Too afraid to be a disappointment to my dad and Roman. And God I feel ridiculous even saying this, but Castor could be so kind and sweet and caring. It would completely eclipse everything else and it made it so easy to ignore the bad, even make excuses for it.”

Taking in a shaky breath, I reach over to begin petting Winnie, my fingers roaming across her fur in time with Remington’s hand along my spine. When I feel less on the verge of breaking down in his arms, I sit back up. Turning over so I’m looking out at the mountains and more importantly positioned so I can’t see his face, I sigh.

“After it all, when I was giving dates to the police, I was surprised to see how little time had actually passed. Living it felt… endless. Like I was trapped, dying the slowest death imaginable. When it was all said and done though, it’d hardly been more than six weeks. Time’s funny like that I guess. Six weeks with you feels like the blink of an eye, and six weeks with him felt like a life sentence.”

Playing with Remi’s hands, I waffle over what exactly to say next. I’m sure there are details from those weeks that may come up in our day to day life, but it’s the physical that keeps me in a chokehold. The forgone conclusion, at least for me, that I’ll be attempting to have sex with him despite the blockades still existing in my head. That’s the trigger of indecision, fear, and what ultimately he needs to know most.

With a deep breath I rush out, “I wasn’t raped.” Then quietly add, “So all of that is still… um… yours… if, if you know, you want it.”

“Scar…”

“I know, Remi,” I quickly interject. “I know that’s probably not really important, but… it is to me. It’s actually really important to me and when it um… was really bad in the first days and weeks after, I clung to that. That maybe I would one day still get to have that moment with a man I would be in love with or could fall in love with or even just met. That that moment, however it came, would happen on my terms. Reminding myself of that was instrumental in getting me not to give up. So me being a virgin may not ordinarily be something of importance, but it has become something of significance to me.”

“Okay,” he quietly nods behind me, kissing my head, my temple, my cheek, and down the line of my neck where he rests his lips on my shoulder. “If it’s important to you, it’s important to me. Just know–”

Patting his hand, I whisper, “I know.”

With my head resting against his, I say, “I tutored athletes while in undergrad. Callum Cutter, the Carolina quarterback, was actually one of them. Brilliant creative mind, terrible with science and math. So I saw him a lot. Not that anyone knew because he and Ro had been feuding since their freshman year and I was not about to have my loyalty called into question. Plus there was that whole getaway car incident the following semester. Not a good look for Callum’s tutor to be the one aiding and abetting those who committed arson.”

Springing free of Remington, I turn around and point, “But you did not hear any of that! Got it?” Chuckling as he pretends to zip his lips, I smile. “Good. I have my good girl reputation to uphold after all. Besides, arson is such a strong word. It was a baby fire at best. Totally controlled.”

Minor crisis averted, I settle back into the cradle of his legs, my hand slipping over to his hip and massaging the site of his surgery. As the stiffness begins to melt and a muted groan vibrates along my back, I pick up where I left off, keeping myself grounded by continuing to touch Remington.

“I was helping Callum get ready for finals, going over our notes and his testing strategies in my dorm. Unless I needed to reserve one of the practice labs, we always met in my dorm. My suitemate was never around and with all the girls on my floor, his presence in the building wasn’t called into question.

“With it being finals, he was super nervous. He had barely squeaked by at midterms, and that’s how we got placed together. So I wasn’t the least bit surprised or put out when our afternoon session crept on into the evening. I mean I was supposed to meet Ro at the house and hang out, but when Callum didn’t seem confident, I shot my brother a text saying I had a last minute session and that was that.

“When Cal was getting ready to leave, Ro called to check in on me and like the lumbering jerk he was, Cal started dragging his feet and feigning all of a sudden not knowing the material, promising to be extra quiet while I talked to Ro so he wouldn’t find out about our Romeo and Juliet doomed love affair.

“It was funny. I was laughing so hard as I tried to drag him to the door and push him out, and all the while he dramatically quoted lines from the play back at me. Finally he relented, gave me a side hug, thanked me for everything, and wished me luck on my own finals. It was all so innocent. No one could have misconstrued it for anything else so I think… I think Castor was just spoiling for a fight and grasped the first thing that was presented to him.

“I hadn’t expected to see him. Didn’t think he’d actually come check on me after I canceled on Ro. I don’t even know why he did, but he was there, in my building, on my floor, watching the whole thing. He was all charm and charisma when he bumped fists with Cal, joking about Ro shitting a sideways brick over this. But the second Cal was gone… God Remi, I thought I was gonna piss myself right there over how fast Castor’s demeanor changed. I was terrified. ”

It’s not until I feel his hands making friction over my arms that I realize I’ve begun to shake, the tremors reaching all the way down to my fingers, my teeth chattering, and my speech unintelligible as I begin to stutter profusely.

“Shh… baby girl… I’ve got you. You’re right here with me.” Joining our hands, he raises them up to my blurred eyes and coos, “See? You’re with me. Nothing bad can reach you. I won’t let it. I’ve got you, baby... Shh…”

His voice washes over me, slowly sweeping the clawing anxiety away. Each stroke, each caress of words, working to push things further and further back until I feel like I can breathe again.

“That’s it, Scar, just breathe with me. You’re safe.”

“I’m safe.”

“Nothing can reach you here.”

“I’m safe.”

“Exactly, baby.”

“I’m safe,” I repeat so quietly I’m not even sure I said it out loud as I close my eyes and breathe along with Remi’s steady rhythm, trying to remain grounded.