Page 21

At 2:17 in the morning, I give up on sleep. I gave up on Parker—or waiting for her to talk to me—hours ago.

Between Parker’s lack of eye contact, and curt answers, it was almost a laughable attempt. But there wasn’t anything funny about how panicked she sounded on the phone earlier. I could tell by her breathing there wasn’t just something that scared her, but something that made her scared to tell me about it.

I guess it’s a cruel realization of what they mean when the pot calls the kettle black.

Untangling myself from my sheets, I leave my room, carefully finding the stairs I’m not used to going down in the middle of the night in an apartment that’s dark except for a faint light coming from Parker’s room.

Before I’ve taken two steps down, I pause, gripping the banister as she walks toward the kitchen and front entry of the apartment.

For a second, I don’t think anything of it. She could be thirsty. Or hungry. Or bored.

But the lights in the kitchen don’t go on. Instead, I hear a gentle click. My chest tightens and I wonder if she’s left in the middle of the night. But then there are two more clicks and Parker quickly returns on the same path she took and goes into her bedroom, shutting the door.

Mumbled noises come from there, and I listen carefully. It sounds like she’s locking and unlocking the door over and over.

I right myself and walk down to the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water and returning upstairs to my bed hoping sleep will finally come. But before it does, I hear what I just saw—Parker checking the door again before retreating to her room and locking up.

She does it another three times before I get out of bed again.

“You alright?” I whisper from the top of the stairs.

Parker tilts her head up toward me. The movement is soft and smooth, so I know I didn’t startle her.

But something obviously did.

I’ve never worried about intruders or break-ins, and that was before I had Secret Service outside my door.

“Parker?”

The light coming from inside her bedroom allows me to inspect her face. There aren’t any obvious signs of crying or worry. There’s nothing wrong that I’m able to see. But I guess being haunted by something isn’t always visible.

She folds her arms across her middle. “Go back to sleep, Fitz. Everything’s fine. It’s just a bad night.”

Before she enters her room, I’m halfway down the stairs.

“It’s locked,” I tell her. “I promise.”

For good measure, I move down the rest of the stairs and to the front door. I can feel her eyes tracking my movements even in the mostly dark space. I press my hand to the door and pull on the handle. The door doesn’t budge.

I let go and turn. Now it’s Parker who has startled me. She’s moved from her doorway to just steps away, as if she didn’t trust me and needed to see for herself again. Her eyes are no longer on me. They’ve drifted to what I stand in front of.

I tilt my head to intercept her eye contact. “Don’t you know you’re safe with me?”

“You’re asking because you have the luxury of not knowing what it’s like to not be safe inside your own head.”

I take a step back, nearly stumbling into the door.

She’s right. I don’t. I can’t begin to imagine. But what I don’t tell Parker as she steps around me, checking the door once more before retreating into her room, is just how I worry now knowing she does.

* * *

NICK

Maybe you should consider running for office after you retire. This is from the other day.

I pause at the top of the stairs, opening the link Nick sends next. It’s an article about the other night’s event.

FIRST LADY LANDS IN REBELS TERRITORY WHERE HER FUTURE SON-IN-LAW POLLS HIGHER THAN HER HUSBAND.

Of all the things I’ve read about myself, that headline has to be the most ridiculous.

I’m not sure why you’re upset. You wanted to google me and not find Foller, here you go.

Nick

Who says I’m upset?

Also, I just RSVP’d to your engagement party. Invite came yesterday.

I tip my head to the side and walk downstairs into the kitchen where I find a vase of flowers on the island and cardstock decorated with calligraphy leaning against it.

The President and First Lady are happy to welcome you to join them in celebrating the engagement of their daughter, Miss. Parker Montgomery, to Mr. Fitzgerald Rhodes.

Parker strides into the kitchen while securing her robe and pauses, her arms still holding the tie.

“Did you know anything about this?”

She picks up the vase. “Mom mentioned something about it the other night. Get the door, would you?” Parker calls over her shoulder.

I take quick steps, doing as she asked. “What are you doing with that?”

“Do me a favor, give this to someone else.” Parker barely steps out of the doorway I’ve just opened for her, addressing Agent Samuels. “Maybe they’ll look nice in the lobby.” She swipes her hands together after handing off the flowers and shuts the door with her hip.

“What?” she asks, seeing the confusion on my face and starts making coffee. “I hate lilies.”

Moving around me, Parker returns to the kitchen and opens the cabinet where she rehomed the mugs.

I tap the cardstock against the table.

“When is it?”

“A little more than a month from now. End of June.”

Parker nods with the mug against her mouth before pulling it back to yawn. “Don’t be surprised if the wedding is the day after. Something tells me after that event the other day, they think it’ll be in your best interest to be their son-in-law sooner rather than later.”

Her tone is light and playful, but Parker bringing up the event sours my stomach.

She glides to the stove, opening a lower cabinet for a skillet before slipping past me to the fridge.

“You once burned down all of Captain’s Cottage trying to bake banana bread,” I remind her as she sets a carton of eggs on the marble island. “We had to use the fire extinguisher.”

Parker laughs. “Yeah, well, with maturity comes knowing how to properly use an oven. And make a semi-decent breakfast. What do you have going on today?”

“Practice with some receivers. Not until one though.”

“You should go back to sleep,” she tells me as I yawn.

“Can’t.” I look down at my watch. “I’ve got a sit-down with Coach before.”

She freezes at the sink. “How does Nick feel about you sneaking around with Mr. Foller?”

“Nick is a drama queen who hates to be left out, not my keeper. We’re talking about Coach Foller,” I tell her. “ Mr . Foller was the guidance counselor.”

“I’m aware. I practically lived in his office junior year,” Parker retorts. “I probably spent more time with him than you.”

“Still. Two different people.”

“Right,” Parker says. “Like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”

I roll my eyes.

“I’m just saying,” she begins, “I never got much guidance from him.”

Defensiveness gets the best of me. “Maybe he gave it to you but you weren’t open to it.”

Her eyes snap back to mine. Maybe that was harsh, but Parker doesn’t argue so it really can’t be all that untrue. After Honey died, there were very few people Parker actually listened to. I was one of them—until Coach had me steer clear of her.

“Foller guided me. A lot .” I emphasize the last two words. “In high school. College. In the League.”

I won’t push it and inch closer to having to admit that Coach was the reason I dwindled away our friendship. That wasn’t on him more than it was on me . I mean, he might’ve not put a gun to my head. But he was in my head like any role model, and all I’d hear was You are the company you keep . And at the time, he had convinced me that the only thing hanging with Parker would get me would be a prison sentence and not a Division I scholarship. In hindsight, that does seem extreme. But then again, we’re about to commit marriage fraud at a wedding the president is hosting for us.

“ You did the work, not him. I’ve never met a successful person give the majority of credit to someone else the way you do.” She slides over a bowl and the eggs before I can respond. “Can you crack these?”

“Of course.” Apparently, I’m all talk because pieces of shell accompany the first egg into the bowl. When Parker’s back is turned, I stealthily guide one up and out with my finger, tossing it into the sink and hoping it goes unnoticed, and it seems to. Parker appears more interested in my second intense yawn of the morning.

“I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

“Last night? Or every night this week?” When I see the shame swim in her eyes, I shake my head. “It’s fine. I’m just a light sleeper.”

It’s fine to leave it at that, because it’s the truth. But truer is that her behavior has me sick inside knowing she doesn’t feel safe here.

“This building, it’s pretty secure. There’s a doorman, CCTV?—”

Parker takes the bowl from me, moving back to the stove. “I never said there was a problem with the building.”

Parker didn’t say that. I just don’t know how to open the subject any more delicately. Because I worry that even though I’m being careful, like I was with the egg, I’ll chip away a piece of Parker I won’t be able to put back together.

“Do you do that every night?” I ask against my better judgment. “The thing with the doors?”

I’m wondering if up until this week, maybe I haven’t slept as lightly as I thought.

She lowers the heat. “Just on bad nights.”

What the hell does that mean?

“I once read most couples divorce within the first year because of one of two things. Money and communication issues.”

Parker snorts. “Well, I guess we don’t have to worry about fixing anything with a divorce pending.”

Well, that one stung. But do I have a right to be upset? She can’t exactly throw something in my face to hurt me when she has no idea I’ll be hurt by it in the first place.

Parker moves to a drawer beside me, grabbing a silicone spatula. “Look, I’m sorry about last night?—”

“You don’t have to be sorry?—”

“Double-checking the doors isn’t an every night kind of thing.”

Parker didn’t just double -check the doors. She infinity checked them every single night for the past three days.

“Does it have to do with your back?”

I watch the way her shoulders tense as she freezes and immediately, I feel sick.

“I just have a little anxiety after a break-in a while ago.”

My arms folded across my chest drop to my sides. “Someone broke into your apartment?”

“I was asleep.” Parker turns. “Nothing bad happened though.”

“We clearly have very different definitions of bad ,” I snap because the thought of someone violating her space while she’s vulnerable leads me to fist my hands into tight balls. Her downplaying it makes me more frustrated, just as it did when I rushed home after the event. “Parker?—”

“Can we drop this?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

She raises an eyebrow, shocked by my challenge.

“I need you to tell me what’s really going on,” I say softly. “I’ll help you blindly. But I’ll help you better if you show me how to do that.”

Her eyes drift to the side. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

Parker’s attention snaps back to me, her face hardened, stoic.

“I believed you when you told me lightening came from a big camera in the sky.” I watch the softening of her face fight through the tough front she’s forcing.

“I wanted to keep playing hide and seek. I lied so you wouldn’t be scared of the storm. We were kids then,” she reminds me.

I shrug. “Maybe I grew up, just not out of the part where I always believe you.”

Parker hangs her head. But all I get is a bitter taste of her silence and secrets.

“Fine. I’ll be going with you to the campaign events from now on. I refuse to have any more frantic calls from my wife when she feels unsafe in a place I’m not.”

Parker flings her face up. “We’re not married yet,” she reminds me.

“We will be. And I’ll be at your side for every event leading up until I leave for camp in July. After that, we’ll figure something else out. Don’t even try to argue.” I glance at the front door. “Now be honest with me. Is there somewhere else you’d feel safer living?”

Parker snorts. “If I say yes, are you going to move?”

“Yes.”

A soft wave of surprise rolls across her face, like it’s the first time Parker has ever heard anyone make her—and her well-being—a priority.

“I wouldn’t think twice,” I add. “If you told me you didn’t feel safe, I’d take you anywhere you felt peace.”

After a solid thirty seconds, of silence, I begin to wonder I wonder if she’s figured out I’m talking about more than just changing our living situation to something she’s more comfortable in.

“You already gave me peace, Fitz.”

“I did?”

“Yes. It’s at the barn, where I’m heading now.”

* * *

Something hits me in the face, and I jump.

“Sorry.” I reach for my third coffee of the day. “Didn’t sleep well.”

“When I said I wanted to pick your mind, that meant I needed it present , Fitzy.”

Putting down my cup, I straighten, rising to attention.

“Trouble in paradise with your lady already?”

“Parker isn’t a problem.”

“Good.” Coach snorts. “Because I might’ve been a counselor once in my life, but not a marriage counselor.”

Drumming my fingers against the table, I gnaw on the inside of my cheek for a second. Maybe I can get some advice without dragging Parker into it.

“Actually, you got a second to put on that counseling hat?”

“I just told you?—”

“It’s not about me and Parker. No it’s…” I scratch the back of my head. “You know, we have all these babysitters. Secret Service. It’s annoying as hell. They’re at my door all the time, if we’re on the go together, they’re on our tail.”

Coach sits on his desk, folding his arms. “Sounds like this is an issue for the White House, not me.”

“No, I know they’re doing their job and all, I get it. And they’re not bad guys. But one of them”—I pause, trying to think on my feet—“you know, one of these retired Marine types, when it’s his shift, he constantly checks in.”

“Isn’t that his job?” Coach laughs. “Making sure you—or your girlfriend —is safe?”

I don’t really think this is the time to correct him on a matter of semantics and redirect this conversation. “Right, yeah, it’s his job. But like every fifteen minutes at night? I hear him opening the door constantly, looking around, and closing it.”

This story is more of the opposite of what Parker is doing, but the behavior is the same.

“It’s like he can’t stop. Like it’s?—”

“Obsessive?”

“Maybe.” My shrug comes naturally because I didn’t have the word before, but that’s it. “I feel bad for the guy. Should I say something?”

Coach shrugs. “You said he was a marine?”

I nod because I think I did.

“Therapy.”

“That’s it?” I ask. “Therapy?”

Somehow, I get the feeling that Parker, who barely let me into her corner, is willing to talk to a therapist.

“Well, under normal circumstances, I’d suggest therapy and cards.”

That went in another direction. “Cards?”

“A game of solitaire might take his mind off it. Sounds like he’s got a little OCD. Might be related to some sort of trauma on the job.”

I tilt my head to the side. “Isn’t that when people are obsessed with being clean and organized?”

Coach waves a hand. “Not always the case. OCD is when obsessive or repetitive behaviors are used to compensate for stress in here.” He taps his temple. “Symptoms don’t always have to be severe. But I’d say if someone with that kind of background is repeating checks a dozen times at night, it’s a pretty extreme case related to some intense trauma. He’ll have to work on taking his mind off it when the intrusive thoughts kick in.”

“Only on bad nights.”

Coach isn’t interested in carrying this on any longer because he rises, moving back to his desk. The play on the screen resumes.

“Only way to beat a zone defense is with a quick arm”—I point at myself—“and fast as hell receivers. We’ve got that.”

With trades and contracts coming to an end, we’re not losing much in terms of offense. And with the new guys the Rebels have signed, we’re stacked .

But they always say, defense wins championships. And we took a loss there.

My phone buzzes from inside my pocket, and I do my best to ignore it. This might be an informal meeting, but I know better than to show Coach my head is out of the game, even during offseason.

“I’ve got a newbie out of Michigan I want you to work out with.”

I nod. “We’ve already talked. Meeting next week.”

Coach turns back to his laptop, searching for another play. Now I check my phone.

Parker

You can come to the event next Tuesday. The only other thing I have before that is a luncheon down in Connecticut.

I eye Coach, whose eyes are still focused on his computer.

Why can’t I come to the lunch?

Parker

Because it’s a ladies’ luncheon and I’m not sure how good you’d look in a dress.

You know I can pull off your lipstick though.

“What we’ll do,” Coach says, drawing my attention away from my phone, “is have you on day two of rookie camp. I’ll let Tommy have reps on the first day, so you come out and join us on Tuesday, and let’s see how far we can really stretch these guys.”

I tighten my hold on my phone. “Tuesday?”

“Is that a problem?” Coach asks, looking up at me. “Aren’t you planning on coming the three full days?”

“I can’t Tuesday. I committed to something.”

“Oh yeah?” he asks. “What’s that?”

Coach takes my three and a half seconds of silence for an answer.

“I thought you said you weren’t involved with the campaign.” He leans back, putting his feet up on the desk. “Here we go.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means, I was just hoping we’d even make it to preseason before it started,” Coach snarls.

I stand because something doesn’t sit right with me at the moment. “Before what started?”

“You being distracted.”

I widen my eyes. “Because I’ll be missing one day of a rookie camp I’m not required to be at, I’m distracted?” I point a finger at him. “You’re out of your mind. I’ve never missed a practice before. Not even a voluntary one.”

“Exactly. Not since she came around. You’ve also never had the balls to put a finger in my face before her either.”

I try to relax my shoulders. “Look, Coach. Parker?—"

“Fitz, I don’t give a shit who gets your dick wet. The point is we’ve been down this road with that girl before and clearly, you’ve learned nothing.”

Something inside me begins to change, and I have to bite my tongue to keep it in check. Because sitting across from me is the man who made me what I am today, the guy I’ve respected more than anyone in my life, on and off the field.

It wouldn’t be right if I got up and punched him right now.

So right now, I don’t. But the way I can’t push back the feelings leads me to believe that doesn’t mean one day maybe I won’t.

“We’re back to high school, aren’t we?” Coach scoffs.

That’s the thing. I’d kill to go back to high school so I’d be able to say then what I’m going to now.

“Parker isn’t a problem,” I repeat. “She never was.”

Coach’s jaw tics.

“I just got you a Super Bowl?—"

“ You didn’t get me anything. You might be the icing on the cake, but you’re not the batter that makes that shit up, Fitz. Let’s be clear about that. I’ve been coaching this game since you were in diapers.” He leans forward on his elbows. “As for your girlfriend?—”

This time, I correct him. “Fiancée.”

“Whatever you call her is your business,” Coach snaps. “ My business is coaching a winning team. You’re either all in or you’re all out.” He stands, closing his laptop, and walks toward the door. “If you’re all in her, you sure as hell aren’t here where you should be.”