Page 8

Parker

The clock read 3:58 a.m. when I woke during a particularly vivid dream about Anya and my jersey. My chest heaved as I tried to get my breathing under control, and the images disappeared the longer I lay there.

“Shit,” I breathed, scrubbing my hands over my face.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a few minutes. I tried to imagine having breakfast with her after what was just in my head. Then I pinched my eyes shut because my stupid fucking brain understood that to be, imagine if you had her for breakfast .

I’d crack by day three if I kept this up.

Flinging the covers off my lap, I decided there was only one safe place for me to go.

“It’s fourth and goal for Portland, a long four yards to that end zone. What are you going for in the playbook if you’re their offensive coordinator?”

“No question about it, I’m looking for either one of their tight ends. Parker Wilder and Beckett Coleman have been deadly for this Voyagers offense the past couple of years, and why take the ball to the ground when their attack in the air has worked so well? We’re not going for a first down; we’re trying to score. Both players are tall and fast, they block well, it’s been fun to watch, and I think Wilder has been playing with a bit of edge this season, so they might look to him.”

I’d watched the clip a million times already. As the time-out ended, I could tell you exactly which player would line up where. Could tell you each flinch. Each step. Each point of their arm as we communicated prior to the snap.

There wasn’t much point in watching my teammates anymore, though. I kept my eyes on myself as I jogged to the right, hands on my hips while our QB tapped a few of his offensive lineman and pointed out something he saw in the formation.

The blitz was coming, that much was obvious, and lining me up to the right, when I normally favored the left, paired me with someone who was easily two steps slower and just a couple of inches shorter.

“Wilder is out right; Coleman is left. Who’re you throwing to?” the announcer asked.

“Wilder. He’s got some of the best hands in the league right now, and the time he’s spent in the gym this last season, he’s almost impossible to slow down. The guy is a monster. Absolute terror to defend. I’d put him toe-to-toe with anyone we’ve seen play the position in the past ten to fifteen years.”

“In big moments, you go for your big players because the trust is there,” the first guy said. “And what’s bigger than one last shot at getting your team to their first Super Bowl in franchise history? Portland down by four with thirty seconds to go. Just used their last time-out. The entire game hinges on this last play going off without a hitch. Let’s see if we’re right.”

The play clock clicked down. Christian hitched his leg up, our first sign that he was about to snap the ball. He barked the play again. Gold boot thirty-two Texas. At first, the memorization of the playbook felt impossible. Who could remember four random words and somehow know what they meant? But now, I could see every single one of them play out in my sleep. Gold was the formation. Boot the play type. Thirty-two the protection scheme for the O-line. And Texas was the cadence.

We’d practiced this all week, just the slightest tweak to the protection scheme to trick the defense into thinking I’d pull into the middle, but instead, I’d head to the corner, like I usually do, then come back to the front of the end zone after the linebacker guarding me buys the route I’m running.

And it worked. Like a fucking charm, too.

Christian clapped, the ball straight into his hands after a clean snap. I pushed off from the line while he danced back a few feet in the pocket, then I sprinted past the linebacker, who stayed with me every step into the end zone.

One of their safeties backed away from the line and edged in my direction, and it made the linebacker hesitate just a fraction of a second, assuming his coworker was covering that front of the end zone. That was when I cut back up front.

Reyes threw a rocket. An absolute dream of a throw. A dime. Couldn’t ask for anything better. Not too high. Not too low. Just far enough to the right where the safety couldn’t get a hand on it and chest high so I could snag it from the air.

“That’s it,” the announcer yelled. “Wilder in the end zone, he’s alone, perfect pass from Reyes and…”

And then I dropped it.

The ball hit my hands. And I didn’t hold on.

The defense erupted, the linebacker guarding me knocked into me with his shoulder as he ran past to celebrate with his teammates.

“I am stunned, Joe,” the announcer said. “I cannot believe what I’m seeing. Parker Wilder was one catch away from his team going to the Super Bowl. The blocking was incredible. He wasn’t even the only guy open!”

“He was the only guy their quarterback was looking at, though,” the other said, making a disappointed noise. “He just couldn’t hold on. There’s no excuse for that. When you’re the guy on your team, you gotta make those catches. It’s going to be a rough night in the Voyagers locker room after this game because if I’m Wilder’s teammates, I’m looking at him like … how do you not catch that?”

I didn’t turn it off there. I let the rest of the game play out. Watched in the dark film room while the camera panned to me on the sideline. I didn’t throw my helmet. Didn’t yell or curse or break anything.

I just … sat there. Staring at the field. Watching the other team celebrate. My teammates gave me a wide berth. Coach leaned in to say something, and my expression didn’t change at all.

“What’s he thinking, Joe? We’re not used to seeing him quite like this.”

“Honestly, I think he’s in shock. Can you blame him?”

“No. If I’m Parker Wilder, this haunts me the entire offseason.”

The screen went black, and I turned to look over my shoulder. I hadn’t even heard the door open, but I knew who it was based on the shape of his shoulders and the shiny bald head reflecting the lights.

“How many times have you watched this, Parker?”

Dr. Alex did not want the answer to that.

There was no judgment in the team shrink’s voice. There never was. The guy was well respected in the locker room, and he popped up everywhere lately, reminding me in that quiet way of his that his door was always open.

It was open when I arrived at the facilities, his light spilling into the hallway as I walked past on my way in. It was open after I spent two hours in the weight room and finished off my self-flagellation with my regular reminder of how our last season ended. It was the easiest form of punishment when I was pissed at myself because it was something I could work on.

The past two years of my life? Couldn’t change shit.

Sex dream about my wife that was a touch too realistic? Definitely couldn’t do anything about that.

But this … I could make sure this never happened again.

I didn’t answer Dr. Alex right away. Instead, I stood, pointed the remote at the screen, and turned it off.

God, didn’t it feel like someone had a remote pointed at me sometimes? The press of a button and everything shuts off for a while. The smallest reminder, triggering a wave of numbness. I never knew when it would happen, and the worst feeling of all was the helplessness that came with it. I could fake it for a while. Usually, my very best performances were saved for times with my family, but then I just … couldn’t. Everything felt heavy. Too heavy to pretend it wasn’t there.

I wondered if Anya would be able to see it. If she already had.

Hell, she probably lay awake with her own regrets too.

“Not enough,” I told him.

“Parker, congrats on your wedding! Can we get a shot with you and Anya?”

Awesome. Paparazzi outside the front of my house. What a fun, exciting development this was.

Three guys lounged against their cars across the street. The one wearing a backward hat had his long lens camera aimed in my direction. The other two were filming on iPhones. I gave them a friendly smile. “Not tonight. Sorry, guys.”

With the garage door shut, I let myself into the back door and hung my keys on the hook.

When I walked down the hallway that opened into the family room, I wasn’t exactly sure what would greet me, but it wasn’t the sight of Anya Hennessy’s leggings-clad ass on the deck as she shifted into the Downward Dog position.

“Fucking fuck,” I muttered, tearing my eyes away from the insane shape of her body.

It was warm out, and she’d set up her yoga mat in a bright patch of sun. Anya pedaled her feet back and forth, stretching out her hamstrings, and no matter how badly I knew I shouldn’t be staring, I couldn’t not look.

The leggings were a pale purple, her cropped sports bra white with complicated little straps, and when she placed herself flat onto the mat underneath her, her legs pressed to the ground, her palms flat, Anya pushed her upper body into a C-shape, aiming her face up to the sky, her chest arching out, her features were peaceful.

Yeah, probably because she wasn’t expecting to be ogled.

My gaze dropped to the lightly defined muscles in her arms, and almost instantly, my mouth went dry. Her stomach was like that too.

I remember, of course, because I’d seen her naked, and God was punishing me by shoving that image into my subconscious every sixteen fucking seconds as I went about my day.

She looked strong. Healthy. She wasn’t stick thin, she had curves, but she also had that look about her like she could kick my ass if I wasn’t careful.

What did I expect, though? She practically grew up in a gym. The woman loved to work out. The fact that she was strong wasn’t a surprise, but my brain didn’t need to know how bendy she was.

I pinched my eyes shut and pivoted toward the kitchen, where I found Louise prepping dinner.

“Have you been nice to my wife today, my sweet?”

She rolled her eyes. “Have you spoken to your wife today, you horse’s ass?”

I reached around her to sneak a sliced-up carrot, and she smacked my hand. “That’s for dinner.”

“Come on, I’m starving. I worked out for about five hours today.”

Louise eyed me, and I saw that concern again. The one she hadn’t been able to do away with for the past year. It wouldn’t have been so bad, but she worked for me before.

Before everything. She saw the difference in me that I couldn’t hide.

“That’s too much, Parker,” she said quietly. “You know damn well that working out too much hurts your recovery time during the season.”

I patted my stomach. “Yeah, but I gotta work off all that good food you’re making me.”

She shook her head. “And to answer your question, yes, I was nice to your wife today.”

Sneaking another carrot while she sliced peppers, I leaned back just enough to see Anya. She was up now, balancing on one foot, holding the other behind her body with one hand, the other hand up in the air.

God, I’d fall the hell over if I tried to do that.

Anya let go of her foot and bent over, dropping her upper body toward her legs, her hands settling palm down onto the mat. “How the fuck can she do that?” I whispered.

Louise elbowed me. “Quit ogling the woman you coerced into marriage.”

“Oh please. You should try to say no to her when she gets an idea in her head. It’s not that simple. The woman wanted her money, and who was I to say no? If she didn’t marry me, she might’ve found some random douchebag on the Strip, and then where would she be?”

“Yes, you’re a paragon of chivalry,” Louise muttered. “How’d your mom take it?”

I grimaced. “It wasn’t a long conversation. Most of it was spent with her crying happy tears and me generally not trying to feel like shit for lying to her.”

“You don’t have to lie to her, you know.”

“Helpful, thank you.”

I grabbed one of the peppers, and Louise sighed, yanking open a drawer to hand me a bowl. “Fill this and leave me be.”

“Lying to my mom, my family, serves a purpose,” I explained.

“Oh, I’m sure it does in your mind. The person telling the lie can always justify it.”

I finished filling the bowl with the raw veggies and moved to the other side of the island, pointing a piece of red pepper in her direction. “I know Sheila. She’s waiting for me to come home. They’re all gonna sit me down and make me talk about my feelings, and they’ll think it’ll help, but it won’t.”

“Of course it won’t.”

My eyebrows shot up. “You agree?”

Louise’s hand slowed, the knife easing away from the chopping board. She shook her head but didn’t look at me. “Because you’re struggling with something deeper that can’t be fixed with one conversation with your family, kid.” She swallowed. “They don’t see you every day. It’s not their fault for not knowing. I already told you my son struggled with depression in college, and?—”

“I’m not depressed,” I said evenly, trying desperately to keep a biting edge from my tone. “I’m just … I’m still off, okay? Grief isn’t linear, or whatever trite bullshit phrase they use on bereavement cards. I’m working and eating right and working out. I quit sleeping around because I knew that wasn’t helping anything, and I’m healthy. I’m not lying around doing nothing. I’m a fucking professional athlete. What do I have to be depressed about?”

She finally looked at me, and when she did, the caring in her eyes was almost my undoing. She’d tried to bring this up to me once, and I hadn’t handled it very well. Then, to my utter horror, Louise’s eyes filled with unshed tears.

“Oh no, no, my angel,” I said, walking back around the island to wrap her in a tight hug. “Don’t cry over me. I make a stupid amount of money, and I have a hot wife doing yoga on the deck. I’ll be all right.”

Through a wet laugh, she smacked my stomach. When I pulled away, she brushed her hand under her eyes.

“I just worry about you. That’s all.”

“I know,” I said quietly.

“Your hot wife is very sweet,” she replied, resuming her deft work with the big, scary knife. “I was able to talk to her a while when I got here.”

“Yeah? Did she cry into her coffee? Curse my name in conversation or anything?”

She cut me an unamused look. “Not just yet. But I suspect if you give her time. We talked about her friend’s nonprofit. Pretty impressive stuff.”

I feigned disinterest. “Yeah?”

Louise rolled her eyes. “You haven’t even asked her about it yet, have you?”

“I did talk to them about it, thank you very much.” I snapped off another bite of red pepper. “I was just, you know, a little drunk during that conversation so it sorta slipped my mind. It’s with kids books or something, right? Reading?”

She waved the giant knife in my direction. “Go ask her yourself. I’m not going to be your messenger because you’re scared of your wife.”

I blew a raspberry through pursed lips. “I’m not scared of her.”

I totally was. Everything seemed so fun and easy when you woke up in the Vegas hotel room, didn’t it? But now she lived here. In my space. Bending her body in leggings in plain view and talking to Louise, who would probably end up liking her more than me when this was all over.

“Is that why you were at the facilities twice as long as usual?”

“No.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“She asked a lot of questions about you today,” Louise said pointedly.

“Of course she did. She was drunk off her ass when we had the actual conversation that led to matrimony.”

The aggrieved sigh that Louise let out was always paired with an eye roll, and I didn’t have to look in her direction to know she’d just done exactly that. “Lord, no wonder you were single so long.”

Ignoring Louise was easy enough because I had years of practice. After my empty veggie bowl was in the dishwasher, I caught a glimpse of a sketch pad on the dining room table. Sitting on the corner of the table was that fucking cat. His eyes narrowed as I approached, and I held up my hands in a conciliatory gesture.

“Believe me, I’m not coming over here for you,” I muttered.

His ears flattened, but instead of hissing, Devil Cat turned around, tail straight in the air, and hopped down to the chair, then onto the ground. It was the feline equivalent of you can kiss my ass, buddy .

Once the danger of my face getting scratched off had passed, I picked up the notebook.

The page was covered with sketches of woodland animals. Some were whimsical, with large eyes and exaggerated features. A few were more severe—harsh lines and stern, beautiful features. I flipped through a few pages and stopped. My thumb ran over a sketch of a deer who looked like he might jump off the paper.

Unbidden, I glanced through the sliding glass door again. She was done doing her yoga but sat cross-legged on the mat, her eyes closed and her face turned up toward the sun.

Peace. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt like that.

Louise came up behind me and tapped the sketch pad. “I love you, kid, but if you keep ignoring her, you’re probably gonna screw this up before it’s even started.”

My jaw tightened, and after one last look at Anya’s face, I set down the sketch pad and went back to my bedroom to shower.