Page 41 of Worth the Try (Atlanta Granite #1)

Elodie

A nsel’s side of the bed is cold when I wake up at seven.

I sit up and focus my bleary eyes, realizing that not only is his side cold, it’s also not even been slept in.

Which means it’s the third night—no, fourth—he’s slept somewhere else.

He was on the couch once, surrounded by rugby playbooks, but every other morning, I’ve found him on the floor of Rosie’s room, his head on a stuffed unicorn and his massive body partially covered by a rainbow comforter.

This morning, though, he’s not in Rosie’s room when I poke my head in.

Rosie herself still sleeps, her arms thrown wide, the covers askew, surrounded by more dolls and stuffed animals than should be possible.

I gaze at her, allowing myself the peace that comes with watching her little chest rise and fall.

She’s the reason this matters. I will do whatever it takes to protect this little girl, from now until the end of time.

I love Ansel, without question. Wholly and without reservation.

But my love for Rosalie is something entirely different, both tender and fierce, and so, so precious.

Together, she and Ansel have become the complete center of my world, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Facing everything that Lauren has thrown at us is simply something that has to be done. A gauntlet to run. A mountain to climb. And I’ll do it. No matter the pain, I’ll do it.

Turning and leaving the door open a crack, I make my way downstairs. When I don’t find Ansel immediately on the couch or in the kitchen, I figure he’s probably in the office. I start some coffee and unlock my phone to see what new things the press and social media have to say.

The first thing I see is a short clip of the press release I didn’t watch. In the clip, Ansel scowls at the audience as you hear someone ask, “What about the nanny?” And Ansel’s immediate answer is to dismissively growl, “What about the nanny?”

Um, ouch.

A new article focuses on my time at Fore Gone, which is new.

Seems my old buddy Dan decided he wasn’t on my side after all, not to mention my old boss, hungry for any spotlight she can get.

According to them, I was a ‘terrible worker’ with a ‘poor attitude’ and neither seems surprised at my new, gold-digging ways.

Spending days reading lies about yourself is nothing I’d recommend to anyone. But what it has done, remarkably, is honed me. It’s sharpened my focus and made what’s important to me very, very clear. It’s made who is important to me clear. It’s crystalized a few other things, too.

I take a deep breath and pull my phone out, then press call on a contact I’ve not spoken to in two years.

“Look who finally decides I’m worth talking to.” My mother’s voice, sugared and vicious as always, comes through the speaker. “You have a lot of explaining to do.”

“Hello to you, too, Mother,” I answer. “And how like you to jump right into insults and inferences without so much as a how are you.”

She sighs, and I hear the clatter of her many bracelets knocking against each other as she waves my comment off. “I raised you better than this, Elodie.”

“You raised me like a tyrant,” I interrupt. “You only showed affection when I was winning, and the second I put on weight and stopped winning those ridiculous pageants, you made my life hell.”

“You were fat , Elodie.”

I laugh. “I was a perfectly normal girl, Mother. You weaponized your love.”

“Because you needed discipline!” she shoots back.

“I won’t apologize. The only thing I’m sorry for is not being stricter.

For God’s sake, look at you now,” she tsks.

“Fatter than ever, embroiled in a scandal with a rugby player and trying to insert yourself between a mother and her child, of all things. Just because you can’t have your own children doesn’t mean you steal someone else’s.

You should have begged Jeremy to keep you, babies or no babies.

Maybe then, none of this would be happening. ”

“That’s not what happened,” I say, managing to keep my voice even.

“Oh, so every single news article is lying?”

“Yes!”

“Please.” The way she dismisses me cuts like a knife.

I shouldn’t have called. I thought I could confront her and walk away without injury. But it’s impossible to maintain the shield I’d constructed. Not when every word out of her mouth seems tailor-made to strike true.

Tears streak down my face as I stand in the center of the kitchen, one arm wrapped around my waist as I press the phone to my ear. She’s still talking, but I stopped hearing it.

“We’re done.” My voice is flat, dull.

“Excuse me?”

“Until you can be nice to me, we’re done,” I repeat.

“Absolutely not,” she says. “You owe me. You need to talk to the pageant commission and tell them?—”

A harsh laugh escapes. “You honestly think I’m going to help you? Go to hell, Mother.”

And with that, I end the call. Before I can overthink it, I block her number.

Beside me, the coffee maker beeps merrily, announcing that coffee is ready. I stare numbly at the phone in my hand, then set it on the counter and push it away.

“Well, that could have gone better,” I mumble to myself.

I have a feeling that I need to spend some quality time digging through the trauma my mother inflicted.

Time on my own and with a therapist. But right now, I’m going to tuck Mother into a tight little box with a Do Not Open sign on it and take care of the people I love.

With two mugs of coffee in hand, I make my way to the office. Sure enough, Ansel is there, and he looks up as I enter.

His thick hair is mussed from sleep and his beard needs trimming.

Behind his glasses, dark smudges have taken up residence beneath his warm brown eyes, eyes that have dimmed with every passing day since the gala.

On the desk in front of him are a pile of papers strewn from one side to the other, along with sticky notes, pens, and highlighters.

“I brought you coffee,” I offer, raising the steaming cup and stepping into the office.

He leans back in the chair and scrubs at his face. To the side of the desk is an old couch, lumpy and stained, and the last remnant of Ansel’s college days. A pillow is at one end, an Atlanta Granite blanket bunched at the other.

“I wish you’d come sleep in the bed,” I say quietly, handing him the coffee.

He takes it and brings it to his mouth. The steam fogs his glasses as he takes a fortifying sip. “Thank you.” His voice is scratchy.

I tilt my head toward the couch. “Come sit. Take a break.”

He clenches his jaw and shakes his head. “I’m behind. I need to review?—”

“You need to take a break.” My voice is soft, insistent.

His gaze seems to finally focus on me then.

“I don’t get to take a break. I have videos to review and practice schedules to confirm.

I have emails from sports press around the world that Frank has decided I’ll be responding to instead of Kari.

I have an eighteen-year-old kid joining the team, against my wishes but hey, I’m just the interim coach when my decision isn’t one they want to hear.

I have to figure out who’s going to be his mentor in a ridiculous attempt to keep him from falling prey to every rugger hugger out there, because thanks to all this,” he gestures at his phone, “the entire fucking world seems to think the Granite’s fly-half is open for business! ” he snaps.

My spine straightens at his tone. “I’ve already had one person yell at me this morning. I don’t need you doing it, too. It’s not nice.”

He blows out a breath. “Yeah, well, neither is this.”

“Let me help you.” An idea takes hold as the words form. “We can do this together. I’ve done nothing these past few days except read lie after lie. We can have another press conference. I can explain?—”

“That’s not a good idea, Elle.”

But I press forward. “Just think about it. We can start a counter-campaign. If Frank won’t let Kari do it, then I bet your agent knows the right people.”

“ No , Elodie.”

His tone stops me immediately. I meet his eyes. “Did—did something else happen?”

Emotions fly across his face, too fast for me to track. Anger, sadness, desperation, fury, determination. And when he finally speaks, his voice is cold and distant. “I got notice of a custody hearing.”

My stomach turns to ice. “No.”

His laugh is harsh. “You think I’d lie about something like this?”

I shake my head. “That’s not what I meant. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“And when would I have told you? During your doom scrolling yesterday afternoon, or before your session of doom scrolling last night?”

I ignore the hateful jab. “You got it yesterday? You’ve carried this by yourself for a full day and didn’t tell me?”

He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter. There’s nothing you can do about it.”

That’s not the point. That’s entirely beside the point. “Did you tell anyone else?”

“Other than my lawyer? I called my parents.”

“But you didn’t tell me?”

“What do you want me to say, Elodie?” His voice is clipped, harsh. “No. I didn’t tell you.”

“But I could have helped!”

“How?” he demands. “How could you have helped?”

“I could have—I don’t know, but?—”

“Exactly,” he says, cutting me off. “You don’t know. You couldn’t have helped.”

“Because I love you, Ansel!” Oh. Holy crap. The words came out. They came out! I can’t help the smile that forms as I say the words again. “Because I love you. Because we’re a team. Because everything we’re doing here is supposed to be with each other. ”

He blinks at me, shaking his head. “You say that now ? Seriously?”

“Probably not the best timing,” I admit. “Guess we’re the same that way.”

“Elodie.” My name is an exhale as he drags his hand through his hair.

My stomach twists. This is what happens when you tell people you love them. They reject you. I shove the thought away, focused on Ansel. I’ve just told my mother to go to hell. I can face this. “We can do this. We can get through this together as a team.”

He’s not having it. “Unbelievable. How could you possibly know anything about being on a team? Nothing in your life has been calibrated for that. I’m not saying that’s exactly your fault—pageants are decidedly a one-person thing—but, Elodie. There’s no team here. None.”

I swallow down the tears. “You know that’s not true. You know I’m trying.”

“Do I?” He leans forward in his chair. “Here’s what I know.

I have spent the past five years busting my ass to be the best father I can be.

I have read more books on parenting than is probably healthy.

I have accepted every damn sponsorship that comes my way and shoved it into a college savings account because I am terrified that I’ll get hurt and lose everything and won’t be able to provide for my little girl.

I have let one nanny after another take care of my daughter because I haven’t had a choice.

And then I finally think I’m going to catch a break this summer, but no. Of course not. And you waltz in.”

My whole body trembles as slick, oily dread courses through me. He can’t mean this. The coldness in his eyes—that’s just fear. It’s not about me.

He keeps going. “I had it all under control. Barely, and it sure as fuck wasn’t perfect, but we were making it.

And then you come in and upend everything.

You let both of us fall for you, just in time for Lauren to come in and use you as a weapon.

For her to take aim and threaten everything that is good and precious in my entire fucking world.

You can’t possibly understand what it feels like to face down the threat of losing your daughter.

You can’t possibly know what it’s like for your entire heart to exist outside of your body and run around in pigtails.

You cannot begin to feel the absolute terror I have at the thought of that snake taking my daughter.

So, no. No, you can’t help. No, we aren’t a team.

And no, we won’t get through this together. ”

Every word is a blow. Each sentence a punch that he isn’t pulling. And as I stand before him, his voice growing increasingly harsh as he lashes out from behind his desk, all I can think about is the last thing that Jeremy said to me.

I can’t love someone who can’t give me a child.

And here I am, finally able to tell a different man that I love him, having already loved his daughter the moment I laid eyes on her, only to have him rip her away from me, too.

You should have begged Jeremy to keep you, babies or no babies.

Just because you can’t have your own children doesn’t mean you steal someone else’s.

I won’t apologize.

I try to stand straight. I try to square my shoulders.

And I really, really try not to cry. But I fail on all three counts, and the despair and loathing I feel for myself is stratospheric.

I simply nod, tears streaming down my face.

I grit my teeth together and meet his eyes one last time. “Okay. I understand.”