Fumbled
Page 17
“Touchdown Mustangs!” the announcer yells as soon as the picture comes into focus. “Rookie quarterback Peter Bremner connecting with the second-year receiver Avery Sheppard for an easy catch. I’d say these guys aren’t fighting for a roster spot, they’re fighting to dethrone one of the starters.”
Since TK’s spot is set in stone, he only plays the opening quarter of preseason games alongside the other starters. Nobody wants the guys with guaranteed money getting taken out before the season even starts. Plus, it gives the new guys a chance to shine. Each team starts training camp with ninety hopefuls reporting to the small hotel, and when it’s over, only fifty-three players are left standing. There’s a reason they say NFL stands for Not for Long. Making a final roster is a huge accomplishment.
I turn up the volume to see the football sail through the goalposts for the extra point. Even though—without TK on the field and Ace badgering me to watch how tight so-and-so covered his man—it doesn’t really matter how loud the volume is. The chances of me paying attention for the rest of the game are slim to none.
I slip off my flat ankle boots, letting them fall onto my favorite rug. If Ace did this, I’d be yelling at him right now. But I’m grown and pay the bills, so I can do it. Plus, nobody is here to see it. So nanny nanny boo boo.
My feet have the slight ache all waiters have at the end of the night, but considering I used to do this in heels and have to trek up stairs, it almost goes unnoticed.
Almost.
The commercial break ends and a drone flies above the stadium, giving everyone at home a bird’s-eye view of TK’s office. The field is a startling shade of green, and considering Denver has had watering restrictions since I moved here, it doesn’t take me long to work out they’re playing on turf. The thought of those little black rubber beads that will no doubt find their way into every crook and cranny of my house makes me cringe. Between TK and Sadie, my poor floors don’t stand a chance.
The Mustangs’ kicker takes a running start and drills the ball across the field and into the end zone, where the Steelers’ player catches it and promptly takes a knee. Whistles blow and sprints wind down to jogs as the men exit the field and more players take their place. The announcers talk about the new coaches and their different strategies and my attention is already lost.
Lucky for me, I have flowers to focus on.
I loved them in the dark, but in my well-lit living room, they’re even better. The arrangement has peonies, roses, hydrangeas, and tulips of all different colors. There have to be at least two-dozen roses alone, and I try to focus on the beauty and how special they make me feel instead of him spending hundreds of dollars on something that will die in a week or—more realistically with me tending them—a couple of days.
Whatever.
I’ve kept my kid alive for almost ten years—let’s not lose sight of what’s really important here.
I turn the vase around, wanting to look at the flowers from every angle, when I notice the little white envelope.
I start to laugh before I even lift the fold.
TK is more Kevin Hart than Shakespeare. He can have romantic moments, but he’s not romantic. Or at least he didn’t use to be. He just sent me flowers, so maybe this is his way of showing me he’s changed. Maybe he’s going to court me.
Courting sounds like fun.
I bet Prince Harry courted Meghan.
I shake my head, clearing my mind of princess thoughts, and pull out the note written in unfamiliar handwriting. You’d think the florist would use a printer, or at least entrust the note writing to a more penmanship-conscious employee.
I miss you. You left without so much as a goodbye. I know you don’t want people to know about us, but he can’t give you what you need. Only I can do that. Poppy, my Serena, you’ll be mine. I’ll make sure of it.
Yours—
I drop the note and watch as it floats to the floor. Its graceful motions, swooping from left to right, taunting me.
My first instinct is Rochelle’s messing with me. Maybe even Phil since I still haven’t returned the uniform. But almost as quickly as the idea pops into my mind, it fades away. Both of them are way too cheap to send flowers like this. Sadie would, we’ve bought impressive, no-reason gifts for each other more than once. But she knows what a scaredy cat I am and she’d never do something like this knowing I’m alone.
A shiver runs down my spine and another thought crosses my mind. I walk to the front door, my paranoid steps slow and measured. I flip the switch to my porch a few times to see if maybe I just forgot to turn it on. But when nothing happens, I resort to my handy iPhone flashlight. I crack open my front door, leaving the top latch on, and aim the light straight to where my porch light is supposed to be.
But isn’t.
The blood freezes in my veins, and without thinking, I slam my door shut, turning all my locks in a frenzy. I turn off all my lights and the TV, and I move around my house guided only by the flicker of streetlights coming through the cracks in my blinds. I check to make sure all my windows are still locked, and when I’m positive I’m in complete lockdown, I crawl to my front window and lie on the floor under it, listening for any noises like a harmless guard dog.
Game forgotten and so thankful Ace isn’t here, I spend the rest of the night googling alarm systems and pushing old Law & Order episodes out of my mind. The good news is alarm systems have gotten cool and super high-tech. I can’t imagine having one and not feeling safer. The bad news, however, is they are so expensive, I can’t imagine ever having one at all.
Unless I work . . . a lot of hours.
I don’t know if it’s the thought of how much I need to work to feel semisafe in my own freaking house or the adrenaline leaving my system, but my eyelids weigh a hundred pounds and my room feels miles away. My bed is calling my name, and I try to get up, but after a few minutes of my muscles refusing to budge, I decide the hardwood floor isn’t too bad.
Twenty-three
Boom boom boom.
My dream has bass.
Boom boom boom. “Poppy!”
My dream sounds kind of pissed off . . . and like TK.
My eyes fly open and I bolt up.
Which is a mistake.
“Ouch.” I grab my lower back and it feels like the hardwood floor spent my entire nap punching me.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see the screen on my phone light up. I’m not old, but I’m not a teenager and I maybe (definitely) read on my phone too much, so it takes my vision a few seconds to adjust and make out the name on the phone.
TK.
I shake my head. God forbid he be the tiniest bit patient.
I swipe the screen and forgo a greeting. “I’m coming.”
“Finally,” he mutters, and I contemplate revoking my offer. “I’ve only been banging on your door for the last twenty minutes. The cops are probably going to show soon.”
Shoot. He’s been here that long? I scramble off the floor, feeling a tiny bit bad but trying not to let him know I’m feeling that way. “Drama king.”
“Just open the door.”
I twist open the locks, unlatch the door, and pull it open. But not because he told me to, I was going to do it anyway. “Bossy.”
“Whatever.” He flips on the light switches in my entryway/living room. “Where’s your phone?”
“Right here.” I wiggle my fist full of phone in his face and look at the screen when his face hardens.
Fifteen notifications.
Oops.
“Crap.” I cringe, seeing the ten missed calls from TK, three phone calls and two texts from Vonnie. “Is Ace all right?”
The panic I felt earlier starts to return, sweat breaks out on my forehead, my fingers tingle, and my eyes fill with inexplicable tears. I ignore the text messages Vonnie sent and hit her contact before I think better of it.
Oh crap.
I didn’t throw away the flowers.
For one, the arrangement is so big it wouldn’t have fit into the trash can in my kitchen in the first place. Second, there was no chance in freaking hell I was walking my happy ass to the alley behind my house, alone, to throw them away.
“What’s wrong?” TK’s looking at me instead of the flowers—my lack of response must have gained his attention back. The hard set of his jaw softens and he wraps his big, strong, safe arms around me and pulls me into his chest.
“I thought they were from you,” I whisper into his chest, thinking if football fails, he should market himself as an alarm system. “I don’t know who they’re from.”
“Was there a card?” He burrows his nose into my hair, which I’m sure looks fabulous after resting on the wood floor for however many hours I was down there.
“Yeah, but there’s no name.”
TK drops a gentle kiss on my forehead, stepping around me and into my living room. After poking around the flowers and looking on the coffee table, he finds the card on the floor.
I watch with avid fascination as a myriad of expressions cross his face. First humor, since I’ve told him about Sadie and so has Ace. I’m sure he’s thinking it was a joke. Then there’s confusion. His eyebrows knit together, causing the cutest wrinkles to crease the bridge of his nose and deep lines to settle on his forehead. Then anger. The red that had faded comes back with a vengeance. This time the red doesn’t hide behind his beard, you can see it through the thick scruff covering his cheeks.
“What the fuck?” he asks like I know something, his eyes flying back to the scratchy penmanship.
“I don’t know.” I take a deep breath. Partially to tell TK something I know is going to set him off, also because saying it out loud makes this real. And it’s scary enough already. “There’s something else.”
He sticks the card into his pocket, and for the first time I notice how freaking hot he looks. His long hair is pulled up in a bun on the crown of his head, the highlights the sun has provided him with streaked through would cost me hundreds of dollars, and his emerald eyes are magnified beneath glasses I’m not sure he even needs. His big body is wrapped like a present in a tailored-to-perfection, brown plaid, double-breasted suit I’m convinced would look ridiculous on anyone else. The bottom half is just as good. Slim-cut pants suction to his thick, muscular thighs with his navy socks peeking out right above his loafers.
“Poppy.” He snaps his fingers in front of my face. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, sorry.” I shake my head to clear it. “I like your suit.”
“Thanks.” His lips curve into a smile he’s trying hard to fight. “What else did you want to tell me?”
“I don’t really want to tell you. It’s just, you know.” I shrug. “You’re here and you see the flowers. And it will probably be good to tell you. You’ll be able to tell me I’m overreacting and—”
“Poppy.” TK interrupts my rambling. “Spit it out.”
I want to stomp around my living room and flail and pout on my bed, pissed that nothing in my life can be drama free for long. But since society frowns on temper tantrums from anyone above the age of three, I settle for sticking out my tongue.
“I found these when I tripped on them walking to my door. I didn’t see them because I thought I forgot to turn on my porch light.” I hesitate, feeling unease prick at my skin and my back go straight. “But I never turn off that light, so I thought maybe it died already, even though I just changed it like a month ago.”
TK’s posture matches mine, and I know as much as I want him to tell me I’m overreacting, he isn’t going to.
“So I checked my light after I got the card and the lightbulb’s gone.” I rush the words out, hoping TK understands because I’m not saying it again. “I think whoever brought the flowers took it.”
This time, TK doesn’t get red or tense up like he wants to punch something . . . or someone. No. This time he goes ghost white and takes a step back like someone punched him.
And let me tell you, this scares me more than the note ever did.
“Are you okay? Do you need water?” I grab his hand and walk him to my couch.
“Am I okay?” He looks at me with wide eyes. “You were walking home alone to your empty house where someone not only knows where you live but left you a note and tampered with one of the few safety measures you have. What if this person was waiting on the side of your house? They could’ve pushed you inside and nobody would’ve known. Fuck!” he shouts, now looking like he wants to punch something. “What if Ace was here?”
“I know,” I tell him. Because I do know. It was just one of about fifty worst-case scenarios playing on a continuous loop in my head.
“So not am I okay . . . are you okay?”
I try to avoid looking at him. I try to internalize everything, not wanting to look weak. Not wanting to feel scared.
But then TK does what he used to do when we were kids. What he would do when I’d get in another fight with my mom over whatever she decided to fight with me about that day. He pulls me into his chest, one arm drawing circles on my back, the other hand tangled in my curls, his fingertips massaging my scalp, and says nothing. No more questions. No expectations. Just the simple comfort that comes with silence and his hands on me.
“I’m freaking the hell out,” I whisper, my voice so hoarse from unshed tears I almost don’t recognize it myself.
TK says nothing. His fingers tense against my back, but the circles he’s drawing on my back don’t stop. Maybe he’s waiting for me to say more and maybe there’s more I should tell him, but those five words have drained me.
I zone out. Loving the silence and the calm that can exist only in moments like this one, when time comes to a standstill. Everything that happened tonight, hell, everything that’s happened the last ten years, fades away.
TK speaks first, probably because he knows if he doesn’t, we’ll be here all night. “You should go get some sleep, I’m going to go—”
“You’re leaving already?” My back goes straight and my entire body tenses. I do a horrible job of disguising the panic, but to be fair, I wasn’t trying to.
“No, you didn’t let me finish. I was going to say I’m going to go throw away the flowers.” TK takes a step back but never stops touching me. “Do you think after what went down tonight, I’d leave you?”
If I didn’t know him so well, I’d think he was fine. He looks fine, his facial features carefully schooled into a mask of impassiveness. But the whiskers on the left side of his beard move just enough that I know his jaw ticked three times—not once, not twice, but three times—and he is either annoyed, insulted, or both.
“I mean . . .” I pause, trying to find the right words to explain. It’s not that I thought he’d leave, I just didn’t know if he’d stay. But that doesn’t make sense in my own brain, so I know it won’t make sense to him. “Ace isn’t here and we haven’t spent this much time together alone in a long time. I just . . . I wasn’t sure.”
“Well, be sure.” He drops his hands from my back and links our fingers together. “Because I’m here to stay.”
Butterflies flood my stomach, and I bite the inside of my cheek to prevent my smile from overtaking my entire face.
Because I know he’s not just talking about one night.
Twenty-four
“I like your room.” TK’s standing next to my bed, taking off his clothes, and I’m in bed, fully clothed, tr
ying not to stare.
“You haven’t seen it yet?” I focus on each word leaving my lips, making sure I don’t accidentally ask if I can lick him or something else equally inappropriate.
“Nope. You banned me to the living room. Ace took pity on me, though, and let me sleep on his trundle.”
My eyes go wide and I pull my lips between my teeth. “You slept on his trundle?” I ask, unable to hold back my laughter. TK sleeping on Ace’s tiny little trundle is the funniest thing I’ve heard in a long time.
Ace’s trundle is broken. It gets stuck halfway under his bed and leaves half a twin bed to sleep on. I can’t even sleep on the thing!
He turns to me, his eyes sparkling, no doubt understanding why I’m so tickled by this discovery. “Yeah, I lasted until I heard him snore and then snuck to the couch. Which, by the way, how does a kid that small snore so loud? I don’t understand how it’s possible.”
“Oh my god! He is the loudest snorer ever! It’s why I kicked him out of my room when he was five. Between him sleeping sideways and snoring like a freight train, I got no sleep.” I throw back my head, laughing so hard I have to wipe my cheeks for a few tears. “I looked like a zombie. I went through so much concealer, I had a secret stash hidden under my bed.”
Then the laughter stops as fast as it came when a sensation I’ve never felt in this bed happens. The other side—the empty side—of my bed dips.
TK’s large, shirtless body unfolds on top of my comforter. His basketball shorts rode up while he was sitting and his legs dusted with hair are on full display. Both hands are behind his head and his eyes are closed. He’s relaxed and not flexing, but somehow, his stupid muscles are still noticeable. When I try my hardest to flex my abs, you still have to poke through a layer of fluff to feel anything. He’s just lying here and I can count all eight of his six-pack.