The Hail Mary

by Ginger Scott

  I lift her chin to look into her eyes. Her lips part to speak, but she closes them again quickly. I’ve surprised her—disappointed her. It feels terrible.

  I graze her cheek with the back of my hand.

  “I don’t want to hurt you, Noles, but I’ll tell you anything you want to know. Anything you need to know and deserve to know. But I’m not asking you to have sex with me, not unless you want to. I’ll never be that guy.”

  Every bit of me wants her, to touch and feel her. But it’s different. It’s this need to be close to her that grips at me, and as hungry as I am for it, my love for her also keeps me from betraying her trust and pushing her. I would never. Not with any girl. But especially this one.

  “You make me feel safe,” she says, sliding her arms around my body and hugging me tightly.

  I relax into the seat, maybe a little surprised to hear her say that out loud. It’s all I want—her to feel safe. Even before we were a couple, I wanted that for her. I always wanted to protect her. I should have known it meant so much more.

  “Okay, well, you know about Tatum. She was my first. And, well, that’s because I was an adolescent teenaged boy with hormones busting at the seams and…hell, you know the rest.” I stop there, not really wanting to hurt her with the rest. It will hurt her, too. Maybe that’s why I did it. I don’t deserve her, and the fucked-up way I dealt with my jealousy was just that—fucked up. I glare out the window, feeling the weight of her body against mine and praying this will end here.

  “And…numbers two, three, and four?” She asks so quietly, afraid to know. God, Nolan—you don’t want to. I know what it’s like, though, to need to know. Even when it hurts.

  “I said I wasn’t proud.” I pause with my eyes on her, but I can’t tell her this and see how it hits her. I look to the side, to nothing.

  “Morgan was my second…you know? The lifeguard that worked with us this summer?”

  I can see her throat move as she swallows. I hate this. So much. I glance at her, and her eyes are still on me, waiting for the next two names—girls that deserve more respect than a high-school boy knows how to give them.

  Fuck.

  I look back down toward the floor of the bus. It’s too dark to see my feet, but I mush the toe of my shoe into a small space where the seat in front of us is bolted to the metal.

  “Well, Morgan had a friend named Mandy. We were at a party one night and I sort of found myself with her.” I scrunch my face because I sound like such a dick. I was a dick.

  “That’s sort of when Morgan told me to kiss her ass,” I admit.

  “Good for Morgan,” Nolan says quickly. She means it, too. She slaps her hand over her mouth again and flashes her eyes. “Sorry,” she squeaks out, smiling bashfully. I squeeze her because she’s not the one who should be embarrassed here. What’s terrible is I think Morgan and Nolan would have been really good friends. They like a lot of the same things. If I saw them together now, though, I think I’d start to run. There’s no way Morgan would be telling Nolan anything nice. I’d deserve it all for cheating on her with her friend, too.

  My gaze shifts back to the darkness outside, little glimpses of the mountains and brush lit up by the side lights of the bus. I wish I could lie to this girl. This last name is one I don’t ever want her to know, and it’s going to break her. I suck in my top lip and try to breathe, even though the air immediately around Nolan and me is suffocating. There’s a shortage of it. It’s strangling me—my punishment.

  “I have to know,” she says, her fingers wrapping around my arm. They feel so small and timid. I can feel the vibrations—the worry.

  “Calley,” I say, ripping the bandage off quickly and instantly wanting to put it back on and hide the truth away forever. Calley is Sarah’s sister. A friend. A close friend.

  Calley was a huge betrayal. It was on both of our parts. It was careless of me—heartless. It was desperate and foolish, and I know if Calley could erase it from history, she would. I’d let her.

  I feel her start to tuck into me, hiding, so I flatten my palm against her cheek, my touch gentle. Her head pushes against me and her eyes slant with the pain. Her eyes are starting to water, and goddamn do I hate seeing it. I force myself to look, though. I need to know intimately what hurting her looks like so I can keep myself from doing it again.

  She lifts her arm, wiping her eyes along the long sleeve of her sweatshirt, the cuff tucked around her knuckles.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to cry, that one just…surprised me. I just thought Calley knew how I felt about you.” Her voice quivers at the end. The knife in my chest grows hot.

  She shrugs, trying to pretend that the hurt was temporary—that it isn’t real. Before she can look away, though, I lift her chin with my fingers.

  “Don’t do that. Don’t run away from me. And don’t blame Calley. She was at the desert party the night you picked me up. She was drunk. I was…drunk.”

  That’s the night I told her I loved her. The words fell out of me in a dream, only I said them out loud. Mostly, I knew she was hearing them. I was a coward, though, and I needed that mask to get through it—to tell her the truth.

  “I was running my mouth to her in the back of her car, telling her how you were with this dickhead and I fucked everything up and she was consoling me and then we both did a bunch of shots of what-the-fuck-I-don’t-know.” I stop suddenly, my mouth watering a little from the wave of nausea. That night was both the worst and the best of my life—the best because she was there. When I needed someone, Nolan was there.

  “It sort of happened somewhere after that. And that’s when I started texting you because I just wanted to erase it, knew I was fucking everything up…even more than I had already, if that was even possible.”

  Her eyes sag, maybe with pity for me. She’s feeling sorry for me, though she has this all backward.

  “Calley started crying, telling me never to tell anyone and to pretend it didn’t happen. Noles, she never wanted to hurt you either. You have to know; she was so drunk. She got sick after that, passed out in her backseat and shit.”

  I stare at her, needing some sort of absolution. Say it’s okay, Nolan. Please…say it’s okay. The quiet drags, and after nearly a minute of staring at her and willing her to forgive me, I realize that she isn’t going to. She probably doesn’t think she needs to. I’m not really asking for it, but I’m sorry all the same.

  She sinks back into me, and my palms tentatively cup her shoulders, then run along her arms.

  “I’m never going to be what they were,” she says, and my eyes close hearing her hard truth. That’s what this is about for her. It’s about the experience, and all of that bullshit that we think we need to impress someone. She doesn’t need any of it. All she needs to do is be this, to be her.

  I lean forward and press my lips to the top of her ear. So small and innocent. So unspoiled and precious.

  “Baby, you’re so much more.” I stop and take a sharp breath, the truth of what I’m saying hitting me hard. “You have no idea. You’re so beautiful, and I love you, and if you ever want to be with me, I’ll be the luckiest dude on earth…but not unless you want to share that with me.”

  I kiss her neck and bury my face in it, breathing her scent in until I’ll smell it in my dreams. I memorize it. Not that there is any way in hell there is anything about Nolan Lennox that I could ever—ever—forget.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Nolan

  The empty house is strange. I guess it isn’t completely empty. Buck and Rose are here, and Peyton’s locked away in her room swearing off boys forever. I’m okay with that. Maybe she’ll be one of those people who swears off intimacy of the romantic kind. It will be so much easier to guide her through that.

  It’s a pipe dream. I know it is, because my girl is a dreamer. Whether she’ll admit it to me now or not, she’s just like me. She used to want to be just like me. It made her proud. We’d make up fairytales, and while our girls were always strong and indepen
dent, they also liked to fall in love. Love was real.

  Love is real.

  It just isn’t easy.

  I tap on her door on my way back downstairs, one last attempt to bring her out of her misery. The one thing she’s missing is a core of friends. I don’t know how I would have gotten through half of the shit that comes along with being a teenager without the girls and Sean. The thought brings Sarah racing to the forefront of my mind as Peyton groans on the other side of the doorway. I know I promised not to say anything, but that was just about the ring. I think the rest is fair game. It’s not like Peyton didn’t see their naked bodies flailing around the hallway either.

  “Hey, I have news on Uncle Jason and Sarah.”

  She perks up.

  “Come in!” I smile behind the door and start to giggle.

  She loves gossip.

  She hasn’t gotten out of bed today, and she’s wearing the same T-shirt she had on when I said good night yesterday.

  I move to sit on the end of her bed, and she pulls her comforter in over her folded up legs and quirks a brow at me.

  “Well?” She’s hedging a little, expecting this to be a trick to get me in the room so I can talk to her more about Bryce. She’s done talking about Bryce though, and I get it. I wouldn’t do that to her. I just need to talk to her and feel her out, make sure she’s okay. And when I have actual gossip to share, she’s going to be glad.

  “Six months,” I say. Her eyes squint. “That’s how long they’ve been together,” I fill in. Her eyes widen.

  “Six months?” Her mouth pauses open, and I can see her mentally ticking back through every time we’ve been with Sarah and when Jason’s been here to visit. How did we miss this? I can’t stop doing the exact same thing.

  “Sarah can keep a secret after all, it seems,” I say, pursing my lips.

  “I guess so,” she says, bunching hers then laughing.

  “Uncle Jason told Daddy,” I explain. “Apparently, they’re in love.”

  I say it like a joke, but only because it will make Peyton laugh, which it does. Having heard the details from Reed, and judging from the fact that Sarah is still avoiding me, I know better. My best friend is going to be my sister…I think. I’m not sure how that works, when friends marry brothers, but I’m sure, legally, we’ll be connected somehow.

  “Your dad’s game is on soon. Grandma Rose is making snacks. Come on down,” I say, tugging at the corner of her blanket. She lets one leg slide out, begrudgingly. I reach for her hand and she gives it to me, letting her body slump backward as if moving out of this bed is impossible. “Come on…you can do it,” I tease.

  “It’s not like Dad’s going to play,” she says.

  I puff out a small laugh, but an itch tickles in the back of my mind because for the first time in weeks, it’s possible. It’s not likely, but it is…possible.

  “You know he likes to give us little signs on camera. Let’s see if we can see him holding up fingers and scratching his nose.”

  My daughter finally gives in and brings both feet to the floor, standing on her own.

  “Last time it looked like he was picking his nose. My friends saw that. It was so embarrassing.”

  I snort laugh, a little proud of my husband for embarrassing our teen. It’s a rite of passage, and it’s the one benefit from dealing with the drama.

  Peyton and I make it downstairs just as Rose is settling Buck into the comfortable chair closest to the TV.

  “Dah dah dah dah,” he cries out, his pathetic attempt at singing. He’s playing the football music with his mouth, and it isn’t his stroke that made it sound so awful. His musical skills are genetic, and his son got the same exact ones.

  “I made caramel bars,” Rose announces, slipping around the counter in the kitchen and pulling a tray from the fridge that I have no idea how I missed. I bet she had those hidden in the garage to keep them away from my friends—from Sarah.

  “Where’s my girlfriend?” Buck is asking about my friend. He and Sarah are close, and she’s usually here for the evening games—especially for Reed’s.

  “She’s tied up. Hopefully, she’ll come a little later,” I say, glancing at Peyton and widening my eyes in warning. She understands and nods. We won’t ruin this for Jason. It’s his to tell his dad, and I think Buck is going to be both thrilled and sad that he’s losing a pretend girlfriend and gaining a daughter.

  Peyton nestles into the corner of the couch closest to Buck, and I watch from the back of the room, near the kitchen, as he struggles to reach for her hand. I can barely hear them, but I get just enough to know he’s consoling her. He’s always been good at making heartache hurt less.

  “You want me to…let one of those…Tucson coaches know his weak side?” Buck jokes, and Peyton smiles.

  “Maybe,” she says, taking his hand in both of hers. She leans against the sofa’s arm and hugs her grandfather’s arm completely, leaving her head to rest on his bicep. It’s sweet, even if it’s to comfort her broken heart.

  She thinks Buck’s kidding about calling the coaches, but if she asked, I know that he would or he’d have one of us send an email to a friend he has. He has friends everywhere when it comes to high school football in the Southwest. There isn’t a team he can’t help or hinder. Even now, as a senior citizen. I heard once he found out about a team that was stealing plays from their rival and he got involved by cancelling their uniform order. That team had a hard time finding anyone in Arizona or California willing to print their jerseys.

  I got Buck up to speed on Reed, so he isn’t surprised to hear his son talking with the sideline reporter for our local broadcast of the game. We get special highlights of Reed, and Buck counts on them, hopping around the channels with deft. He can’t drive a car any longer, and walking is hard to manage, but he can run the Sunday ticket with no trouble at all.

  “He looks good,” Peyton calls over her shoulder after we listen to her dad talk about how much he appreciates the team putting the work in for him and helping him get healthy again.

  “He always looks good,” I smile.

  I stay in the back of the room, wanting to have a little privacy while I stare at my husband through the screen. He gives me a few hints, like the way he brushes the end of his nose with his knuckle and pulls his beanie from his head and scratches at his mussy hair. Those gestures translate to a lot of love for me. They still tickle my heart and make my entire chest warm, even after all these years.

  Buck switches over to the game’s station when Reed’s interview is done, and the first quarter is already in progress. It’s only been a minute, but Duke Miller’s already thrown one touchdown. I scan the sidelines as the camera rushes to follow him back to the bench as he celebrates, and I sit up higher and smile when I see Reed clasp hands with Duke.

  When the camera view cuts Reed’s face in half, though, I fall back and grab the underside of my seat. It’s such a foreign tightness in my chest. I’m too far to really hear anything clearly, especially with Buck and Peyton talking over the announcer. I know that the announcers are probably talking about Duke, rattling off stats and expectations for today—this season. Suddenly, seeing the frame centered around this young quarterback, working to remove Reed from the view completely…it stings. And it’s not my own need to be married to the superstar stud athlete. It’s the way Reed is being cut in half, no longer the most important piece of the team—no longer the heart.

  I get it. This has to be killing him.

  The defense takes over, and the focus is back on the game. I listen close, waiting to hear a mention of Reed’s name. Anything. A comparison, or a mention of his mentorship. They probably talked about his leg being better before we switched the channel over, but even if that’s the case, it was a small mention. It wasn’t what was important. Duke is what’s important now.

  Reed is what was important.

  The first quarter passes without a lot of excitement, and by the time halftime rolls around, I realize I’ve been plastered
to this stool with ears intently listening with hope. I just wanted him to be safe. I didn’t want him to be forgotten.

  I find myself drawn closer to my family, slipping between Rose and Peyton on the couch as I kick my shoes off and curl my legs into my body. Rose is working on her latest knitting project, and my daughter is playing some game on her phone where a little man falls from cliffs over and over again, dying when he lands on cactus. Buck is tuned in, though. We’ve all given up on really paying attention to every little thing, but not Buck. He knows where his son is at all times. He catches every camera pass, rattles off the stats that the announcers don’t know or miss that relate to his son. When Duke Miller is suddenly flattened about fifteen yards behind the line of scrimmage in a way that tells my gut he isn’t getting up, Buck…he stands.

  My eyes are wide, and things outside of my head begin moving in slow motion. The feeling makes me sick because everything in my head is on overdrive, speeding through thoughts and conclusions, coming up with frightening results.

  My father-in-law just lifted himself from his chair onto his own two feet. He’s holding fists clenched in front of his body and his lips are parted, waiting to either exhale his nerves or inhale in preparation for what just might come next.

  My eyes blink to the screen.

  Reed is shedding his jacket.

  He’s throwing.

  The camera leaves my husband and moves back to the field, where Duke is sitting up. I have hope—I have guilt. The cart is coming out, but he’s waving it off. He doesn’t want it, but it’s coming for him anyhow.

  “He’s okay,” I whisper, just loud enough that Peyton hears me.

  “That didn’t look good,” she says, worried for all of the right reasons. She doesn’t like that a young athlete in his prime just possibly took a season-ending hit that bent his leg in two different directions.

  I’m praying for all of the selfish reasons. If Duke is out, Reed is in. That next hit could happen to him. One more hit…in the wrong place. One break or snap, or one more concussion might change him forever.