First Step Forward

by Liora Blake

  Because falling in love is a big fucking deal.

  Right here, right now, a wonderful woman is standing there, looking at me—stubborn, stupid, demanding me—as if she’s been charting my happiness with a deft hand and single-minded focus. Like there will never be a moment when I’ll have to worry she’ll do anything but take me as I am. With Whitney, it won’t matter if my knee never rehabs to one hundred percent, because she wouldn’t give a single fuck whether I’m playing or not. She’s like a stroke-before-midnight pardon from all the pressure I’ve put on myself to be a pro athlete, and nothing but.

  With my body not healing the way I wish it would, my being able to imagine that there’s more for me beyond the game is a gift she could never understand. A few months ago, losing my career felt like the end of everything. I thought the best I could hope for was an incomplete life, one that was comfortable, but unfocused.

  Now, I can actually imagine another outcome. The framework for a new life. One worth building my future on.

  We make our way back to the parking lot where my truck is, and all of the crap Whitney insisted we bring along makes sense now.

  Two wool blankets, a couple of pillows, and an old futon mattress she dragged out from underneath her bed. We set everything up in the truck bed, with the mattress as a base and the pillows piled up for us to lean on. I crawl in first, resting back against the pillows and keeping my knees bent while making a space for her to sit between my legs. Whitney scoots toward me, then settles in with her back against my chest.

  The truck bed is facing the field, exactly where she told me to park, which at the time I thought was a little weird. But she was insistent, so I did what she said. Now I’m glad I didn’t fight her on any of it, because if I had, I’d want to slap myself when I realized how much thought she put into this.

  I drape the two blankets over us and wrap my arms around her shoulders.

  “You’re a sneaky one, aren’t you? Had all of this planned out, even the blankets and pillows.”

  She grins. “I was totally freaking out all day; I couldn’t wait to see your face. I mean, fireworks. The one thing that always makes Cooper Lowry happy.”

  I kiss her cheek, tug her body a little closer, and shift my arms so they’re around her waist, leaving my mouth pressed to the side of her face. “I’ve got a few other things that make me happy.”

  “Football? Is that what you mean? I told you that doesn’t count—it’s too easy.”

  “Nope.”

  “Apple butter?”

  I make a vaguely agreeable sound; the apple butter is damn good, but it wasn’t what I had in mind. She purses her lips, feigning complete concentration.

  “I know. It’s rooibos tea. You love it.”

  Forcing a low choking sound, I shove my cold hands under her sweater, hoping to make a point that the tea is gross. She yelps at the contact of my frigid hands to her warm, soft skin.

  “Hey!”

  “My hands are cold.”

  “Clearly. You ever hear of gloves?”

  Her skin pebbles up until I start to caress it, warming her with each stroke. “I like this way better. But just to clarify, you make me happy now. And touching you makes my hands happy.”

  My hands are happy now. They’re up under Whitney’s clothes and, aside from grasping a football, that’s their happy place. I snake one hand up, closer to her breast, enough to let my thumb graze the underside. Whitney arches her back, subtly pushing the soft swell toward my touch.

  “Thank you, by the way. I love that you remembered this. The whole night makes me feel like I’m home again.”

  “Warm fuzzies? About your glory days?”

  “Kind of.” I sweep my thumb higher, taking a slow trip across her nipple. “What about your glory days? I’m curious what you were like in high school.”

  Whitney snorts. “Like I am now, but worse. I was a radical idealist. But, you know, absent of all the pesky levelheadedness that comes with adulthood. Also, I had dreads.” She cranes her head to see me. “Were you a jock? Every cheerleader’s dreamy fantasy?”

  I give her earlobe a little nip. “Football was everything, so I didn’t have time to be anybody’s fantasy. If I wasn’t practicing or playing, I was working on the ranch or studying.”

  Looking out at the football field in the distance and knowing that Whitney’s never seen me play means there’s something incomplete between us. Even if she isn’t into the game, even if I’m on my way out, I want to know she saw me at my best, just once. Taking a deep breath, I press my lips to the crown of her head.

  “Hunt thinks I might make the field in a few weeks if my knee cooperates. If I asked you to come to one of my games, would you?”

  She cranes her head back to see me and her forehead tightens up. “Of course I would. Did you think I wouldn’t?”

  I shrug. “Just don’t want you to feel like you have to.”

  “I wouldn’t feel like that.” A starter firework goes off, small and unspectacular. She nudges her shoulder back into my chest and I meet her eyes, earnest and intent on mine. “I wouldn’t.”

  I kiss her temple and work to shake off the tightness in my chest, brought on by knowing Whitney would show up for me just because I asked. To thank her—and keep my unsteady heart in its proper place—I put my hands to work again, teasing across the silk of her bra and changing the subject along the way.

  “I’m guessing the teenage Whitney only hung out with those granola crunching–type dudes, right? With a ponytail, wearing Teva sandals. Driving around in some piece-of-shit Subaru.”

  She shrugs her shoulders, admitting to exactly that. I lower my voice but keep my mouth close to her ear.

  “Did you let those guys touch you? Like this?”

  I reach up and draw one of her tits into my hand, gripping hard enough to remind her I’m not like those guys she ran around with in the past. She mutters something that’s probably supposed to sound like a protest, but when her head falls back to meet my chest, the look on her face says the opposite.

  Her knees are slightly bent but tipped together, and when I let my other hand skim across the lowest part of her belly, just above the waist of her jeans, her legs fall open a bit.

  “What about here?” My palm moves to cup her completely over the denim, and she groans, reaching for my hand.

  “Cooper,” she whispers, a weak reprimand, countered by the desire that’s impossible to ignore.

  The fireworks show is in full swing, lighting up the night sky. One nip to her ear and I kiss my way down from there, across her neck and over her collarbone. She gives my hand a little swat. “Seriously, Cooper. We cannot have sex here.”

  I chuckle. “I know that. Don’t worry, I’m planning to wait until we get home to bend you—and this dick-tease sweater of yours—over something sturdy.”

  Taking a quick scan of the parking lot, I decide that despite the location, the sides of the truck bed obscure enough to keep going a little. I slip my fingers to the button on her jeans and toy a bit. Her body goes taut, anxious, so I slow my movements, hoping I can convince her with my hands and an attempt at sound reasoning.

  “The nearest car to ours is five spaces away and we’re hunkered down in the truck bed. No one will know I’m getting you off under these blankets.”

  I hold my breath, waiting it out a few beats, just to see if she’ll latch on to my wrist to stop me. When she doesn’t, I kiss the side of her neck just as my hands make quick work of the button and zipper on her jeans. One of my hands sneaks inside her panties, middle finger moving to part her, and fuck, I can feel how much she already wants this. A strangled moan leaves my throat at the discovery, and she echoes the sound, but softer and needier.

  She sucks in a breath. “You’re supposed to be watching the fireworks.”

  I use my other hand to tug down one of her bra cups, letting her nipple graze the softness of her sweater as the weight of her breast fills my hand.

  “If I do this right, I get t
wo shows in one. Do you really want me to stop? Just say the word.”

  “Jesus,” she mutters. “Why do you have to be so good with your damn hands?”

  A huge firework goes off just as I ask if she wants to keep going. The sound drowns out her voice but she nods, and that’s enough for me.

  I yank on her other bra cup, then work the neck of her sweater down so that her breasts are nearly spilling out. I follow with a few slow strokes between her legs, making sure I’ve slicked her arousal properly across the entire span of her pussy. My dick definitely wants in, but I refuse to do so much as roll my hips to ease the ache. She gave me so much tonight—from the fireworks to the realization that I might be more than a guy on the wrong side of his career—so the least I can do is give her a fucking orgasm, just for her, without trying to steal some of the action for myself.

  We’ve been together enough that I know exactly what she likes, the way she doesn’t need too much pressure, just consistency, a steady circle of my fingers and the occasional flick of my thumb and middle finger to roll her clit.

  I lean in enough to trace my lips to the shell of her ear. “Did those other guys get you wet? Or am I the only one who knows how to make you this slick?”

  She doesn’t respond, just bites down on her lip. I’ve never craved validation like this from a woman before. But looking down into Whitney’s face, the need to know I’m giving her everything swells up before I can stop it.

  “Whitney, I want to hear you say it. Tell me who gets you off.”

  She licks her lips. “You do.”

  “Every time?”

  She smiles a little and nods. “Every time.”

  My entire body absorbs her answer. Contrary to what some believe, real men love giving women orgasms—we don’t feel put out or obligated, we fucking live for making it happen. It plays to every boastful hey, look what I just did instinct we possess. Because when a woman comes apart under our stellar handiwork, we feel like a king, stronger than an ox, and a thousand feet tall.

  Tonight, when it happens, she has to work hard to stifle the sound, and the only thing I regret is not getting to watch her ride it out the way she normally does. But the grand finale is in the sky, Whitney is loose and spent in my arms, and I feel a million feet tall.

   22

  (Whitney)

  I went into the grocery store for three things. Lip balm, herbal tea, and a greeting card. The lip balm and herbal tea were for me; the greeting card was for Cooper. It has a picture of a pouty hedgehog on the front, with a silly sentiment inside about keeping your chin up, appropriately themed for a guy whose team has lost their last five games.

  My plan for the drive to Denver was to craft a heartfelt, encouraging sort of note to add and make sure it ended up in his bag before the game. I would have hours to debate my closing. XOXO, Whitney? All x’s? Love, Whitney? Just my name? Perhaps a jaunty scrawl of my initials?

  Had I stuck to the plan, exited the A&P with those three items and not been swayed by the enormous foam finger on display in the window of our local dollar store across the way, I’m positive I would be on the road by now. The foam finger is to blame. But when I spied it, I thought it would be cute, picturing Cooper’s face, how he would think it was wacky and charming.

  We haven’t seen each other in three weeks. Three long weeks. Even our usual phone calls have been cut short, with Cooper either exhausted or testy from enduring day after day of rehab on his knee. But the docs finally cleared him this week and when he called to see if I was still up for coming to see him play, all I could hear was the same doubt in his voice that was there the first time he asked. I tried my best to sound super excited. Which I was, just not about the football part. The see-Cooper, undress-Cooper, get-in-Cooper’s-bed part? Super excited.

  Now my truck won’t start.

  I try the ignition again, my fingers literally crossed on both hands. I’d cross my toes if I could. Or my eyelashes. Anything that’s remotely crossable, I’d cross it.

  And yet, nothing but a weird grating noise. Crikey.

  My head drops to the steering wheel. Think, Whitney. Where was the last place you saw a magic carpet? Are you dressed properly to hitch a ride? It’s been years since I thumbed my way anywhere, but I’ll do it.

  Just as I start to consider what my cardboard sign will say—“COOPER’S BED OR BUST” seems like a winner—someone raps on the driver-door glass. My feeling so defeated means the sound doesn’t surprise or startle me; in fact, I don’t even raise my head.

  Another quick rap. And, while a bit muffled, I’d still know Garrett’s good-humored voice anywhere.

  “Contemplating the wonders of the universe, Johnny Appleseed?”

  I shake my head back and forth, rolling my forehead along the hard plastic of the steering wheel. Polite decency would dictate I at least roll the window down. The hand crank squeaks with every labored turn of my wrist.

  When I finally look Garrett’s way, he has a heavy work coat on, and he’s holding a cup of cheap gas-station coffee in one hand and a roll of those atrocious powdered sugar–covered Hostess Donettes in the other. Breakfast of champions for a redneck with a miracle metabolism.

  “Truck won’t start. Cooper’s game starts in eight hours. I’m contemplating the cost of a taxi to Denver and wondering if they’ll accept my undying gratitude as payment.”

  Garrett sets his Styrofoam coffee cup on the roof of my truck and chuckles.

  “Let’s not panic, shall we? Damsels in distress are my specialty.” He stuffs the donuts in a coat pocket. “Pop the hood for me.”

  I yank the hood release and return my head to rest on the steering wheel, hoping if I don’t look, that might help. Garrett offers a few muttered and unnecessary derogatory comments on Japanese automobile design, in between asking me to give the key a turn. After a bit, he drops the hood, kicks me out of the driver seat, and takes my place for a bit of investigation. He looks silly sitting there, so tall that his head almost brushes the headliner. He doesn’t bother to adjust the seat from my short-gal setting, which means his long legs end up folded awkwardly into the small space.

  “I’m thinking it’s the ignition switch.”

  I groan. “I’m thinking that sounds expensive. And involved. Why couldn’t it just be something simple? Like it needs a hug or something.”

  Garrett raises a brow, considering my solution with a wry expression.

  “Hugs might work on a Toyota, hell if I know. I’m a Ford guy. Pretty sure hugs would void the warranty on a real truck.” He pulls my keys from the ignition and holds them out to me. “But the part shouldn’t be too bad. Take me a couple of hours to swap it out for you. Maybe we can get you there by halftime.”

  I let my shoulders deflate. “Garrett, you’re too nice, but I’m broke. Flat broke. Unless this part can be purchased with ten bucks and one of those hugs, I just can’t afford it.”

  “You can’t be without a vehicle, either, Whitney.”

  He’s right. Logically, I know he is. But I’ll figure out that part of the problem later. Right now, I have to call Cooper.

  Garrett starts to fumble around in his back pocket and when I see that he’s digging out his wallet, I start to worry he’s about to do something wonderfully sweet, but entirely foolish. The kid rents what amounts to a single-wide trailer on the outskirts of town, drives the same truck he bought when he was sixteen, and works at a rural co-op, so if he thinks I’d ever consider letting him spot me some cash, he’s nuts. Saving us both from that uncomfortable conversation, I hold my phone up and shake it in his direction.

  “Let me just break the news to Cooper. Can you give me a ride home when I’m done?”

  Garrett counts the bills in his wallet and waves me off. A text means I can avoid hearing any disappointment in Cooper’s voice, so I proceed to take the coward’s way out.

  You want the good news or the bad news?

  My phone rings fifteen seconds later. So much for taking cover behind a digital shield.
One deep breath and I answer with my best attempt at an apologetic please don’t hate me, I considered hitchhiking just to get to you kind of hello that I can manage. He must not notice the nuance because he sounds seconds away from grinding his jaw into fine bone dust.

  “Now would probably be a good time for me to tell you how much I hate that phrase. The good-news-or-bad-news’phrase. It’s just code. There’s never any good news, just varying degrees of shitty news.”

  Silently, I groan. Why does this have to be a situation that proves him right? I kick the toe of my boot into a small crack in the parking lot’s asphalt. “I can’t come to your game, Cooper.”

  “What’s up?” His voice lowers, and the disappointment I so wanted to escape is loud and clear.

  “My truck won’t start. I’m so sorry, but I stopped at the grocery store on the way out of town, came out, and it wouldn’t start. Garrett’s here and he thinks it’s an ignition switch. He said he could swap it out, but I still need to buy the part and my cash situation means I can’t swing it. He’s going to give me a ride home. I just wanted to tell you what’s going on.”

  Cooper breathes steadily but noisily into the phone. “So he’s still there? Garrett?”

  I look up. Garrett’s standing in the middle of the lot with his head craned back, gawking at a gaggle of Canada geese flying overhead as he uses one hand to nudge a miniature donut out of the sleeve and into his mouth.

  “Yeah. Why? Please don’t be weird about this. He’s helping me.”

  “Let me talk to him. I won’t make it weird.”

  Garrett looks my way as if his ears are burning. Even from here, I can see he has a spot of powdered sugar on his upper lip. I wave the phone in his direction.

  He approaches, swipes a coat sleeve over his mouth, and gives me a wide-eyed look. “Am I in trouble?”

  I shrug my shoulders and hand him the phone.

  “Hello? … Hey, Cooper … Yeah, I’m not positive, but pretty sure.”