I don’t want to pick it up. But the damn phone won’t stop. It rings and vibrates, making the coffee table rattle. My fingers dig into my thighs. Finn.
Answer it, you weenie, it’s just Finn, for fucks sake, not Satan.
Grumbling, I snatch the phone up.
“Hey.” I sound like I’ve been eating glass.
“Hey.” The timbre of his voice, rough and unsure, lodges between my ribs and digs in.
I close my eyes and bring my knees to my chest as if I can protect myself.
Finn clears his throat, but doesn’t speak.
“I should have called you.”
“I wanted to call you.”
We speak over each other, and he huffs out a small laugh, before his voice lowers to something hard and tight. “You left me.”
A shard of guilt goes through my heart. “I said I was leaving.”
“But not like that. Not without saying goodbye.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It hurt, Chess. We deserved more than that.”
A lump swells in my throat. “I know. It was shitty.”
Finn doesn’t say anything for a long moment. But when he finally speaks, it’s a strained rush. “I took Britt out to dinner.”
Hearing the words from his mouth makes it more real.
“I saw pictures of it.” I lick my lips and taste salt. Another fat tear runs down the side of my nose, and I bat it away.
Finn makes a sound. “I was afraid of that.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I stay silent.
He sighs, long and tired. “I wanted you to hear it from me.”
A wave of dizziness comes over me, and I rest my head against the couch pillow.
“I’m trying to be her friend,” he goes on. “Like you suggested.”
As if he’s trying to appease me? I don’t feel appeased. I’m miserable. I swipe at my eyes. “That’s good. She needs a friend.”
That it’s the truth doesn’t make it any easier for me to picture them together.
Silence descends.
“How’s work?” Finn blurts out, as if forced.
“Good. Great. Tomorrow I’m photographing The Avengers. Well, the guys, that is.”
A choked sound comes through the phone then abruptly cuts off. “Naked Avengers?”
I almost smile. “They get to hold their weapons. Iron Man’s wearing his glove.”
“Oh, well at least his hand is covered,” Finn grumbles.
My lip twitches. But it’s not enough. Our easy flow is broken. And we fall silent once more.
When Finn speaks again, his voice is so low and hoarse, I almost don’t hear it. Almost.
“I miss you.”
My heart kicks against my ribs, and I clutch the phone. “I miss you too.”
Tell me to come home. Tell me you need me.
“You were right, though,” he rasps before clearing his throat. “I needed to get some clarity. Figure out what’s important.”
Something inside me cracks. I think it’s my heart. I draw in a ragged breath. “Me too.” Don’t cry. You’re fine. Fine. “This job has been a dream come true. Really, really. Good.”
That’s descriptive. You don’t sound at all like you’re falling apart.
He pauses. “I’m glad. You deserve….good things. We made the playoffs.”
“I heard. I’m… so happy for you.”
Someone in the background yells for Finn. I close my eyes, knowing my time is up. He speaks at stronger now, but more distant. “I’ve got to go.”
I feel every cold mile between us.
“Yeah. Me too. I’ve been so busy…” I swallow hard.
“That’s good. I’m glad.”
God, we’re horrible now.
“Good luck, Finn.”
It’s so quiet on his end, I think he’s hung up. But then he speaks, his voice soft and full of regret. “Sleep well, Chess.”
It’s only after the line is dead and I’m back at work that I remember he’d said the same words to me before. On the night we met, when I’d left him at my apartment door, intent on walking right out of his life.
* * *
Finn
* * *
The door to my condo opens. I don’t bother looking up from the TV. I know it’s not who I want to see. Keys jangle and then Charlie walks into the room.
“Manny,” he says, glancing at me then the TV. “What are you watching?”
“Singles.” My voice sounds as if it had been dragged over rust before breaking free.
Charlie takes a seat next to me. “Never seen it.”
“You’re missing out on the glory that is Cliff Poncier and Citizen Dick.”
“Citizen Dick?” He makes a sound of amusement.
I cut him a glance. “They were underrated.”
“If you say so.”
We watch for a few minutes. Every time Steve and Linda are on screen, my chest hurts. You broke his heart, Linda.
Yes, I am a fucking masochist.
“This looks like a chick movie,” Charlie says out of the blue.
“According to Chess, every movie is a chick movie.” It isn’t easy saying her name out loud, but I refuse to make her a ghost.
He’s silent of a moment. “I guess she has a point.”
“She usually does.” Fuck. I need some antacid.
Charlie turns my way. “You talk to her lately?”
“Yes.”
I don’t expand on the disaster that was our phone call. The conversation had been so stilted, it was like pulling teeth just to get the words out.
His stare is a weighty thing. “You going to go get her?”
When she’s in the middle of her dream job? With The Avengers? How the fuck do I compete against Iron Man? Or—fuck—Thor?
“She isn’t lost, Charles.”
He pulls a bottle of green juice from his backpack and hands it to me. “It’s about time to get going for the game.”
Normally, I’d drive myself. But this is a playoff game. When Charlie asked me if I wanted a ride to the stadium, I realized, that he really wanted to drive me. He wanted to be a part of this. He deserves to be. So I have myself a chauffeur, even if he’s a nagging one.
“We have at least fifteen minutes to spare.” Because it’s in my hand, I open the bottle and take a drink. I’m not going to say I love the green health drink because I have working taste buds, but it does send a nice shot of energy running through my system.
“Let’s spend them at the stadium,” Charlie says.
Charlie doesn’t like living on the edge. With a sigh, I heave myself up. “Fine. Let’s go win us a football game.”
Charlie stands too, turning off the TV with the remote. “We’ll work on your enthusiasm levels in the car.”
* * *
I’d like to think I’m a good actor. But apparently, my performance today is lacking. Despite digging deep and pulling out all the enthusiasm I can muster, as soon as it’s halftime and we’ve received all the instruction we’re going to get, Jake plops down next to me on the bench and elbows my ribs.
Pads keep me from feeling much but it gets my attention. “What?”
He takes a bottle from a passing ball boy and squirts water all over his head before looking me over. “You’ve been playing better than you ever have.”
He’s right; I’m the best I’ve ever been. Each time I go out on the field, I become a machine, playing as if I have something to prove. The sad truth is, I am trying to prove something. Not to myself. It’s for her. Always for her.
But in the twisted way of things, with every win, I feel worse, the distance between me and Chess bigger. Because what the fuck am I really proving here? That she and North were right? That she was just a distraction? That I don’t need her?
I do. I fucking do.
“Thanks for letting me know,” I say to Jake, as if I don’t care. “I appreciate the pep talk.”
He gives me a sidelong look, but keeps a smile on his face. We mi
ght be in the relative privacy of our locker room but someone is always watching when we’re in game mode, and neither of us wants to spook the team. “Wise ass. You’re playing great. But you have dead eyes.”
“Not liking the direction of this pep talk, Ryder.” I swipe a bottle from a basket near me and take a long drink. “Did Charlie put you up to this?”
“He noticed it too?”
I look over the locker room as if I’m on top of the world. “Now is not the time.”
“Your avoidance game is killer. It’s never the right time.”
My smile aches at the corners. “Well, it certainly isn’t fucking now.”
Guys are milling around, some getting their limbs stretched by the trainers, some hydrating. We’ve all got our game face on, counting down the minutes before we go back out.
North sits his ass down on my other side. “What we talking about? Winning? Because I love winning. It’s, like, better than losing, you know?”
“Easy there, Nuke LaLoosh,” I mutter.
He winks. “So?”
Jake leans past me. “Manny’s girl has decamped to New York, and he’s depressed. But he doesn’t want to talk about his feelings.”
“Fuck me.” I groan, ducking my head under the pretense of putting my bottle down so no one can see my grimace.
“Your girl left you?” North sounds surprised.
I don’t know why, since he all but pleaded with me to see the light and concentrate on my career. And since I really don’t want to fucking hear that again, I simply blot my face with a towel and speak past it. “We’re thinking things through while she’s on a job.”
Every man knows that when a woman has to think about things it isn’t good. North is no exception. “Sorry to hear that, man.”
“You?” An incredulous snort escapes me. “Seriously?”
He gives my thigh a slap before he stands. “If it’s responsible for that dull look in your eyes, then yeah.”
“Told you,” Jake says. “Dead eyes.”
North shakes his head as if he’s disappointed in me. “When did I ever say anything about being miserable? If she makes you happy, then work the rest out.” With that, North trots off.
I stand as well, wanting to pace. No, really, I want to chase after North and smack his head. But I don’t. I put my hands low on my hips and pretend I’m watching the clock count down. “That fucker lectures me about focus and now he’s sorry.”
Jake gets to his feet and mimics my pose, all smiles and “we’re fucking owning this game” on his face. Then he turns, his shoulder pads blocking out the rest of the room. Sweat and water bead on his face, his eye black is smeared. “Screw North. He doesn’t know you for shit. And you’re right; I don’t want to talk about this either. I’d rather be exchanging high-fucking-fives and or spewing a ‘Win one for the Gipper’ speech. Because we’re here. In the playoffs.”
He leans in, his voice low and intense. “The fucking playoffs.”
He doesn’t have to tell me what that means. Every football player understands where this road leads. I open my mouth to talk, but he doesn’t let me.
“You should be ecstatic. Instead, you’re a walking sack of misery.”
His words hit like a physical blow to my gut. I grin my teeth against the urge to yell. Not just yell but to scream and rail, because fuck it all. I’ve done everything I could to get to this moment. Including letting Chess go, and this is what he has for me?
Jake faces my rage without flinching. “I’m not trying to bust your balls.”
I glare, unable to keep my happy face. I don’t trust myself to speak.
“Call her,” he says. “Plead, beg, whatever the hell you have to do to get her back, so you can snap out of this funk from hell.”
My reply comes out so sharp, it’s almost a shout. “She thinks…” I take a breath, and lower my voice. “This isn’t on me, all right? She made everything complicated when it should have been easy.”
“Easy?” Jake makes it sound like a bad word.
“Yes, easy. She’s worried about the future. That we’ll eventually want different things. That one day I’ll resent her and want some model wife instead.” I throw up a hand. “As if I’d want anyone else but her.”
Jake’s brows lift. “Wife, huh?”
Heat flushes my neck. “When you know, you know.”
“Does she know you know?”
I blink back at him.
Jake huffs, glancing around to see if we have time, before zeroing in on me again. “Did you say, ‘I don’t give a rat’s dick about having anyone else.’”
“A rat’s dick?” I choke on a laugh.
He rolls his eyes. “Did you tell her you love her, you moron?”
Behind us, Coach yells for guys to huddle up.
The sad truth embeds itself like glass in my throat. “It might not be a matter of me loving her.”
I regret the words as soon as I let them out. It’s easier to pretend that I walked away. Admitting that I might not be the man Chess ultimately wants hurts so much I can’t breathe past it.
Jake stares me down. “They don’t call it risk because it’s safe. Tell her anyway.”
He gives me a slap on the shoulder pads and walks away.
I follow, my mind set. I’m going to lead my guys and win this game. I don’t need Chess to succeed at football. Whether she’s in my life or not, I am who I am on the field.
It’s off the field that I need her. And I’m going to find my girl and prove that to her too.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chess
* * *
James and Jamie take me to an Irish Pub in lower Manhattan. It’s cozy and wonderfully warm, especially after walking six blocks in the icy wind to get there.
“I can’t feel my fingers,” I say rubbing my hands together.
“We should have taken the subway.” Jamie’s nose is bright pink.
“The walk was bracing,” James insists. “And you two are wimps.”
Jamie takes off her fogging glasses and wipes them. “Pretty sure someone was whining about frozen balls in danger of falling off and shattering on the pavement.”
“That was a vivid description,” I add. “Maybe you should check your pants, James. Make sure everything is accounted for.”
“My balls have already checked in.” James unwraps his scarf and leads us through the crowd. “And they’re demanding a drink.”
“You talk to your balls?” I ask with a laugh.
“All guys do, Chess. Have I taught you nothing?”
“I thought they talked to their dicks.”
“They’re kind of a package deal, darling.”
We settle into a booth by an empty stage. James snuggles up next to Jamie, and I’m left by myself on the other side. Again comes the horrible, internal coldness running along my side. I don’t mind sitting alone. I’ve done it for years. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m not whole. I’m missing a part of myself. And it’s annoying. Another person can’t complete me. I do that for myself.
“So who has final say,” Jamie asks James. “Balls or dick?”
James settles back into the booth and rubs his beard in contemplation. “Hmm. Dick can definitely act alone. He’s been known to perk up and want to investigate a situation, while Balls are shriveling and shouting ‘run away, fool!’”
“That’s because balls have a sense of self-preservation,” I say, shrugging out of my coat. “Dick is basically a brainless knobhead.”
Jamie laughs.
“True,” James says. “But as to the ruler of my package?
“Let me guess,” I put in. “Mr. Hand?”
“Har. That might have been the case a few months ago, but now the supreme ruler is Jamie, so she really shouldn’t be laughing at poor Dick.”
Jamie flushes pink and leans into him. “Aw, that’s so sweet.”
I suppose it is, in a weird way. Doesn’t stop me from wanting leave the table so I don’t have to wa
tch them cuddle.
You had that, you moron. And you had to think about “things.”
It really sucks when your conscience starts to hate you.
“I would have whispered sweet dick jokes in your ear too,” Finn’s voice says in my head.
“I know you would have. You never could pass up an opportunity to talk about your junk.”
“Neither could you, Chester. I’m pretty sure you’re obsessed with my junk.”
It really, really sucks when you start having conversations with a man who isn’t there.
The waitress comes up to take our order. “We’re having a special on Guinness tonight. And the chef’s specialty of the evening is steak and kidney pie.”
“I’ll have a Harp and a pie,” I tell her.
“Guinness for me,” James says. “And the fish and chips.”
“I’ll have the pie too,” Jamie orders. “Oh, and a white wine.”
“What did I tell you?” Finn’s ghost whispers in my ear. “Women like to order white wine. Even when they’re in a pub.”
“Isn’t there a lamp you could go haunt?”
“I’m a quarterback, Chess, not a genie.”
“What’s that smile about?” James asks me, cutting into the ridiculous and probably unhealthy conversation going on in my head.
“The impending promise of hot food,” I lie.
He looks at me as if he knows better, but thankfully he doesn’t say anything.
Our drinks arrive and, while we wait for our food, a band comes out and begins to play. It’s a full Irish band, complete with a flute player, two fiddlers, and even an accordionist. And they’re good.
Soon, the bar is filled with lively music and people tapping along.
The singer is a young woman with curly hair and a voice like a pixie.
We eat our food as they play.
And it is almost perfect, soaking up good music and good food with good friends. I can see myself in the future, having more nights like this. I will have a good life. I know it. I can feel it in my bones. And a sense of peace comes over me. I’ll be okay.
No matter what I do, I’ll be okay. But is okay enough?
The band finishes a song and the singer accepts a pint of Guinness from a waitress. She takes a long drink before setting it down on a stool by her side. “I love the film Some Kind of Wonderful,” she says in the mic.
The Hot Shot Page 30