Wildcat

by Max Monroe

  Winnie had said to have patience while I waited, and it would all work out. But what if I was the only one waiting in the end?

  By the time I’d made my way back home from Nikki’s house, it was dinnertime, and I’d felt nothing but out of sorts and confused. My mind refused to stop running, like a hamster spinning along on a wheel, and I couldn’t turn it off for just a moment of peace and quiet.

  And nothing could distract me from my own thoughts.

  Not food. Not a shower. Trust me, I’d tried both. I’d barely touched the turkey sandwich I had made, and the hot shower hadn’t provided any semblance of relief or comfort.

  Nothing helped.

  All I could think about was Quinn and us and the horrifying feeling that what we’d started—the intense, beautiful relationship that had developed between us—had been for nothing.

  When I’d moved to New York and started my career as a flight attendant, I’d never set finding a relationship as a priority. I genuinely thought it would be a while before I’d find someone who intrigued me enough to throw caution to the wind and dive headfirst.

  But I’d never considered meeting Quinn.

  A man who knew all the ways to make me laugh and smile. He was the one person who, when I was with him, made me feel comfort, safety, home.

  The last true relationship I’d been in had occurred in college. And when that ended, I’d made a promise to myself. I wouldn’t settle for anything that wasn’t one hundred percent the right relationship for me.

  Everyone had different needs, desires, wants. No one relationship was the same. But I knew the kind of relationship I needed was one that allowed me to still maintain my independence and stand on my own two feet. A relationship where both people were both a “we” and two separate “I”s.

  Kind of like sitting on a teeter-totter, when you first got on, it was a little scary, but you had to trust that the other person wouldn’t let you crash to the ground—that they wouldn’t jump off or do something crazy to throw you off-balance. But together, you were balanced and counted on and supported each other.

  And sometimes, everything was just even—balanced.

  But there were also times when one person’s life was on a real high, and the other person would do everything in their power to hold them there and let them ride the wave, all the while appreciating them in all their glory—loving them unconditionally.

  But mostly, together, you just enjoyed the journey.

  I’d honestly thought a relationship like that—the kind of relationship I knew I’d need—was a near impossible feat.

  Until Quinn.

  There was something about him that had made me feel so young inside, but not in a childish way. He had awoken the pure side of me—the best side, all the facets of myself that only required love to be healthy and whole.

  And us, together, was pure magic. It felt like our energy vibrated in such a unique way, each the perfect complement of the other.

  I wasn’t simply in love with him; I was all fucking in.

  Quinn was what made my heart feel strong. His smile alone could make me feel things I’d never felt before him.

  Before we’d met, I was one, but when we were together, I was a half—yet somehow so much more than I ever was before. And now, the mere idea of not being with him was more painful than I thought I could ever allow myself to fully feel.

  Our phone call last night had been heartbreaking. I couldn’t muster the strength or willpower to visualize the picture he was trying to paint.

  “When you make something a priority, anything is possible.”

  His words blared in my memories.

  During that phone call, he had been trying to fight for us.

  I paced my living room, my feet creaking across the hardwood floor with each step.

  Where did I go from here?

  What would be the easy route to most—just giving up and trying to move on with my life without Quinn—seemed like an impossible task.

  I thought about him, and I thought about the night of our first date when he told me his dad’s advice.

  Those words rang loud inside my head. “It only takes one minute of bravery. One minute of insane, embarrassingly crazy courage to change your life. Sometimes, it only takes that one minute for something great to happen.”

  The man might not like me, but apparently, in some ways, he was wise. I needed that one minute of insane courage.

  I needed to understand that no one—not the paparazzi or Quinn’s parents or random internet strangers with an opinion—should be able to control my life.

  I was in love with Quinn, and I owed it to myself, and to him, to give us a shot.

  When you loved someone, you didn’t fucking let them go. You fought for them.

  I needed to fight for us.

  For once, my mind stopped racing, and it stayed focused on one task, the important task: Get to Quinn.

  He had a game in Minneapolis tomorrow afternoon, and that was exactly where I was going to be.

  Without second-guessing or any doubts filling my head, I jogged the few steps to my bedroom, and I ran through the possible available flights at this late hour of the evening in my head. As I packed a suitcase, throwing underwear, bras, clothes, and shoes haphazardly in my carry-on luggage, I called RoyalAir’s customer service line to see what seat availability they still had for the 9:05 p.m. flight to Minneapolis.

  It took five minutes of being on hold before a customer service agent finally took my call. Meanwhile, I’d already finished throwing random shit into a suitcase and set it by my front door.

  “Hi, my name is Catharine Wild,” I started to explain on a rush once Donna from customer service took my call. “I’m a flight attendant for RoyalAir, and I’m trying to get a seat on the 9:05 p.m. flight to Minneapolis,” I explained quickly.

  “Okay. Just give me a moment, Catharine, while I look it up,” the female agent responded. The sounds of her fingers typing across the keys filled the receiver, and I waited impatiently in my living room, tapping my foot against the hardwood floor in an erratic rhythm.

  “It looks like there are still six spots available on that flight this evening. Would you like me to add you to one of the first-class seats?”

  Hot damn, I love when this happens. Being a flight attendant had its perks sometimes.

  “Yes, definitely. Thank you.”

  “Okay, Catharine. I’ve got you added to the 9:05 flight to Minneapolis this evening. Just check in with the ticketing agents to get your boarding passes when you get to JFK.”

  “Fantastic. Thank you,” I said and quickly ended the call.

  Mind racing, I glanced around my living room, trying to run through a list of things I’d need for the flight and impromptu trip to Minnesota. Sure, I’d packed a suitcase, but that didn’t mean I’d successfully put everything into it. I was too amped, had too much adrenaline running through my veins to remember really little details like makeup or hair product needs for my last-minute trip.

  I just needed to get to him.

  My heart pounded and my body hummed with anxious energy at what I was about to do.

  Would he be happy to see me?

  Would he be angry?

  Had he given up on us…on me?

  Those were all valid questions. And they all had valid responses.

  But I refused to let any uncertainty stop me from trying.

  As I started to move in the direction of my bathroom, three knocks against my front door brought me to a skidding stop.

  I looked toward the entry and furrowed my brow.

  Who in the hell would be at my house right now?

  Quietly, I tiptoed toward my living room, peeking out through the blinds to make sure it wasn’t something crazy like paparazzi or a disgruntled Quinn Bailey fan.

  But to my surprise, it wasn’t. At least, I didn’t think it was. All I could see was a well-dressed, early twentysomething guy. No cameras. No one shouting questions or rude comments toward my door. />
  And when I looked closer, I had a strong sense of acquaintance. The light brown hair, the blue eyes, the strong jaw, the broad shoulders…it looked very familiar.

  He looks so much like Quinn.

  I opened the door, and blue eyes smirked down at me.

  “Hey there, Cat,” he responded with a wide grin. “I know we haven’t met in person yet, but we’ve chatted on the phone. I’m Denver.”

  “Quinn’s brother, Denver?” I asked dumbly. It wouldn’t have taken a rocket scientist to know these two were related, but I wasn’t employed by NASA, I’d spent the last few days heartbroken, and I was tired. I decided to cut myself some slack on asking stupid questions.

  He nodded, lips smiling. “That’s me.”

  “Uh…” I muttered as my brain tried to catch up with the situation. Quinn’s brother is at my apartment? Why? How? “How…How did you find me?” I found myself peeking over his shoulder and looking out toward the street for the answer. “I mean, not that I mind you being here, but how did you know where I live?”

  “Trust me,” he said, waving a nonchalant hand toward me. “Quinn’s assistant Jillian knows everything.”

  A shocked laugh escaped my lips. “Yeah, but my address?”

  He shrugged. “No one knows how she finds everything out, but she does. I’m pretty sure she’s a witch with the power of sorcery. I tell Quinn all the time he needs to watch his back,” he said, and a teasing little smirk lit up his eyes.

  He had the same playfulness as Quinn, and the nostalgia made my skin tingle with the need to get moving. If I was going to make my flight—and by God, I was going to make my flight—I had to roll out. “I don’t want to sound rude, but…is there a reason you’re here?”

  Of course, all I did by qualifying my question with a statement like I don’t want to sound rude was sound even more like a bitch. And according to Casey, bitches get stitches.

  But he didn’t answer that question, didn’t even acknowledge it. Instead, he tossed one of his own, nodding toward the suitcase by the door. “Are you going somewhere?”

  “Well…yeah…” I admitted. “I was actually just getting ready to head out.”

  “Head out? To where? Going on a vacation?”

  “Uh…” I glanced down at my suitcase and then back at him, shaking my head. “I’m…well…I’m going to Minneapolis tonight. My flight leaves at 9:05.”

  “Really?” His whole body vibrated with excitement.

  I shrugged and offered a little smirk of my own. “I like the Mavericks, what I can say?”

  His eyes flashed with prior knowledge, a knowing smile on his lips. “Good God, I was hoping you would say that and not something tragically sad like St. Croix.”

  “St. Croix is sad?”

  “Not always. But it is when Quinndolyn is in Minneapolis with a broken heart.”

  I frowned at the thought of Quinn being anything but happy. He was born to be smiling.

  “That is why you’re going, right?” Denver asked suddenly. “Because you like my brother?”

  “No,” I corrected. “I love your brother.”

  One of the biggest smiles I’d ever seen crested Denver’s lips. “Well, thank God for that.”

  I smiled, but he didn’t give me time to bask in it, shooing me out of the door and grabbing the handle of my suitcase.

  “Let’s move,” he ordered. “Get your cute ass in gear and get on the phone on the way. I’m going to need a ticket, and you’ve got pull.”

  “What?” I asked with a laugh, practically chasing him to a rental car he had parked in front of my building as he tossed my bag inside the trunk and slammed it shut.

  “You think I’m letting you fly to Minnesota alone?” He shook his head and pursed his lips. “No. I’m coming with you. This…” He swirled his finger in the air, pointed to me, pointed to himself, pounded his heart, and mimicked an explosion with his hands. “I gotta see.”

  Almost four whole quarters of effort, and it was still all going to shit.

  I’d been sacked more times than I liked, and the passes I’d completed had been cobbled together out of nothing more than bullshit and hope.

  I was off. My game, my head, my so-called muscle memory—all of it was shit. Apparently, for Quinn Bailey, a broken heart wasn’t a good thing for good football.

  By some kind of miracle, and the help of people like Sean, Cam, Sammy, and Oran, we were still within a touchdown of winning the fucking game.

  Mouthguard clenched tightly between my teeth, I scanned my eyes across the defense, glanced up to check the play clock, and signaled for Sean to cross back across the field.

  The seconds ticked down to five, and I called for the snap, Sammy letting it fly and sending it straight into the palms of my hands. I dropped back, one step, then two, shuffling my feet while I scanned the chaos in front of me. Blocks were holding, but only just barely, and Sean was in double coverage upfield. A quick scan told me a big fucking guy was coming for me fast, so I pumped to check Sean’s position and let fly despite the coverage, hoping he’d give me a miracle.

  He got close to producing one, honestly, touching the ball with a finger as he outjumped the two guys on each side of him and made a grab for it.

  Unfortunately, that was the end of the good news. Tipped by his almost-touch, the ball bobbled and flopped off the side on a wild jag and straight into the arms of a waiting defensive end. He ran awkwardly, unused to being the man with the ball, but it didn’t matter. The damage was already done as Jeremy Watts, our fullback, tackled him on the forty-yard line.

  Frustrated and coming loose at the seams, I jogged to the side of the field with the rest of the team. Sammy gave me a slap to the ass, intended to let me know the guys were behind me despite my mistake, and then went on his way to leave me to my thoughts.

  Coach Bennett’s mouth moved wildly, likely with words of an unpleasant nature, but all I could hear was silence.

  I was internally reaming myself enough for the both of us.

  Jillian weaved her way through the crowd of players, coaches, and technical assistants as I walked to the back bench of the sideline and pulled my helmet off of my head. I watched her make her way as a water bottle was slipped into my hand, paying attention to the sounds of the game as our defense took the field in the background.

  The fact that she was on the sideline at all stuck out like a sore thumb, and I wondered who she’d had to sweet-talk in order to make it happen. I braced myself for whatever she’d come to tell me that was important enough that she couldn’t wait until the game was over to say it. My day was obviously already not going as planned, and I imagined whatever she had to say wasn’t going to make it any better.

  “Look up at the forty-five-yard line, south side of the stadium, halfway down the fifteenth row. Don’t ask me any questions because I don’t have time to explain, but I promise you won’t be sorry you did.”

  And then she was gone. Like some kind of fucking ghost.

  Jesus Christ. Sometimes her abilities scared me.

  With no form to watch disappear, I did as she asked, looking up into the stands and scanning the crowd. It was thick with people, and I did my best to make out their shapes and separate them into individuals. Even though it was the preseason and no more than an exhibition game, the fans came out in droves. With cheaper tickets and extra events, if you weren’t there for wins and losses, sometimes preseason games were the way to go.

  Sure enough, halfway across the row, I found my brother’s smiling face as he waved wildly at the field and me. I smiled and raised my hand to wave back when he started pointing beside him.

  I looked into the next seat and felt my breath catch in my throat as Catharine stood up beside him, a blinding smile on her face and the cutest, most awkward little shrug I’d ever seen.

  My heart spasmed at the sight of her, here, at my game, smiling at me like she’d done exactly what Winnie had said and taken control.

  I was so used to being in control, han
dling the ball, that I hadn’t realized it was possible to give the control to someone else. Just like the wildcat formation, @WildCommaCat had surprised me with a completely new and exhilarating configuration—with her at the helm.

  She watched as my face melted all its hardness and worry and morphed into a smile full of love. With Denver joining in beside her, my kitten jumped up and down then, her excitement fully unleashed as they both chanted, “Bailey! Bailey! Bailey!” together. Her shoulders as her focus, she pointed her two pointer fingers at the Mavericks jersey she was wearing, and then turned around to give me the full view.

  She’d gone all out, apparently determined to convince me she was in, all in, and emblazoned there for all to see was my name and number.

  To the rest of the crowd, she may have looked like a just another fan.

  To me, she looked like mine.

  The roar of the crowd vibrated the stadium, and I stared toward the field as Quinn and his team filed back onto it. They’d taken a short break after the last round of—uh…footballing?—to huddle together off to the side, near the team bench, while the Mavericks’ coach kneeled in the center, gesturing wildly about something.

  I looked around the stadium, taking in all the faces of men, women, and children filling up the stands, most of them standing on their feet, their gazes fixated on the field.

  Walking onto the pristine green turf, closer to one end of the field than the other, the Mavericks looked like gods among men, standing strong and confident in their uniforms.

  But my man—God, I hope he’s still my man—he looked the most confident of them all.

  After this game was over, I was going to do everything in my power to let him know I was all fucking in.

  Number 9. Bailey. It only took one game for me to know that jersey like the back of my hand. I could spot it anywhere on the field, even when he was on the sidelines. It probably helped I had intimate knowledge of the man inside the jersey. And that I was wearing a reproduction of said jersey too.

  “This is it, Cat,” Denver said as the Mavericks lined up in a row, Quinn standing behind them. “Fifteen seconds, sweet cheeks.”