by Alexa Martin
Before the last two away games, he’s called me from the locker room right before he takes the field. The calls aren’t long, but they’re enough to make my heart skip a beat every time I see his name on my caller ID.
“Sounds good. I’ll be waiting for it.”
“Tell Dre he’s in the dog house,” Naomi says, alerting Gavin of her presence for the first time. “He’s never snuck out to kiss me.”
“Hey, Naomi.” Gavin waves to her. “I’ll let him know.”
He glances around my messy, nail polish smelling, crystal covered apartment and when he looks back at me, his eyes are dancing with laughter.
“I like the shirt.” He bends downs and whispers in my ear, “I like it on the floor too. Let’s put the shirt back there as soon as we come back.”
I blush scarlet, and he kisses me on the cheek and turns to leave.
“Bye, babe. Later, Naomi,” he yells before the door closes behind him.
“Damn girl,” Naomi tells me after I slide down the door and onto the floor. “You’re in so deep.”
Tell me something I don’t know.
Twenty-five
I walk into the stadium ready for battle.
Because Naomi felt guilty for being the bearer of shit news, we walk in together, Naomi wearing Mustangs gear for the first time ever. We’re pumped about being together again for football Sunday. Unfortunately for us though, it doesn’t last long.
“Naomi!” Dixie cries out across the wide, crowded concourse as soon as we walk in. “Don’t you look all sparkly and festive!”
“Dixie,” Naomi says without smiling.
Naomi might not like conflict, but when she’s thrown into it, she’s not backing down. I guess Dixie didn’t know that about her. Too bad, so sad.
“Oh. Marlee! I didn’t even see you.” Dixie aims her bright smile at me when Naomi doesn’t say more. “Are you using Naomi’s extra ticket?”
I knew Naomi wasn’t lying, but having Dixie standing in front of me, pretending like she doesn’t know Gavin and I are together, still feels like a slap in the face.
“No, she’s using mine,” I lie. I was totally using Nay’s, but only because Gavin’s tickets weren’t in section 112 and do I look like a traitor? “Gavin has better seats.”
I take more than a little bit of joy watching her jaw drop at how easily I bring up Gavin.
“Oh that’s right. I forgot you’re seeing him now,” she says. “Don’t you just move on faster than a pig in heat?”
What the hell? I don’t even think that’s a real saying. I think she just called me a pig in heat!
“I wasn’t looking.” I make a mental note to tell Gavin about this later. “But have you seen the man? When Gavin Pope pursues you, it’s hard to keep your defenses up. I could only let him send flowers to my house and work so many times before I gave the poor guy a break.”
“Well aren’t you lucky? Catching two player’s eyes . . . from the same team and everything. I wonder what the odds of that are?”
All right, enough of this shit. I’m a grown-ass woman, not some scared fifteen-year-old trying to get a seat at the cool girl’s table. Hell, I’m the freaking cool girl. She can’t sit with me!
“I think if you were to ask Gavin, he’d tell you he’s the lucky one. You know, Dixie, I might not have gone to Bible study with you, but I still know god doesn’t like ugly. You’re better than this. Petty isn’t a good look.” I look over to Naomi, who’s biting her lip so hard, I’m surprised she’s not bleeding. “Ready to go to our seats?”
“Yup,” she says.
And without either of us acknowledging Dixie again, we walk away.
“Holy shit. That was epic!” Naomi says when we’re out of earshot from Dixie.
“One down, too many to count to go.” I look at her with wide eyes. “Let’s hope I can keep this up.”
“I got your back. I already told Dre we’re staying until Gavin comes out.” She pulls me to a stop at the concession stand with nachos. “No way I’m leaving you in the lion’s den today.”
* * *
• • •
AFTER HUGGING LENNY—who pretends not to be happy to see me, but is soooo happy to see me—we make it to her seats. Gavin’s having an amazing game, the people around us are awesome, and the weather is surprisingly warm for it almost being December. We both have a great buzz going and decide the best way to keep it is to avoid the family room at halftime.
Everything is going so well, I should’ve known something had to go wrong.
It’s the beginning of the fourth quarter.
The Cowboys have the ball. They’re down by two touchdowns and getting desperate to put some points on the board.
Their quarterback—not as skilled or good looking as my QB—decides to go for a long pass. Dre’s guarding their wide receiver. They jump into the air at the same time and nobody can tell who’s going to catch the ball. Then, out of nowhere, a Cowboys player charges Dre, slamming him back to the ground with a crash so violent, the entire stadium lets out a unison gasp.
Except Naomi. She screams.
On the field, Dre lays motionless on the green grass. The refs blow their whistles and all the players take a knee, as the trainers and medical staff rush the field.
The fans around us, whether cheering for the Mustangs or Cowboys, stand with their crossed fingers raised in the air. It’s an eerie feeling, being surrounded by so many people, not hearing anything other than the frightened tears and sniffles of your best friend.
After a couple of minutes, the crowd lowers their hands but stay on their feet. The players on the field stand and get water while they wait for Dre to stand up and walk off the field.
Five minutes after that, when Dre is still motionless, players from both teams meet in the middle of the field, hold hands, and begin to pray.
Now, I sit next to Naomi, holding her hand, listening to the prayers she repeats, telling her it will be okay—hoping I’m right.
The chatter around the stadium starts to pick up, but it feels different, like a dark cloud has settled over everyone. People come to these games to be entertained; the danger of it often gets lost until something as scary as this forces it to the forefront of our brains.
When Naomi’s phone rings, she answers it right away, but it takes her a moment to get the words past the silent tears that haven’t slowed.
“Okay . . . okay . . . all right. I’ll be right there.” She throws the phone in her purse and stands on shaky legs. “That was the trainer. An ambulance is here, and I’m going to ride with him,” she tells me just as a golf cart with a stretcher attached drives onto the field.
“Do you need me to walk you down?”
“No. Thank you, but I need to be alone for a minute. I’ll call you later.”
“Let me know if you need anything.” I stand up as she’s passing me and pull her in for a hug before she goes. “He’s going to be fine.”
“He’s going to be fine,” she says to herself more than me.
Then, showing everyone around us what I already know—that she’s one of the strongest women around—she wipes her tears, squares her shoulders, holds her head up high, and goes to be Dre’s strength.
After Naomi is gone, the stretcher races off the field with Dre in a neck brace, and as they’re headed off, the stadium roars to life when he raises his hand to the crowd.
Thank you, God.
* * *
• • •
THERE’S ONLY ONE way to describe the family room after the game: somber.
The kids who usually run around, knocking over plants and one another, are sitting with their moms, haunted looks on their faces.
The women who pair up and gossip are sitting with their loved ones, holding hands, and for once, their tongues.
Well, most of them.
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But I guess the sight of me is too good for a few to pass up.
Courtney spots me across the room and walks over with her big-boobed, Botoxed soldiers following close behind.
“I would say we’ve missed you, but we all know I’d be lying.”
What a stellar greeting.
“Are we really doing this today, Courtney?” I don’t even call her Court, that’s how not up for this I am. I can’t get the sight or sounds of Naomi’s whispered pleas out of my head. I don’t have the time or energy for this shit.
“Doing what, Marlee? You always have so much to say. Do you not want to say anything now that Chris has a girlfriend with class?” She points to Madison who, once I look at her, lets her disapproving gaze travel down my body.
“I don’t know if you missed the part where my best friend’s husband was wheeled off the field or you’re a bigger bitch than I imagined, which, to be honest, I didn’t think was possible.” I stop and take a deep breath. I will not get lured into this. “But I sat next to a woman as she cried, staring at the same football field your husband was on, praying to see any hint that he was alive and not paralyzed.”
I know some people like to ignore things to cope, and that’s fine by me. As long as you aren’t using me as a punching bag to accomplish it. I’ll give it to Courtney though. I might not like her, but even she seems affected by this. She drops her face to the floor, and her shoulders hunch in a way I would’ve thought was impossible before right now.
“I’m not fighting with you today,” I say. “I’m not playing this game. Say what you want about me. I’m a groupie. I’m a liar. I have no class,” I repeat the things she’s said about me in the past, checking myself with every word to make sure I’m not yelling. “I don’t care. If what you saw today can’t make you be at least a semi-decent person who doesn’t start an argument in front of a room of shaken-up children, wives, and mothers, I already know you’ll beat me. No way I can sink lower than that.”
When I step off my soapbox, Courtney makes no attempt at a comeback, so I find an empty chair and I put my headphones in until Gavin comes into the room to get me.
“Are you okay? How’s Naomi?” he asks the second I pull the headphones out.
“I’m fine. Naomi was a mess, but you know her. She pulled herself together before she went to see him.” I try to smile at him, but it comes off more as a grimace. “You had a good game though. Three touchdown passes and no turnovers.”
“Thanks, but you don’t have to do that.” He bends down and plants a quick kiss on my lips. “It’s okay to be upset and thinking about our friends. I’m not insulted. But, just so you know, Coach updated us in the locker room. There was no spinal or neck injury, they’re thinking a severe concussion.”
I cringe at the news. I’m thankful there’s not a spinal or neck injury, obviously, but with all the recent news and discoveries about the brain damage football players have, a concussion is almost as bad.
“Fuck.” I fight back the tears I want to cry for my friend. “Football is so stupid.”
“It is,” Gavin agrees. “But I kinda like it, and I think I’m pretty good at it too.”
“You’re all right,” I say and feel the first signs of a smile since I heard the collision of helmets an hour ago. “Don’t go letting your head get too big.”
“Never.” He kisses me once more, both of us in a bubble, protected from the dirty looks and hateful words being tossed our way.
He grabs my hand for us to leave and just calls out a casual, “See ya,” to Madison when we pass her.
I didn’t want to be bitchy today, but when Madison stutters and spits and can’t even manage a simple good-bye? Well, not even the Pope could keep a straight face for that.
#NoPunIntended
Twenty-six
There’s a small catch to the always-sunny-in-Colorado thing.
During the winter, the sun can be out, bright and lighting up the entire, cloudless blue sky, and you think, Hey! What a beautiful December day! Let’s go do something! Then you step outside and the dry, freezing air slaps you so hard it steals all of your breath.
You’d think after living here all of my life, I wouldn’t fall for Mother Nature’s cruel trick.
You would be wrong.
And now I’m working on dragging Gavin down with me.
“Marlee, it’s too cold to go ice skating.” He’s not going down without a struggle.
“Please.” I stick out my bottom lip, and although it might seem ridiculous to most, we cannot say no to each other’s pouty faces. “You need a break from studying film, and I need a break from watching you study film.”
“There are only two more games this season and if we don’t win, we’re out of the playoffs. I have to be on my game, the defense is struggling without Dre. I need to study.”
“And you are studying, but you need a break. Remember how when I was stuck on my paper, you pulled me out of my apartment and took me to the arcade and then the next day I was able to finish?” I can see his resolve starting to slip. “Let me do that for you. Give your football brilliance a rest for the day. Go ice skating, come back and drink some hot cocoa . . . I even bought jumbo marshmallows.”
“I don’t know. I really need to get all this down.”
“Then after skating we can spend the rest of the night warming up . . . naked . . . in bed.” I approach him and straddle his lap.
“Let me get my jacket.”
I touch my mouth to his before I slowly slide off his lap. Watching his eyes darken as I peel myself off of him, the thought of skipping straight to naked and bed does go through my head.
But we don’t.
Yay willpower!
* * *
• • •
WINTER IS MY favorite time of the year.
Actually, I think I say that about every season.
But it’s true for winter.
Besides the icy roads and the cold air that holds my lungs hostage, there’s nothing I don’t love. Oversized puffy jackets? Love. Boots with the fur? Love. The feeling of being nice and warm under your blanket when the rest of your house is cold? Love times two. Ice skating beneath the twinkling Christmas lights above the rink they put up every year? Best. Feeling. Ever.
As soon as Brynn realized how serious Gavin and I were, she made it so my schedule matched his the best it could. Which means instead of working on my marketing plans for HERS or perfecting my bartending skills, I’m spending my Tuesday night appreciating all life has thrown my way. Especially Gavin Pope.
“I can’t believe skating was your idea and you don’t even know how to do it.”
Of course Mr. Perfect slipped his skates on and jumped onto the ice with no problem. Whereas I slipped my skates on, jumped on the ice, and fell so hard I thought I broke my ass.
“The last time I went ice skating, I was like eleven, and I was awesome. It’s just, sometimes, I forget I’m not a kid anymore and I might not be able to do everything I used to.” Admitting it to Gavin physically pains me. For some reason I cannot at all remember—because I wasn’t even a very good ice skater when I was a kid—I thought I would come out here Nancy Kerrigan–style and kill it.
“So what are you going to do, Blanche? You gonna come out here with me or spend the entire time attached to the wall?” He skates over and stops in front of me.
“Is it weird that I’m turned on by a Golden Girls reference? Because I totally am.”
“Come on, you dragged me out here so you’re going to skate. Hold my hands.”
Gosh. So bossy.
But I can never resist an opportunity to touch any part of Gavin.
“Fine, but disclaimer, if you fall, it’s not my fault.”
“Got it, not your fault.” He grabs both of my hands and pulls me across the ice.
And it is so much fun.
Gliding across the ice, the cold air hits my face as my hands are wrapped tightly in Gavin’s. My smile is so big my cheeks hurt, and I can’t stop laughing at the way Gavin’s forehead creases from concentration. We stay that way, Gavin skating backward, me holding on for dear life, while the people around us stare. Staring because either they recognize Gavin or they recognize themselves in the young couple with hearts in their eyes.
“Okay! Let me go now,” I tell Gavin. I think I’ve finally found my balance.
“Are you sure?” He’s watching me like a dad letting go of the bike as their kid learns to ride without training wheels.
“Not at all.” My butt still hurts from my first fall. “But let go before I change my mind.”
So he does.
And I skate.
Well . . . I give it a valiant effort.
I make it about ten feet before my ankles start to wobble, and my body sways. My arms spin around like propellers trying to keep my body upright. But as I flail and my shrieks mix with laughter, I know I’m going down.
Right as I start to fall, Gavin’s strong arms wrap around my waist and for one shiny, hopeful moment, my butt has been saved. But then, Gavin’s legs start moving at supersonic speed and I’m still going down, just not alone.
We hit the ice with a crash so hard, I’m surprised the ice doesn’t crack. We’re both moaning and groaning until I hear Gavin from behind me.
“Fuck.”
And that doesn’t sound like my favorite four-letter word anymore. No, now it sounds like the scariest thing I’ve ever heard.
“Are you okay?” I turn to him faster than I thought possible on ice.
“My ankle twisted when I fell. It’s probably no big deal, but I think we should head out.” He nods his chin and when he does, I notice the crowd, armed with camera phones, circled around us.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
I stand up, feeling secure on the ice for the first time all day, and help Gavin up. To the people watching, I’m sure he looks fine. But I know him and when he stands, he slightly pinches his eyebrows and his jaw tightens. As much as I want to ignore it, I know this is more than a tweaked ankle.