Snap Count

by Daphne Loveling

  I don’t understand how he can live with that possibility. My insane bungee jumping experiment notwithstanding, I like my world safe, predictable, and most of all, in my control.

  Knox, I know, will never be in my control. This is who he is. Even if I asked him to stop playing football — which I never could — he’ll always be someone who lives for the thrill of testing his limits. Knox Harper will never be the kind of man to sit behind a desk in an office. It would kill his soul.

  Me, on the other hand? My idea of a thrill is when the results of an experiment turn up something new and unexpected.

  We’re too different, he and I. My brain keeps whispering it, even as I try to shut the unwelcome thought out.

  And even if we managed to overcome all the ways we don’t match up, being with a man who flirts with danger and every day means I’m not in control of the most important thing of all: my heart.

  When Knox comes over a few hours later, I’m still fighting my emotions, to the point that I’m almost dreading spending the evening with him and his brother. I’ve dressed in a simple sundress and a pair of flat gladiator sandals, leaving my hair down and in its naturally wavy state. I’ve left the doors to the balcony open, and when it’s time he taps on the door frame and walks into the living room, Zeus’s tail echoing the rhythm of his footsteps.

  I hear the knock and come down the hallway to meet him. Knox looks me up and down and whistles. “You look good enough to eat, cupcake,” he tells me, moving closer and wrapping an arm tight around my waist. “In fact,” he murmurs against my ear, “I think that’s exactly what I’ll do when we get back.”

  “Knox, stop!” I protest, blushing. The last thing I need is to be thinking about Knox’s face between my legs while I’m trying to concentrate on making a good impression on his brother.

  “Hey, you’re not wearing any underwear!” he exclaims as his hand roams over my butt.

  “I am so!” I cry, pushing him away. “It’s a thong. See?” I snap the waistband through my dress.

  “Disappointing,” he frowns, shaking his head, but his eyes are twinkling.

  “You’d rather I be wearing granny panties?” I tease him.

  “Oh, hell no,” he drawls. “I’ll take the thong. Or to be more specific, I’ll take the thong… off you. With my teeth. Later.”

  So much for me trying to maintain my composure this evening. By the time Knox and I get out to his SUV, I’m flushed with heat. Cash is already in the backseat, waiting for us.

  “Hey, there, Ivy. Long time no see.” He grins and winks at me, in a near carbon copy imitation of Knox.

  “Wow, you two really are brothers,” I say mildly, and settle into the passenger side. I ignore his reference to last night and try to keep myself from blushing. Thankfully, as soon as Knox gets in, he starts talking about where we’re going, and the conversation turns elsewhere.

  Knox takes us to the Kon-Tiki, a local tiki bar that’s a Springville institution. I’ve never been to it before, and of course, when Knox finds out he teases me about never getting out to experience everything the city has to offer. I feel strange with the two of them at first: a short, slightly geeky-looking girl with frizzy red hair sandwiched in a booth between two large, hyper-attractive men. But thanks to Knox’s famous presence, the waitress is extremely attentive and keeps the drinks coming, and by the second Bora Bora Volcano I’m laughing uproariously at some crazy story Cash is telling me about winning in a poker game against Leonardo DiCaprio.

  “And right when the dealer gives me my chips,” he’s saying, “I do that thing like the guy in the Tom Hanks pirate movie, and I say to him, “Look at me. Look at me! I’m table captain now!”

  I’m practically choking, I’m laughing so hard. “Oh, my God. Did that seriously happen?” I gasp as tears stream down my face.

  “Swear on my mama’s grave,” he says seriously, holding up his hand.

  “It’s true,” Knox smirks. “I’ve heard him tell that story at least a hundred times, so if he made it up, at least he’s consistent. Now if you’ll excuse me,” he says, getting up, “I need to divest myself of some of this Rum Runner.”

  I watch as Knox heads off toward the bathroom, still giggling from Cash’s story. “It must be a pretty exciting life, being a professional poker player,” I say, turning back to him.

  “It has its moments,” he agrees. “It’s always a rush. When you win, at least. Fortunately for me,” he says, his eyes twinkling, “That’s most of the time.”

  I laugh again, and take another sip of my drink.

  “Hard part is,” he continues, “I’m on the road most of the time. That can get kind of old. It ain’t that conducive to having close ties to people. ‘Specially not with women.”

  “I imagine not,” I agree.

  “Speaking of which,” he says, leaning forward, “How long you and Knox been together? I thought he just got to town a couple of weeks ago.”

  I nod. “That’s right. We, uh… happened to meet the day he moved in.” I feel my face flush.

  “That so?” Cash cocks his head and frowns. “You didn’t know each other before?”

  “No,” I frown. “Why?”

  “I dunno. Seems to me you two are pretty cozy for such a short acquaintance.” His face breaks into a wide grin. “And I’m not just talking about yesterday.”

  Him bringing that up makes me blush even deeper. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I protest.

  “Ivy,” he says, fixing me with his penetrating gaze. “I have never, in all the years I’ve known my brother, seen him look at a woman the way he looks at you.”

  “You… um…” Suddenly I’m even more uncomfortable, if that’s even possible. I’d almost rather be talking about him walking in on us having sex than this. “Really?”

  “Really,” he says emphatically, sitting back. “That man is a goner for you. And, it looks to me like you feel the same.”

  “Um…” I look around helplessly, willing Knox to come back, but he’s nowhere in sight. There’s no escaping this conversation. “I… Well. I mean, it’s a little early… I mean, you know. We only just started dating, and…” I trail off lamely. Cash bursts into loud laughter.

  “It’s okay, sugar,” he winks. “We can change the subject. I may not have had much experience in the way of relationships myself, but I’ve seen some happy couples in my time. And it’s as plain as the nose on your face how you two feel about each other. Now,” he continues, lifting his glass, “Here comes Knox. Don’t worry. I’ll change the subject. Your secret’s safe with me.”

  “Thank you,” I sigh in relief.

  “Don’t mention it,” he says. “Only, don’t keep it a secret from each other for too long, you hear?”

  20

  knox

  Cash is in top form at the Kon-Tiki, flirting and keeping Ivy in stitches all night as he recounts various stories of his poker exploits. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was making a play for her. And hell, if I hadn’t been there, I’m sure he would have. But I know my brother wouldn’t do that to me. As unreliable and irresponsible as he can be, he’s as loyal as they come. So I sit back, enjoy my drink, and watch my brother as he entertains my girlfriend.

  My girlfriend. The words echo in my head as I turn them over and over. That’s what she is, after all. Hell, have I ever called someone my girlfriend before? If I have, I can’t remember it. I usually try to avoid labels like that. It’s kind of nice, though. Sitting here watching Ivy laugh at Cash, her face rosy and happy, somehow I feel more settled and stable than I have in a long time. It’s not something I expected to feel as good as it does.

  Eventually, Ivy starts to yawn, and I look at my phone and realize we’ve been at the restaurant for over four hours. I pay the bill, even though Cash argues with me about it, and then we head for home. When we get back to the condos, I bring Ivy back to her place, take off her sundress, and keep the promise I made earlier to prove to her she looks good enough to eat. Th
en, with regret, I kiss her goodnight and go hang out with my brother.

  The two of us crack open a couple of beers and shoot the shit for a while about my new team, his plans to head up to Atlantic City next, and how our parents are. He brings up Ivy a couple of times, and I think I see an amused glint in his eye. “So, bro,” he ribs me. “Looks like you and Miss Ivy are going pretty hot and heavy. When were you gonna tell your kid brother someone was trying to make an honest man of you?”

  “Fuck off, Cash,” I say, more harshly than I intend to. I don’t want to talk about her with him. Not like that. It feels fucked up to engage in our usual guy banter, about a woman I actually feel something for. It doesn’t seem right, somehow. Like I’d be betraying Ivy.

  “Naw, man, I don’t mean anything by it,” he protests, holding up his hands. “She’s cool. I mean, she’s hot,” he grins. “But she’s really cool. I can see why you like her.”

  “Leave it alone, Cash.” I bite off my words.

  “Sheesh! Okay, okay. That girl must have you whipped, big brother,” he grins. “I like it, though. You need someone to keep you in line.”

  “Cash,” I warn, my voice rising. “Let. It. Go.”

  “Damn,” he complains. “Where’s your sense of humor?” He hauls himself up off my couch. “Fuck it, I’m going to bed. You need your damn beauty rest, son.” He shakes his head, and I give him a warning glare in case he’s planning to make another smartass remark.

  I watch Cash go, glowering at his back as he retreats down the hall. But truth be told, I’m secretly kind of pleased that Cash likes Ivy. Then another thought comes, unbidden.

  I bet your mama will, too.

  Shit. Cash is right. I’m in deep.

  The next day, I get up early and go for a run. After a shower, I pound on Cash’s bedroom door and yell at him to get his lazy ass up. The two of us head out for breakfast and then spend the day fucking around. I show him the Springville Rockets facilities, introduce him to a few of the guys on the team, and promise to get him tickets to a game the next time he’s in town. The team’s going to our full training camp next week: Three full weeks in Rochester this time, with a few pre-season games scattered in. One of the pre-season games is against the Eagles, and Cash tells me he’ll try to come see it if he’s still in Atlantic City then.

  Around dinner time, Cash gets a text and pulls out his phone to look at it. “Well, well, well,” he drawls. “Looks like a little bunny I met a couple nights ago wants to play. I’m gonna have to take a rain check on dinner, big brother,” he continues, grinning at me. “She wants me to teach her how to play blackjack at the casino. Wouldn’t want to disappoint her, now.”

  I roll my eyes. “And of course, you’ll just happen to sit down at a poker game and clean up,” I finish for him. “And her panties will drop faster than green grass through a goose.”

  “That’s the idea,” he smirks. Cash is pretty predictable when it comes to women.

  We drive back to the condo and Cash hops in the shower to get ready for his “bunny”. I text Ivy and ask her if she’s up for hanging out. She tells me to come over and she’ll cook dinner, which sounds great to me.

  Two hours later, I’m sitting in Ivy’s dining room with Zeus at my feet. Ivy’s made burritos, which I remember telling her was one of my favorite foods. She even went to one of the Mexican markets for the tortillas and other ingredients.

  “I figured it was high time that I explored some of the other parts of the city,” she murmurs with a sly wink.

  I laugh and take a swig of the Mexican beer she bought. “It looks like I’m a good influence on you.”

  “Actually, I think there’s an argument to be made that you’re a very bad influence on me,” she counters. “I should have been studying today, but instead I spent the entire afternoon shopping for ingredients to make this for you. Good thing you ended up being free tonight.”

  “I’m always free for you, Ivy.” The words are out of my mouth before I realize it. There’s a small, slightly awkward silence, and then Ivy stands up abruptly. “I’m going to get another beer,” she says. “You want one?”

  I nod. “Please.”

  Ivy takes my empty bottle and brings me back another one a few seconds later.

  “So, where’s Cash tonight?” she asks me as she sits down.

  “Off with some girl he met a few nights ago.”

  “Oh, gosh… the one he brought home that first night?” Ivy wrinkles her nose at the memory.

  I laugh. “I don’t think so. Sounded like Cash was still working on ‘scoring’ with this one.”

  “He does get around, doesn’t he?” she asks.

  “That he does,” I reply mildly.

  “What did the two of you do today?”

  I tell her about taking him around the facility and showing him around Springville. “How about you?”

  “Oh, you know,” she says vaguely, waving her hand. “Research. Like every day.”

  “Yeah? Like what?” I lean back in my chair. “Tell me what you’re learning. I’m interested.” It’s true. I am. Ivy is smart as hell, and up to now we’ve only had one conversation about what she’s studying. I want to know more.

  “Um…” She glances away and stares off into space for a second. “Just. Well, you know. I already explained it to you.”

  “Yeah, but not in any depth. Come on,” I urge. “I promise to bore you with football stuff non-stop as soon as the season starts.”

  The corners of her mouth twitch in a half-smile, but something’s off. I can’t figure out why, but the atmosphere in the room feels like it just cooled a couple of degrees.

  “So…” she says slowly. She looks like she’s trying to get out of continuing, but I’m not going to let her. “My adviser — her name’s Dr. Pataky — she’s having me look into a specific area of spinal and cervical cord neuropraxia.”

  “Neuropraxia — that’s basically a fancy word for injury, right?” I ask, remembering our conversation from a while ago.

  “More or less,” she agrees. “It means a nerve injury that leads to loss of motor or sensory function.”

  “Got it.”

  “So,” she continues. She looking down at her plate now, picking at a stray bean with her fork. “Neuropraxia — spinal cord injuries, are usually due to hyperextension, hyperflexion — bending too far in one direction or another — or axial loading. Force along the axis. In other words, hitting the head in such a way that it causes compression of the spinal cord.”

  So far, I’m following her. She’s pretty good at explaining this stuff.

  “The thing is” she says, “Most of the time, we’ve studied these injuries in terms of one single catastrophic event. But my adviser wanted me to study how previous degenerative damage to the spinal and cervical cord would affect these catastrophic injuries. We know that the more the bone channel of the spinal cord is damaged by previous injuries, the more likely a person is to have severe damage in the event of a catastrophic injury. What we don’t know is whether that previous narrowing would also affect the ability to repair the damage of the severe injury when it occurs.”

  Ivy pauses for a second and looks at me. She clears her throat. “So,” she says softly, biting her lip. “The research I’m reading is on athletes. Specifically athletes in contact sports. Like football.”

  Oh.

  I get it.

  Ivy’s been reading shit about athletes who’ve gotten spinal cord injuries. And she didn’t want to talk to me about it because she doesn’t want to freak me out.

  I almost laugh, because it’s really sweet, but it’s also ridiculous. I mean, I play professional football. It’s not like I don’t know the risks. I know what can happen. Hell, I probably know the risks better than most.

  “I see,” I nod. “That’s gotta be a little weird for you, now that we’re a thing.”

  “Yeah.” She looks down at the coffee table. “It is.”

  “Hey,” I murmur, reaching over for her hand.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine. Those kinds of injuries are pretty rare.”

  “You don’t know you’ll be fine,” she frowns. “You can’t know that.”

  “Well, sure,” I concede. “I can’t know it. But that’s no reason not to do it.”

  “Isn’t it?” she asks, looking up at me. “Some people might think it is.”

  I realize then that Ivy wasn’t trying to avoid the subject because she doesn’t want to freak me out.

  It’s because she doesn’t want me to play.

  “Yes, I can know that,” I say flatly. “I’ve been playing this sport a long time, Ivy. I know how to be careful.”

  “But you can’t control for everything,” she persists. “You can be as careful as can be, but there are twenty other men out there, and they might not be so careful.”

  “Twenty one,” I correct her.

  Ivy rolls her eyes. “Fine. Twenty-one. The point is, it’s dangerous.”

  “Everything’s dangerous, Ivy,” I say, trying to be patient even though my blood pressure is starting to rise. “Living is dangerous. Everything you just said about not being able to control how careful other people are being? All that shit can be said about driving a car. Or hell, even crossing the street.”

  “It’s not the same, though,” she says stubbornly. “Even if you’re careful in football, you’re still getting hit, right? How many times do you get hit or tackled during a game?”

  “Not that many,” I argue. “Four or five, maybe. Besides, they’re usually not even that hard. Being a good wide receiver is all about flexibility and agility. If I’m doing my job, I’m avoiding hits.”

  But she’s not calmed by my words. If anything, what I say just makes it worse. “Four or five hits a game?” she says incredulously. “Knox, that’s crazy!”

  I scoff. “That’s nothing,” I tell her. “Our running backs take twice as many.”

  “The point is,” Ivy interrupts me in a stern voice, “You will take hits. It’s inevitable. And every hard hit you take can cause small amounts of damage. Over time, those small injuries add up, making the damage from an eventual severe injury even worse.”