Just like the mantle downstairs, all the pictures in my room are a mixture of GiGi, James, Bryan, and me. He may think my life is simple—he’s not wrong about the fact that I am just a pie baker—but it’s still my life, and these are my memories. I wouldn’t trade them for anything, even when that overwhelming sense of loneliness creeps over me. It is official: I am completely alone. Everyone I have ever loved has left me or moved on, even ones I didn’t love, like my mother and father.
For years I dreamt about what it would be like to have Bryan come back to me, only now I know, and unfortunately knowing is worse than not. I also dreamt about what it would be like to see him play in the Super Bowl, and now here we are. Years ago, I promised him if he ever made it, I would be there, only now I’m not so sure.
I don’t want to distract him or be bad for him. I want this for him, more than I’ve ever really wanted anything for myself. All his dreams are about to come true, so how could I go and disrupt it? I’m not so sure he would even want me there, but then again, a promise is a promise.
It was a random day in April, and both Bryan and James had come running into the kitchen to make some lunch. I had just pulled an apple pie out of the oven and set it on the counter, and the sweet smell was wafting through the air.
“Just think, one day, I’m going to play in the Super Bowl. I’m calling it now, and you both better be there to see it,” Bryan said, smiling at me and stuffing a sandwich into his mouth. Both of them had spent spring break as well as a few other weekends up at the college, already being integrated into the team and working conditioning drills.
“Wait!” James yelled. “Why am I not in it with you?” he asked, chewing with his mouth open like only a gross guy can.
“Because, we’ll probably get drafted to different teams, and my team is going to beat your team. That’s why.” His smile dipped to a taunting smirk. He gulped down half a glass of water, and I watched his throat move.
“Yeah, well, we’ll see about that if I have anything to say about it,” James grumbled.
“Regardless of who makes it, let’s make a pact: no matter where we are or what we’re doing, we’ll go. We have to.” Bryan held up his fist for James to bump, and he did, hard.
“I’m in, but of course I’ll be the one playing.” James laughed.
“Dude, if you’re playing, I’m there,” Bryan told him.
“Me too.” He nodded back.
When the two of them were together, it was like all was right in the world—my world, that is.
“How about you, Lex?” Bryan asked as he turned to face me.
For a moment, I was dumbstruck. Yes, I’d looked at him every day for the past eight years, but he had so effortlessly slipped from being a teenage guy to a young man, and sometimes I found myself tongue-tied. He was so handsome.
“I’ll be there,” I told him, and his eyes crinkled in the corners with a closed-mouthed smile.
“Promise?” he asked, raising one brow.
“I promise.”
Seconds ticked by as we both smiled at each other. I could feel heat climbing up into my cheeks, and this pleased him as he reached up and tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. I loved it when he did that.
“Dude.” James elbowed him in the back. “Stop staring at my sister.” He scowled, and Bryan laughed.
“I’m gonna hold you to that,” he said as James started pulling him toward the door. “Also, promise to save me the last slice of that pie, too.” He swung his gaze over and looked at it longingly.
“Yes, I promise to always save you the last slice of pie,” I told him, propping one hip on the counter, flirting with him.
I never forgot the smile he gave me that day as James dragged him outside. Promises mean something to me, and since then, I’ve always saved him the last slice of pie. He knew if he opened the refrigerator, there would be a plate on the shelf, wrapped in clear plastic, just for him. No one ever bothered the plate, not even James.
Curling up in the middle of the bed, I hug a pillow to my chest and start to cry. I’ve mostly held it together pretty well over the last week—hell, even the last couple of months—but now here, alone in my bed, in the dark, I couldn’t stop the tears even if I wanted to. My heart is shattered into a thousand pieces, and my mind fuzzes over like a black cloud has moved in.
I cry for memories lost, I cry for memories I will never have, and I cry because at the end of the day, it hurts knowing I wasn’t enough. I thought he saw me, saw past the simple girl who ‘just’ makes pies, but I guess not. I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished and who I am. It isn’t easy to do this all on my own like he thinks it is, but I’ve done it, and I’ll continue to do it because that’s who I am.
Who I am.
I think most people struggle at one point or another with who they are, and it’s taken me a really long time to get to where I am. Up until recently, I was doing okay. But, I’ve always felt like there was something missing in me. There has to be, right? Because I think if there wasn’t, it wouldn’t be so easy for people to leave me. They would appreciate me, and although I’m not like others, I’m unique and my own individual, and that would be celebrated and not overlooked.
At the end of the day, I know I’ll be fine. I’m always going to be fine, alone or not. Where there’s a will there’s a way, and given the state of my home, I can’t throw in the towel now. I’ve invested too much into it and into my career, which I love, no matter how simple others think it is. It’s what I have, and it’s something I can truly call my own.
Reaching for my phone, I touch the screen, and a picture of Bryan and me lights it up, lights up the room. There’s an ache deep in the pit of my soul, and I blink so a few more tears can escape. What to do, what to do . . .
A football player’s career can end in a split second. Who knows if he will ever get this opportunity again. And, as much as I hate admitting this, he’s alone just like I am. Yes, he has his team, but James and I are his only family, and James can’t go because he’s somewhere on the other side of the world. I still can, though. Even if I don’t tell him, I’ll know, and I’ll be cheering him on, supporting him like no one else.
What to do, what to do . . .
As the week passes, each day bringing it closer, I continue to worry about the promise, debating in my head and in my heart what to do. After all, pretty is as pretty does. Who I am on the inside, my character, my integrity? These are things that, no matter what, I’m not willing to compromise or change. I struggle with right and wrong, and as my heart tips the scale toward going, I’m not even sure how to get a ticket or if I can afford one. Then Friday morning, while drinking a cup of coffee, fate answers for me.
Camille: I have your tickets for the game. Bryan gave them to Reid before they flew out. Text me when you get to Seattle so we can meet up and I can give them to you.
Without hesitating, I text Meg to pack her bags. We are headed to Seattle.
Apple Pie
THERE ARE THESE moments in life that, no matter how many times we wish we could close our eyes and not see what’s about to happen, we always do, always will, and they alter us forever.
I called the play.
I knew the risks.
I should have called an audible.
When their defense lined up on the left side, I knew—hell, I think all our guys knew—they knew what play I was calling.
I’d like to say it was my confidence in our line and Jack’s ability to always complete the pass that made me stick with our original plan, but if I’m honest with myself, it’s because I felt like I was good enough to get the job done.
If you don’t consider the last couple of games, throughout my career, I’ve rarely been careless, but today I was.
The biggest game, on the biggest stage, with the world watching, I let my arrogance in and lost judgment when it was needed the most.
It’s my job to protect my team, but today I let them down.
Too little, too late.
&nbs
p; I don’t know why, but I just knew today was going to be my day. I was going to be untouchable. Every practice, every sore muscle, every drop of sweat that’s ever fallen from my body—it was all going to be for this, sixty minutes of game time that were going to be mine.
Until they weren’t.
Two defenders, one from behind, the other from the side.
A career-ending hit for Jack.
In reality, it happened so fast, but for me it will play out in slow motion for the rest of my life.
I saw them; he didn’t. He was braced for the catch and the hit from the side, but not the one from the back. His foot was planted and ready for the side impact, but instead he was flung forward a full second early due to the hit from the back, and the angle of his leg was off as it took the tackle from the side. His knee bent in a way it shouldn’t, and the sheer pain on his face as he hit the ground . . . it may as well have been me.
What have I done?
I should have found an alternative plan. I should have grounded the ball. I could have and should have done it differently. But I didn’t.
He fumbled the ball.
The Wolves picked it up and scored.
There was no coming back after that. Everyone on our team took a mental hit, me sustaining the most impact.
It was my fault.
We tried to turn things around, but the Wolves smelled fear in their prey and capitalized on it in the biggest way possible. Their confidence, focus, talent, and joy shined over the four quarters, and there was nothing we could do about it. They outplayed us in every way.
I didn’t even have to look at the game clock to know it was over. The roar now coming from the fans of the Washington Wolves is unlike anything I’ve heard, and my skin vibrates from the sheer force of the contained stadium volume.
Every speck of my being wishes that was for us, for me, but it’s not.
Fireworks explode in the night sky, and the sixty thousand phones flashing all around us are almost blinding. It’s one of the single greatest things I’ve ever seen, only it isn’t for us like I thought it would be.
People from every direction are stampeding the field, and needing a minute, just one minute to myself, I squat down and hang my head. My fingertips find the turf for balance, even though the ground thunders from so much movement. Slipping my eyes shut, I do what I’ve done so many times before: take in two deep breaths and then swallow once. I need to suppress it, box it up. I have to hide it. No matter what, I’m the leader of our team, a captain, and I need to stop thinking about myself and start thinking about them. I’m not the only one who lost today, even though I feel like I’ve lost more than anyone else.
Standing up, I come face to face with Reid, Billy, and Jonah, who’ve been keeping people away. There’s a swarm around us that I didn’t even realize was gathering: reporters, teammates, Wolves players, team staff, so many people. The air is thick with red and black confetti, but as I stare at my friends, I still see through all the chaos to the devastation in their eyes.
A devastation that is hugely my fault.
A hand clamping down on my shoulder has their gazes sliding to the person behind me. Turning around, I find Luke Pierson, the Wolves quarterback. He’s so happy, and on another day I’d be happy for him, just not today. Today, I’m blinded by my own losses and failures.
“Hey, man, great game,” he says. I know he genuinely means it, but the truth is, it wasn’t. We played terribly, I played terribly, and the scoreboard reflects it.
Nodding, there’s nothing for me to say except, “Congratulations.”
The biggest smile splits across his face. He’s trying to be respectful of our feelings and contain the once-in-a-lifetime elation coursing through his veins, but it’s there. We see it and feel it radiating off him, and who can blame him?
“Thanks.” He leans forward to hug me, slaps my back twice as reporters push in to capture us on film, and then he’s gone, back to his team, back to his beautiful wife, one he didn’t feel the need to give up in order to have it all. She’s waiting for him, just like Lexi should be waiting for me.
How did this happen? This was supposed to be my year.
Tony Dungy once said, “You don’t win on emotion, you win on execution.” Tonight we didn’t execute. That’s all there is to it.
Everything I fought for, trained for, lived and breathed for . . . it didn’t matter. We still lost. I lost. I’ve given up so much of myself and my life. I was certain this was going to be my year, but it wasn’t, and now I’m standing here wondering if it was all worth it.
For so long, deep down in my core, I’ve lived with this fear of not being enough. I felt I had to win the Super Bowl to finally be someone, and if I didn’t then I wasn’t. I was just another guy from a broken, loveless home who played football. It’s a story that can be repeated by hundreds of guys, maybe even thousands, and I’m no better than any one of them. What makes me different? What makes me better? Nothing. The only thing I’ve ever felt that could separate me was winning. I have to win, I have to be perfect, and I wasn’t. I’m not.
Oh God. I just need to get out of here. I need this to be over so I can empty the box holding all these emotions. It hurts. It hurts more than anything I’ve ever experienced.
So many flashes, so many people, and not one of them Lexi.
Lexi.
My heart bleeds for her, and only her. What I wouldn’t give to walk out of this place with her by my side, to not be alone. I’ve never wanted to be alone, have always wanted her, but I had to win in order to be good enough for her, and I didn’t. I’m not.
If a man can suffer from two broken hearts at the same time, that’s what’s happening to me right now. I don’t know what I’ve done, don’t know what to do. I’ve lost it all, even though it was never mine. The game wasn’t mine, and in the end, neither was she. Not once did I give her my all, but in truth it was hers all along. I felt I had to compartmentalize, but I was wrong about that too, and now she’s gone.
I’ve made so many mistakes when all I wanted was to do my best.
As the guys push us through the crowd and start walking toward the tunnel, security has finally reached us and I’m so grateful. People are doing their best to reach through, touch us, and send positive vibes, but I don’t want to be touched, and I don’t want to talk to anyone. I need off this field, and I need off of it now. The pain in my chest, it’s so tight, so severe, and I feel like the walls of the stadium are closing in on me even though I know they aren’t.
In front of me, our head coach and offensive coordinator slide through the crowd and stop me. My eyes burn with the loss I’ve caused them both, but instead of frowning and being angry about today’s turn of events, Coach smiles affectionately and wraps me in a hug.
“I know it wasn’t the ending we wanted, but thank you for leading us to play in the greatest game there is. Deep breaths, son. Stop thinking about the loss and instead take in where you are.” He pulls back, the other coach squeezes my arm, and they turn for the tunnel.
Of course they’re being optimistic right now; therapist is part of their job title. We lost and they are having to do damage control to fifty-plus brokenhearted grown men. I wouldn’t wish that upon my worst enemy, yet as a captain I have an obligation to this team, to these guys, and I am required to follow suit. I know this, and as much as I’m drowning on the inside, I know I’m going to do what’s right, even if I feel it’s all my fault to begin with. Accepting my lot in life for the next hour or so, I tighten my hand around the face mask of my helmet and slip into my role.
Damn, this sucks.
As I let out a deep breath, the guys and I follow behind them. I pat a few teammates on the back and give them encouraging smiles. It’s what I’m expected to do, so it’s what I do, but after this, after the interviews, I’m finding the closest grocery store so I can go back to my hotel room and drown my sorrows in a twelve-pack and a French silk chocolate pie.
French Silk Chocolate Pie
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br /> AS THE GAME came to an end, the mood in the suite was about as sad as I’ve ever felt. Conversations are kept quiet, a few are still shedding tears, and even the remaining food has turned soggy and wilted, the Swiss bacon bites looking less than appetizing.
Everyone is devastated. Sure, we’re sad because our team lost, but this feeling of inadequacy and helplessness is for our guys down there who are feeling a disappointment like they’ve never felt before.
There’s pandemonium on the field. People are running around everywhere, celebrating, but my eyes are glued to him. Amongst a thousand people, I can easily spot him—I can spot him anywhere. If anyone ever wonders what a broken heart looks like, there it is, and it’s walking through a sea of people donning black T-shirts and black hats that say Champions. More than anything, I wish they were teal, but destiny had a different outcome for today.
Fingers on my arm have me turning my head and coming face to face with Missy. Her eyes are damp, but she has her shoulders pulled back and a small smile on her face. Camille is standing behind her, and they both seem to be waiting for me.
“Are you ready?” she asks, shifting her bag over her shoulder. Most of the suite has cleared out, and there are only a few of us left.
“I don’t know,” I reply as my gaze drifts back to the free-for-all down below.
Will he want to see me? Will he blame me for the loss? I mean, I know it’s not my fault, but I’m not blind to the stares I’ve been getting today, not only from people in the suite but from the fans below us who’ve turned around to look our way.
“They need us,” she says quietly, and that’s all she has to say. My spine snaps straight, and the fog of uncertainty clears. After all, that’s why I’m here. Win or lose, everyone needs someone, and despite what he said that day at his house, I know I’m his someone. Deep down, I think I’ve always been his someone.
Collecting my things, I take one last look around the suite then follow them out. It’s okay, I tell myself. They’ll get their chance another year. I know as we make our way down to the family room and for the next few weeks there will be glares and comments tossed my way, and whereas a month ago I would have folded and retreated, today I will hold my head high. It isn’t about them; it’s about us. If he can stand on display day in and day out with the scrutiny and the judgment, so can I. After all, everyone knows they can only hurt me if I let them, and I choose not to let them. I choose him.
Last Slice of Pie (Starving for Southern Book 2) Page 20