I can’t think of much that would sound better right now.
“Where you are is where I want to be,” I tell her, pushing her hair over her shoulder to her back.
Her eyes again well up with tears, only this time, they’re happy tears.
“All right then, let’s go home.”
Home.
It’s quite possibly my favorite word in the dictionary, immediately followed by hope. I feel hope.
Turning toward the door to follow the others out, she pulls me behind her. I lift her backpack off her shoulders, briefly release my hold on her hand, and then toss it over my shoulder.
“Did you bring a coat?” I ask, looking at her bare arms. All week it’s been cold and damp here.
“No, just a sweater. It’s in the bag.”
Lowering both of our bags to the floor, I slip out of my black wool pea coat and wrap it around her. This postgame suit will be plenty warm for me. Besides, there’s not much I can do for her here, but this is something I can do. When we get home . . . well, that’s a different story.
Crab Cakes
FOR ME, PIE has always been a disciplinarian, a teacher, a therapist, a reward, and an escape. It’s the one thing I’ve turned to over and over to work out my emotions. It doesn’t matter if I’m happy, celebrating, lonely, or sad; I know with flour on my hands and the sweet smell of fruit permeating the air, everything will be as it should be. I’ve learned so much about the history, the craft, and myself, and I can’t ever imagine not baking pies.
What people don’t realize about pie is that it’s been around since the early Egyptians, 6000 B.C., and the first-ever recorded recipe came from the Romans, a goat cheese and honey pie. From there it evolved, mainly as a meat pie, and it was the English who switched to fruit, serving it for breakfast.
In present day, pie in America is considered the most traditional dessert, with apple pie winning out over the others. But, it was the shoofly pie, a molasses crumb cake baked in a pie crust, that was used to celebrate the centennial of the signing of the Declaration of Independence.
I think about things like this sometimes, especially after people give me a look or make a snide comment about the importance or relevance of what I do. I take a look inside myself and remember that pie fills my soul. It makes me feel good, and I know it makes others feel good too.
It’s such a simple thing, but there’s nothing else in the world that’s a more universal way to show love than a pie. Whether it’s a sweet pie or a savory pie, pies are gifts given to be neighborly or welcoming, for holidays, births, funerals, potlucks—you name it, there’s a pie for it, and it’s a pie that is the ultimate exclamation point to any meal.
“What are you thinking about?” Bryan asks.
I look over at him, and the circles under his eyes remind me that the last twenty-four hours have been the longest day.
Camille’s grandfather’s plane holds eight with two rows of seats, four on each side, and an aisle in between them. On it were her grandfather, her father, Reid’s mother, Reid’s brother, Camille, Reid, and the two of us. At one point or another, Bryan and I both slept, but mostly we just sat in the back, in the dark, saying nothing.
Once we landed back in Tampa, we said goodbye and took a shuttle from the private terminal to my car, which is where we are now, headed to Bryan’s house.
“The history of pie.”
His brows pull down. “Why?”
“I don’t know. I love everything about what I do, where it came from, and what it means not only to me but others as well, and well, it grounds me when I need it to. I think about pie nonstop. Don’t you think about all aspects of football all the time?”
“Yeah, I guess I do.” He rubs his free hand over his face while the other stays tight on the wheel. Silence descends upon us again.
The sun has risen and is casting an orange glow upon the world. Buildings flash by, the corner Cuban shops have flurries of people going in and out, and as we finally cross the river and pull into Bryan’s driveway, I let out a long overdue deep sigh.
“I can’t believe it’s over,” I tell him, staring straight forward as he cuts the engine.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see his head turn as he looks at me, and my eyes find their way to his. “Yeah, I have this feeling every year when the season ends.”
“I feel . . . disoriented.”
“I get that. For so many months, we live and breathe by a tight schedule, and now there isn’t one.”
“What do we do?”
He knows I mean more than just the obvious with that question, and the nerves I was suddenly feeling dissipate under the tenderness in his gaze.
“For starters, we go inside.” He gives me a small smile. “I’m dying to get out of these clothes.”
Come to think of it, I am too.
Grabbing our things, we head inside. As the front door closes, Bryan drops our bags, reaches for me, and pulls me into his arms. Against my ear, he remorsefully and quietly tells me he’s sorry for the things he said. I know he is, and I’ve already forgiven him.
“There’s so much I feel I need to tell you.” His lips rub against my cheek.
“So, tell me.” I turn my head so my lips can meet his. Very ardently and earnestly, he kisses me as I cling to him. His taste, his familiarity—it’s so revitalizing after the last couple of weeks. I want to stand here and kiss him forever, but he breaks away, runs his hand down my arm, and wraps his fingers around my elbow as he leads us into the living room to sit on the couch.
Although we’re sitting close to each other, it’s not close enough, so I pull my legs up and face him. He discards his jacket, tossing it onto the seat across from us, and then runs his hand through his hair. Stubble shadows his jaw and his lips are puffy from kissing me, but it’s his eyes that flip through emotions like a classic View-Master. My stomach dips at his internal turmoil, but we do need to talk. There are things that need to be said.
Clearing his throat, he reaches for my hand and runs his thumb across the top. “First and foremost, I need you to know it’s always been you. From the very first night in the tree house, my heart has always been yours.”
Yes, hearing this makes me want to burst with happiness, but at the same time, I can’t help but mourn what we’ve lost, the years spent apart.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me? So much time has passed. It feels wasted.”
He frowns, breaks eye contact to look over my shoulder, and takes a minute to gather his thoughts.
“Cole had this way about him,” he says, almost like the admission is too much for him. “He was never physical with me, but verbally, he filled my head with a lot of shit for a lot of years. He knew I loved you.” He pauses to look back at me. “I don’t know how he knew, but he did, and I swear he made it his life’s mission to make me feel like I would never be good enough for you.”
“You have to know that’s not true—not at all.” I curl my fingers tightly around his.
“I don’t”—he lets out a sigh—“and I do at the same time. Because of him, I became this person who’s driven by success. Winning makes me feel worthy, and I needed to win to feel worthy of you. My singular goal all these years was to be perfect, to be the best. I always thought if I was perfect, I’d know true happiness. So, I focused, trained, and didn’t allow for any distractions, because once I did it, once I won, then I would be good enough . . . good enough for you.”
“But you hadn’t won yet, so what changed this year?”
“I thought this year was going to be the year. I just knew we were going to win. We were going to win the biggest game of them all, and because of that, I finally allowed myself to get the girl of my dreams.”
Girl of my dreams. It’s hard for me to wrap my head around this, but maybe not at the same time. There was never anyone else for me either, and all this time, I only wanted him. I could never free myself because I truly loved him.
“You don’t understand,” he says. “I’ve dreamed
about this, us, for years—every detail. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
“And yet, you could have had me, and I could have had you this whole time.” I look down at our hands, his so large, mine so small.
“I’m realizing that now, but the thing is, Lex, I like who I am. I like feeling the drive to do more, to be more. It makes me a better player, and it makes me a better leader for our team.”
“I’ve never asked you to change, and I never would. I love you just the way you are.”
“I know that. I just needed you to understand where it comes from and why it took me so long to come back to you. I’m sorry, and I’m even more sorry for what I said to you.”
“I know.”
“I do love you. A lot.” Both of his hands grasp my thighs, tugging me slightly toward him.
Reaching up, I cup his cheek, and he tilts his head while blinking those long eyelashes at me. “I know,” I tell him. “And I love you.”
He lets out a shaky breath, turns his head to kiss the center of my palm, and then looks back at me to say, “I love football, too.” His eyes are pleading for me to understand.
“I know that, I think more than anyone. I’ve never viewed it as a competition for your time. It’s always just been who you are. Does me making pies bother you?”
He pulls his face away and sits up straighter. “Never. I’m so proud of you.”
“And I’m proud of you.”
“This last month . . .” He shakes his head. “It won’t happen again, not ever.”
My eyebrows rise, and one side of his mouth quirks up.
“Don’t look at me like that. Yes, I know I’ll make mistakes, but I always learn from them, and I promise I’ll always make things right. I was coming for you, the minute the plane landed. I was prepared to beg, grovel, crawl through glass if I had to. I need you. I love you.”
“What about next year, and the year after that? I can’t go through this again. The stress, the media—I’m not built for this like you are.”
“I think by next year, with the time you and I will have had together between now and then, we’ll be in a different place, more settled. The media will have lost interest in us, and besides, we know it’s going to be hard, but we’ll be better prepared. I’m not going to lose you over this. I’ve worked too hard and waited too long.”
“So, what you’re saying is . . .” I look at him, my expression sheepish and devilish at the same time. “You don’t think my pies are poisonous?”
He lets out a snort but looks at me tenderly. “Quite the opposite, actually. I think your pies could save lives, at least they have mine.”
“Well, you know, food is love.”
“I’ll show you love.” Leaning over, his arms scoop around me as he drags me onto his lap. He buries his face in the crook of my neck and holds me as my heart beats in sync with his. I pull on his shirt, it slips free of his pants, and I run my hand underneath it to feel his skin. His muscles flutter at my touch.
“I love your hands on me,” he mumbles, dragging his lips over my chin, up to kiss the corner of my mouth. It’s a delicious sensation that has my stomach somersaulting in anticipation of what’s to come.
“Not as much as I love putting them on you,” I tell him, sliding them around his ribcage and up his back.
He groans against my mouth as his tongue swipes across my bottom lip and he shifts me so I’m straddling him. As exhausted as we both are, the need for sleep suddenly disappears as our need for each other takes over.
Piece by piece, our clothes fall away until nothing separates us. With the warmth of skin against skin and arms wrapped tightly around one another, I sink down on him as we become one.
Time passes as we take and give, memorizing the motions, the feel. With his strong thighs beneath me, his large hands enveloping me, we’re unhurried in sharing ourselves and our love. Nothing has ever meant more to me than this.
“I missed you,” he whispers through labored breaths, the roughness of his stubble brushing back and forth across my cheek as his hands guide my hips just how he wants them.
“And I missed you,” I tell him, sealing my lips to his while sliding my arms over his shoulders and gripping his head.
He groans into my mouth and steals the air from my lungs, much like he has most of my life. From finding a scared, lonely, ten-year-old boy in our tree house to watching the extreme joy on his face when he was drafted to his favorite team, he takes my breath away just by being. He strives to be perfect, but what he doesn’t realize is, to me, he already is. He’s so perfect.
“Never again. I mean it, Lex. Too much time has already passed, and I can’t bear the thought of losing any more.”
Leaning back, I stop moving so I can get a good look at him. His cheeks are flushed, his lips are wet and parted, and his blue eyes hold a new level of intense emotion that I haven’t yet seen. My already tender heart beats wildly with relief and love for this man. Although I can feel his absolute conviction, nothing tops hearing him confirm it.
He watches me.
I watch him.
And then his resolve breaks.
As his fingers dive into my hair and he pulls my mouth back to his, a moan escapes me at the onslaught of being taken by him. Because that’s what he’s doing: claiming me, nonverbally saying I’m his and he’s mine.
Forever.
Shoofly Pie
I LOOK DOWN at her in the early-morning sunlight as it slowly peeks its way through the window. Like always, Lexi’s skin looks sleep-warm, her cheek is firmly pressed into the pillow, and her hair is a tangled mess all around her head. I can’t help but let my eyes drift down her body, over her bare skin to where the sheet has gathered just at her hip. She’s beautiful.
There are a lot of things you learn about a person when you sleep and wake next to them: if they hog the blankets, if they talk in their sleep, if they like to cuddle. Lexi does all of those things, but mostly she is generous. She always has been.
When she wakes, she always returns the blankets to make sure she’s sharing them. If she talks too loud and I nudge her, she apologizes and rolls over, and as for cuddling, ever since that first night when we were ten, she’s wrapped her arms around me and made me feel loved, even when there was no one else.
Losing the game was devastating, but the thought of permanently losing Lexi—it’s unfathomable.
I was expecting to feel worse today, but surprisingly, I don’t. Yeah, losing sucked, big time, but with her being here, lying in bed the rest of yesterday and sharing this with me, it’s not as bad as it could have been. She makes everything better. She makes me better.
Slipping out of the bed, I quietly dress, pull the turkey tetrazzini casserole Lexi made out of the refrigerator, and head over to Jack’s condo. Meg texted Lexi on our flight back that they were doing the surgery first thing yesterday morning and he would be released to go home midafternoon. Meg wasn’t able to stay with him because she had to get back to her restaurant in Charleston, but she helped him get set up before she left.
I’m thankful for her. I know what it’s like to do things alone, and I’m glad he had her there, even if it was just for twenty-four hours.
The elevator dings as the doors open and I step out onto his floor. I’m nervous about what I’m going to find, what damage was done, and I’m on edge with guilt that heavily sits on my shoulders. Gripping the casserole dish tightly, I bend my head from left to right to relieve the built-up tension.
Taking a deep breath, I move down the hallway and knock on his door. Zeus, his large black mutt of a dog, immediately starts barking, and from somewhere inside I hear, “It’s open.”
Jack lives very simply. His condo is always spotless, devoid of excess clutter, and except for the football paraphernalia displayed here and there, it looks like a hotel room.
“Hey, man,” he says from the couch.
He looks terrible: messy hair, pale skin, and eyes that are slightly glazed over from pain medicine. His leg is
wrapped from midthigh to midcalf and propped up on the coffee table in front of him. My stomach recoils at the sight.
“You look like shit,” I tell him as I move into the kitchen to put the casserole in the refrigerator.
“Ah, sweet pea, don’t be like that.” He chuckles, never taking his eyes off the television. “Such kind words you have for me.” There’s a tone laced through his words; it’s bitter, sad. “Kick off your shoes and stay a while.” He waves his hand toward an open seat.
Instead of responding, I move to stand in front of him, pop one eyebrow, and stare down. Slowly, with a frown on his face, his eyes slide up to mine. They’re haunted, lost. Eventually, he rolls his eyes and shakes his head.
“Are you going to sit down or what?”
Picking up his glass, I refill it with ice water then place it on the end table next to him.
“Are you hungry?” I ask.
“No. I seemed to have lost my appetite.” Again with the tone.
Out of all the guys on the team, Jack has always been the most carefree and lighthearted. He can make even the worst of situations seem not so bad, and seeing him like this is almost too much for me.
“Well, when you are, Lexi made you food. Eat it. She’s a good cook.”
“I know she’s a good cook. Did you bring me pie too?” He looks hopeful.
I chuckle. “Nope, but I’m sure it’s coming. Any requests?”
“Nah, man. They’re all good. If she wants to make me something, beggars can’t be choosers.”
“I’ll tell her.”
I take a seat in the chair perpendicular to him, and we eye each other warily. He knows I want to know, but he won’t tell me until I ask. It’s like, if I don’t know exactly what’s wrong, this isn’t really happening. Once he tells me, the reality of it will crash down. “So, what did they say?”
“Ruptured patella tendon and ACL tear.”
I have no words, so we just stare at each other, thinking but trying desperately to not think about what’s most likely inevitable. Recovering from an ACL tear is hard enough, but with both of those things combined . . . well, the outcome is still to be determined. In a way, this is almost worse. As elite athletes, we want to know. No gray areas. No false hope.
Last Slice of Pie (Starving for Southern Book 2) Page 22