Valdez throws the ball between his legs, and Jimmy catches it. His feet tread lightly, confidently but carefully backward, depressing the turf as he backs up. The opposing players, the biggest, beefiest, meanest ones, start coming for him.
Oh God, this game. It’s exciting, sure, unless the man you love is the guy everybody’s trying to hurt.
A guy hollers to him from the back of the end zone, the same guy who caught the touchdown.
But he gets walloped in a tackle from the side and goes flying out of bounds.
So what does Jimmy do? He glances at me. Just once. And then tucks the ball into the crook of his elbow.
And runs.
His glutes flex and his quads tense, he gets down low and puts his helmet first.
Wham.
A mass of men descends on him like wolves. He gets lost in the tangle of legs and bodies and jerseys. I can’t see anything. I can’t see how anybody at all could see anything. One of the refs goes right into the tangle of men, and the crowd of 70,000 goes silent.
Slowly, body after body is extricated. A couple of Bears players throw their arms up in the air in what I’m learning is the sign for score!
The crowd roars at them. But the refs haven’t stepped in.
More bodies unpeel from the pile. Inexplicably, a shoe pops out. A helmet. Man after man from the pile rolls off. At the bottom, I see him.
My Jimmy, stretched out flat on his stomach, his arms out like he was about to dive into a pool. In his huge, sexy, gloved hands, is the ball.
Underneath that, the bright orange paint.
Around me, the tension transforms into the purest, most contagious happiness I have ever seen. Grown men burst into tears, and Radovic flings his hands up high in the air, sending his Russian fur hat flying.
The scoreboard confirms it. 7-8. Bears win!
The locker room is utter, joyful chaos. I peek in from the door, but I don’t go inside. This is their time, their thing, their celebration of so much work, and so many games, and so much hope spilling out.
I wrap my arms around myself and start thinking about how in the world to get back to the hotel. It’s an empty and sad feeling—not a bad one—but a little like when you finish a book you love, or a movie, and you just wish so much you could experience it all over for the very first time again.
As I head for the exit sign at the end of the hall, I hear a heavy thump-thump-thump coming up behind me. My heart leaps, and I turn. It’s him, in full gear—no helmet, but still in his pads and paint—jogging toward me.
His arms are wide open and he scoops me up into them. He’s sweaty and gritty and just absolutely perfect. My legs spin through the air and his stubble scratches my cheek.
Without putting me down, he charges through a side exit into an empty stairway.
“I told you that you could do it,” I tell him, planting a big kiss on his cheek. Under my fingers, his arms feel slick with sweat. “I told you!”
The happiness on his face shows me exactly what he must have looked like as a kid, that same innocent, utter joy that children have, that Annie had when I handed her a warm cookie. “You know what happened? I stopped thinking about everything. I focused on you. And we won the motherfucking game, Mary. You did it. You did it.”
“Nooooo.” I shake my head at him. “Believe me. I was watching. It was all you.”
That’s when he kisses me, a breathless, smiling, gasping kiss. Then he pulls away. “And now what? You’re going to run off?”
“I was going back to the hotel,” I say, smiling up at him, “You go back to the team. You’ve got a lot of celebrating to do.”
He presses me up against the wall as a trickle of sweat runs down his throat into his jersey. “No, beautiful. It’s you I want to celebrate with. Only you. I think you’re my good luck charm.”
“Stop.” I feel the blush in my cheeks, the weakening of my knees.
“I won’t stop.” He drives his hips into me. His pads pressing into my thighs, and his cup hard against my abdomen. God bless whoever created these uniforms. Bless, bless, bless.
“I’ll tell you a secret,” I whisper in his ear. “I really don’t want you to stop. Never again. Keep it coming. Just like this.”
He laughs a little and kisses me once more. Up above us, we hear the clatter of someone coming into the stairway and he steps back from me. “Wait for me in your room,” he whispers. “Because there’s a chapter in that book you bought just calling our name.”
“But, Jimmy, you have things to do. The team…”
“Mary Monahan. Just let me have my way. You fucking know I’ll get it eventually,” he says. “Eight o’clock. You. In bed. Got it?”
The butterflies flutter through me, coming out in a shiver. “Got it.”
He winks. “Good girl.” And then he’s off.
44
Jimmy
The post-game interview goes by in a blur. They ask me questions about how I did it, and I say, “Just focused today, I think. Extra focused.” They ask me about the possibility of the wildcard, and I say, “We’ll just see what next week brings.” They ask me what happened out there, what turned it around at the half, and I say, “If I could tell you, I would.” And they laugh, roar with laughter, and I laugh back, smoothing the buttons on my dress shirt and touching her ring in my pocket. But the thing is, I’m not kidding. If I could tell them about her, I would. I’d say there’s a woman who’s got me upside down. There’s a woman who makes me see the world a little differently. There’s a woman who’s got me on another planet. And I’ve got no fucking plans of ever coming back to earth again.
And the whole time, all I can think about is her smile. Her skin. Her words. The confidence in those eyes that make me believe, really and truly believe, that I can do every fucking thing I’ve ever wanted and more.
When I get back to the hotel, I make like I’m exhausted. I tell Radovic I’m going to take it easy, watch some Stranger Things and hit the hay.
“Stranger things than what?” Radovic asks.
I’m so tired that it takes me a second. Explaining it to Captain Obvious would take longer than just pretending it doesn’t matter. Which it doesn’t, at all. “Yeah, no, never mind.”
In my pocket, my phone buzzes. I hope like hell it’s her asking me where I am, telling me she’s waiting for me. I position my phone to make sure Radovic can’t see any of the messages—like maybe, I don’t know, a nude selfie of her in front of the mirror.
But no such luck.
Of course, it’s Michael.
Fuck you, Jimmy.
I bet against you and what? You go and win
At first, wham, I feel the rush of anger. The desire to throw my phone across the room into the fucking fake trees by the window. But just as fast as the anger comes up, I get it to go back down. I hope he lost his fucking shirt on that game. I hope the bastards took every single goddamned penny of that ten grand I gave him, and every penny he stole from me besides.
I stick my phone back in my pocket without a word.
I look back at Radovic.
He’s nodding and, holy fuck, smiling, which is something I never ever see him do. It transforms his face completely. “All right, son,” he says, clapping me on the shoulder. “Keep on doing what you’re doing. Whatever it is, it’s working.”
It’s not an it. It’s her. But he’s right, for once. “That’s the idea.” Then I head for the stairs.
I let myself into my room, which is dark and still. So dark and still, in fact, that I think she might not be here at all. Then I hear the sexy, soft sound of her skin on the sheets. “Hello,” she whispers. I close the door and lock it behind me as I drop my bag.
The sound of a lighter flint cuts through the air, and a small flame springs up, illuminating her face. She picks up a candle from the bedside table and lights it. I watch her smile, fucking breathtaking, candlelit and beautiful. Then her hair slides in a curtain down along the side of her face.
“Hello,” I
whisper back.
She lights another candle, and then another. “Where’d you get those?” I ask, watching her face come warmly to life in the shadows of the flames.
“Barnes & Noble is kind of all-purpose. Even got us some chocolate for later. So, how about that?”
“How about that indeed.” I pull her close, and get particularly caught up in the place where her ass meets her legs. God.
“Are you sure you shouldn’t be with the team?” she says softly. “Because I am okay. I don’t mind being by myself.”
Fuck that.
“You don’t get it, do you?” I ask, taking the sheets and comforter in my hand and slowly pulling them from her body so she’s naked on the mattress.
“I don’t think I do, no.” I can hear the smile in her voice before the candlelight lets me see it.
“There is nowhere that I’d rather be than inside you. Right here. Tonight.”
She rolls up onto her knees on the mattress. The light flickers against her profile, sending gorgeous shadows up and down her curves. “You were so amazing out there. You know that?” And then she begins undoing the buttons of my dress shirt. “And you look really sexy in a suit, by the way.”
“Some guys do post-game in their sweats. I’m not one of those guys.” I watch her small, elegant fingers undo button after button, and then her hand slides in along my chest.
I scoop her up by the ass and slide her knees to the edge of the bed so we are body to body. “Before you, Mary Monahan,” I say, dragging my fingers down her arm, “I was a fucking catastrophe. I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t think.”
“I didn’t do anything at all.”
Bullshit, I think. I move my fingers down her back, trailing one all the way down the curve of her hips, down her thighs. I smell her, wet and hot, but I don’t touch her pussy.
Fuck knows, I want to. But I won’t.
Not for a long, long fucking time yet.
45
Mary
He falls to his knees in front of me and begins kissing my body, inch by inch. He starts at the tips of my toes and moves up my feet. His eyes are closed, his face relaxed, and the light from the candles showing his beautiful chest, just peeking out from behind three undone buttons, which was as far as he’d let me get.
Up my knee, he kisses, and then up my thigh. With his tongue, he traces a line over my hip bones. He kisses my bellybutton, and I pull him close. His tongue moves slowly, carefully, underneath each breast. He sucks on my nipples gently, tenderly, reverently.
I take his cheeks in my hand, trying to get him to come up and kiss me, really kiss me, because I desperately need to taste him again. But instead of moving up, he nestles his face between my breasts, cheek to chest, and takes my fingertips in his mouth, one by one.
“I don’t want this to end. Ever,” he whispers, before moving on to my ring finger. “By the way, are you missing something?”
Oh my God, my ring. I try to remember where I left it, but he’s already reaching into his pocket. He slides it on, heart out, the way I have been wearing it.
But that’s just not right. Not anymore. Not now.
“Turn it over,” I tell him.
His eyes flash and his grip tightens on me. “Yeah?”
“Yes,” I say, running my fingers lightly through his hair and letting them rest for a moment on the back of his neck. “Because I feel it too, Jimmy Falconi.”
“You’re sure?”
I nod at him and hold my hand out. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Promise?” he asks as he puts the ring back on my finger the other way, with the heart facing me.
I have never worn it that way. And I’m so happy I could cry. “Promise.”
And he gives me a long, lovely kiss in the center of my palm. He straightens up at the side of the bed and looks at me for a long moment, moving his hand down over my abdomen.
His belt tonight isn’t the belt I’m used to, but a dress belt, shiny black leather and a brushed silver buckle. I undo the button on his suit pants, and then he lets me get back up on my knees. I slide his pants down over his ass. His belt buckle pings off the edge of the bed, filling the room with a sound that reminds me of a wind chime.
This part of him, this vulnerable, quiet, sensitive part of him, is what I like best of all. Because I liked him in the ring, and I liked him on that kitchen table, and I like him on the field, but this Jimmy Falconi—the slow, quiet, deliberate hero—this is the man I like most.
Now it’s my turn to cover him in kisses. I start right above his boxers, feeling him solid and hard against my chest. Up and down his abs I go, and his hand finds its way to the back of my neck. Not aggressive, but just resting there. His skin is warm from a shower, soft and smooth everywhere that it should be. Rough in all the right places, too. Sex with him, it isn’t tangled limbs and awkward movements. It’s like we fit together. Like we were always waiting to find each other, to make sense of everything.
I undo the little button on his boxers and cup his balls in my hands, first the left and then the right. He braces himself against my shoulder and lets his head tip backward.
But then he gently guides me back down onto the bed, positioning me on my side and bending my knees with my ankles in his huge solid hand.
I watch his every move. His shirt falling from his shoulders and him climbing on top of me, making me feel so tiny all over again.
He anchors me with his hand to my waist and without breaking my stare, pushes inside me. I grip his forearms, and he whispers, “Let’s get back to that place where we were last night.”
“You feel so good,” I tell him. “So good.” Already, I am fluttering inside for him. I try to stop it, I try to slow down, but I literally cannot help myself. The need is burning right through me. I want to make him sweat. I want to make him groan. “That heat and fury I saw on the field, I want that inside me. Right now. Everywhere.”
“Fuuuuuuuuuck,” he whispers. “I want it all from you too. I want you like this.” He drives in slowly. “I want it to last for hours, but I also want to fuck you senseless on the bathroom floor.”
“You can have it all. I want you to have it all.”
“You know what I thought about on the field today?” he asks, lowering himself down onto me, caging me in with his arms.
“What?” I let my tongue linger on his earlobe.
He nudges me with his nose. “You. And me. At Thanksgiving. At my place.”
And then he drives in a little deeper. We stay like that for a long second, linked up, until finally, I break the silence. “Mr. Falconi, are you asking me to spend the holidays with you?”
He nods gently, sweetly, into my chest. “I want some traditions with you. And I don’t want to wait.”
46
Jimmy
Two days later, we are back in Chicago, and I’m at Costco with Valdez. It’s the Tuesday before Thanksgiving and the place is an absolute zoo. Utter holiday madness, and—good news for Valdez and me both—sample paradise. We head down the main aisle, past flat-screen televisions, all of them showing Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, like a claymation kaleidoscope. I grab a box of laundry detergent. As Valdez trundles toward a sample cart of red pepper dip, I pick up some fabric softener sheets and turn my attention to the roses.
I decide on these pretty, almost antique-looking pink ones, darker at the edges and lighter near the stem. I’ve already showered her in red roses, and now it’s time to mix it up.
As I place them in the cart, Valdez shuffles back to me with three quarts of red pepper spread and his mouth full. He drops one of the two-packs in my cart and then heads off toward some cocktail wieners. I watch a guy in a Bears hat say to his wife, “Do you know who that is?”
And then the guy’s eyes land on me.
Fuck.
But instead of setting his teeth, he breaks into this great huge smile and says, “Jimmy Falconi, holy shit!’
He comes over like he’s known me forever and gives me a
huge handshake. “Well done last week, champ. You made us all so proud. I don’t know what you did, but goddamn I hope you can do it again.”
I say all the usual things, but this time, I mean them. I had good luck. Things lined up right. It was just a really good day. But what I don’t say is that it’s her, it’s all her. At least for now, I can keep that to myself.
The guy makes his goodbyes, and his wife beams. I maneuver my cart toward the books, feeling like a new man somehow.
Taking a deep breath, I look around and center myself. I might have spent part of yesterday reading Rumi. Possibly. Fine, all right, the whole day. And the shit is awesome. Pure, utter, old-school awesomeness.
So letting Rumi talk to me a little, I get back in the moment.
Today, it’s not about buying chicken breasts or protein powder or nine pounds of asparagus. Not about the game, either. Today, it’s about her. And me. And Thanksgiving.
For about 50% of the Thanksgivings I’ve had since I left college, I’ve been on the field. The other 50% I’ve either gone to Michael’s or to Valdez’s. Last year, Michael’s idea of Thanksgiving was putting down five hundred on the dog races and getting hammered while Annie and I watched My Little Pony. This year, though, I haven’t heard from him. He’s pissed I won, and there’s nothing I can do to change that.
But never have I done Thanksgiving all by myself. I can make a mean omelet, but now, I need to learn how to do turkey and all the trimmings. For her.
Wheeling my cart down the aisle past the books, I spot The Joy of Cooking.
Shit. It’s like Costco can read my mind.
I open it up and flip to the index to look for turkey. I draw my finger down the page.
Hail Mary Page 25