Matters of the Hart (The Hart Series Book 3)

by M. E. Carter

  “My dad was at the hospital…” His face falls, and I know I’m mirroring his expression.

  It feels like a slap in the face when the realization hits me. It doesn’t matter how much football we talk or if we talk about school or classes or life goals. The fact is, the only reason we know each other is because of a horrible night in both of our lives.

  Jaxon looks at me, unsure how to continue, so I help him out.

  “Your dad came up to the hospital too?”

  Jaxon swallows hard before answering. “Yeah. I called and told him what had happened. He was in town that night, so he met me there and waited with me.”

  “The whole time?” I ask incredulously.

  Part of me is already mortified that Jaxon was there for so long. Now that’s multiplied, knowing his dad was there too.

  But another small part of me can’t help but want to fangirl a little over the fact that Jason Hart came to the hospital when I was there. It’s a really weird mix of emotions and confuses me more.

  “Yeah, my parents are great,” Jaxon continues. “He and my mom didn’t want me to be alone, so he jumped in the car before changing out of his pajamas,” he adds with a chuckle. “When we finally knew you were awake and okay, he took off for home.”

  “Oh.” I glance down at my cup, still trying to figure out how to process all of this. I finally say the only thing that seems right in this moment. “Tell him I said thank you.”

  “I will. And since we’re on the subject…”

  I grimace because this is the one thing I don’t want to talk about. And yet, he’s the only person in the world I can talk to about it, so I almost feel like I should. Even if it’s only to feel a sense of camaraderie with someone else.

  He leans forward and really looks at me. “How are you?”

  “I’m okay,” I respond brightly, though I swear he can see right through me.

  “No, Annika.” He shakes his head. “I don’t want to know what you’re telling people. I want to know how you really are. Because I’m gonna level with you. I’m not doing good.”

  I take another hard look at him, and I can tell he hasn’t slept in days. He’s got dark circles under his red-rimmed eyes. There’s no telling how many cups of coffee he’s had today. His cheeks are stubbled like he forgot to shave. His hair, while cut short, looks like he hasn’t done anything except continually run his fingers through it. If I had been more observant and wasn’t in my own self-preserving bubble, I may have noticed before now. He’s right. He’s not doing okay.

  “I can’t sleep,” he says quietly. “Every time I close my eyes, I see that night again and again and again, and I can’t save you. It’s freaking me out, and I don’t know what to do. I guess I’m hoping that if you’re doing well, maybe I’ll be able to let it go and do better too.”

  Weighing my options, I look at him again. I really want to tell him I’m fine. I really want to make him feel like he can let it go. But the selfish part of me can’t do that. The selfish part of me needs someone to know I’m not okay either. The selfish part of me really believes misery loves company, and this man in front of me is the only one who will understand my misery. So, I say the only thing I can.

  “I’m not doing well either.”

  If the slump of his shoulders is an indicator, he doesn’t like that answer, even though it’s the truth.

  “I don’t sleep at night, but when I do, I dream constantly,” I begin. “I only shower when necessary, because it’s a community bathroom and the idea of…” I squeeze my eyes tight, not able to finish the sentence. Even saying the words out loud makes me uncomfortable. “I just can’t do it. I don’t know how to get over this or even how to get through it. Right now, I feel like I’m only going through the motions.”

  “That’s it,” he adds. “I feel like I’m going through the motions, but I’m not really getting anywhere.”

  I nod in understanding.

  His finger circles the rim of his cup absentmindedly as we tiptoe our way through this conversation. “Did you get a call from the dreaded counselor yet?”

  His playful tone makes me laugh a bit. “I did. And I set up an appointment with a lovely woman named Neisa. I’ll see her next week. You?”

  He smirks. “Not only did I get a phone call and make an appointment with a lovely man named Harold”—the way he makes Harold sound like a pretentious old British man makes me giggle—“but the counseling department called my coach to get him on my case.”

  I gasp. “Did they tell him what happened?” I feel like I can’t breathe. I didn’t want to tell anyone. I didn’t want anyone to know. Why is the counseling department making phone calls?

  “They didn’t tell him your name. I wasn’t happy about it myself, but that’s part of the deal when you’re a football player, ya know? It doesn’t matter I’m only on the practice squad. I still have to do all the physicals. Even the mental ones.”

  “I know,” I say, feeling panicky by trying desperately not to show it. “It kind of sucks that they outed you like that.”

  My hand shakes as I pick up my coffee cup. I try to hide it, but I know Jaxon notices. His eyes whip up to mine, and I can tell he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

  “I didn’t tell him, Annika,” he says reassuringly. “I didn’t tell him your name or anything about you. Neither did Harold. I specifically asked him that question. My coach doesn’t know. No one knows.”

  I smile sadly at him, trying to relax, but crossing my arms over my body, trying to shrink just a little instead. “I’ll be ready someday, maybe, but not yet. Ya know?”

  “Yeah.” He nods. “Believe me, I know.”

  We sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, neither of us sure what else to say. At first, it was kind of nice to just sit with him. At this point, if the only way I can feel relaxed is to sit for a few minutes in a weird coffee shop art deco chair, I’ll take it.

  But as Jaxon begins playing on his phone, it doesn’t feel comfortable anymore. We’re not on a date. We’re not even really friends. Maybe this is his way of saying he wants me to leave. Before I can ask, he finds what he was looking for.

  “I knew it. Seven o’clock Sunday. Did you know the Steelers are playing?”

  I nod. “Of course, I knew. I’m a die-hard fan.”

  “Well then, you’re in luck.” He turns his phone around to show me the ad he’s apparently been searching for. “Buck’s Sports Bar has NFL Sunday Ticket and are going to be televising it. So,” he continues, clicking his phone off, “wanna go with me? We’re pretty pathetic lately, and maybe it’ll do us some good to watch some football and get out in the world again.”

  My body tenses at the thought of his proposal. Two weeks ago, if he would have invited me to watch a game, I would have jumped at the chance. He’s good-looking, smart, kind, and motivated. But now…now I’m not sure. The last time I went to a bar my entire life changed.

  Like he can read my thoughts, he says, “We don’t have to drink any alcohol. Hell, you can sneak in a six pack of bottled water in your purse.”

  “I don’t carry purses unless my roommate forces one on me. I’m not girly enough.”

  He smirks. If that’s my only reason for declining, he’s not going to make this easy to get out of. “Then we’ll have to sneak them in under our clothes.”

  As much as I’m hesitating, the fact that he understands what my concerns are without even having to say it and is willing to humor me, makes me want to go. I need to do this. I need to go out. I need to go out with a man. Even if it’s not a date, it’s a step to taking back control of my life.

  “Yeah,” I finally agree. “I’ll go with you. If nothing else, it’ll force me to shower and brush my hair. I’m sure my roommate will be happy to see I’m coming back from the edges of death for once.”

  He chuckles lightly. “For what it’s worth, I’ve seen you on the edge of death, and you look way better than that.”

  I bust out laughing as his face turns flami
ng red when he realizes what he said.

  “I’m sorry,” he apologizes quickly. “I’ve always been told the filter between what I’m thinking and what I say doesn’t always work right.”

  I giggle again, glad that I haven’t lost my weird sense of humor in this nightmare. “For anyone else, it might’ve been too soon. But coming from you, somehow it was funny.”

  He smiles and takes a drink of his coffee. We spend the next hour talking about mundane things that have nothing to do with anything. And yet it’s everything we need right now.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Jaxon

  I didn’t mean to put her on the spot when I invited her out, but from the look in her eyes when I asked, that’s how she felt. I couldn’t help myself, though. Somewhere in the middle of that conversation, I realized we’re the only two people who know exactly what happened that night. We’re the only two people who are struggling with what we say and don’t say, and if we’re going to get through this, we’re going to have to lean on each other.

  Underneath all her nerves, anxiety, and baggy clothes, I could see anger simmering. I could see feistiness that was begging to come out. It still is. And I know if we can help hold each other up, she’ll be able to come out stronger on the other side. We both will.

  Plus—and I know it’s the selfish part of me talking—I like her. There’s something about Annika that calls to me. I could wax poetic and say she’s like a siren calling to me in the night or some shit like that. But it’s the truth. It has nothing to do with how beautiful she is, and she really is beautiful. Even with her hair pulled up high on her head and dark circles under her eyes, she’s still a knockout of the All-American variety.

  But that’s not the main reason I like her. Nope. It’s her strength and her resilience. She’s surprised me at every turn. I don’t know many people who could maintain a sense of humor under these circumstances. Hell, I don’t know a lot of people who wouldn’t just drop out of school and hide away. But she’s not. She has determination and drive. And even if what’s happening between us ends up being nothing more than friendship, even if this is nothing more than a mini support group, I want to get to know her better. I need to know her better.

  Leaning against the red brick wall outside Buck’s, I scan the crowd as I wait for her. Buck’s is right on the edge of campus within walking distance of the dorms. I was glad to see they had the game on tonight because this is the perfect place to meet up. It’s close enough to campus that Annika doesn’t have to find a ride. But I have to remember it’s far enough away from her dorm that when the game is over and it’s dark out, I need to walk her back to her room. I don’t mind. I hope she still feels comfortable with me after tonight.

  I have no expectations, and if she changes her mind about hanging out with me, I can respect that too. I’m trying my damndest to be sensitive to however she feels, for as long as she feels it. Because dammit, I’m going need some grace too.

  She’s late. My watch says 7:05. Just when I think she’s not going to show, I look up and see her coming around the corner.

  For the first time, I’m seeing her with her hair down. She’s even more beautiful with her long, straight brown hair fluttering in the slight breeze. She not wearing a stitch of makeup, and yet, those dark lashes make her eyes look big. And her pink lips don’t need any color beyond what’s naturally already there.

  “Hey.” I flash a wide grin her direction as I meet her at the door. “I was wondering if you were going to show.”

  Her cheeks blush as she admits, “It takes a few minutes to mentally prepare myself for showering. I didn’t plan far enough in advance, I guess.” I refuse to react to her admission. I don’t want her to feel embarrassed or like I’m shocked. And I sure as hell don’t want her to feel like I’m pitying her. Somehow, I know she’d hate that. Fortunately, it seems to work as she adds, “Plus I didn’t want to come with wet hair. You should feel special. I don’t use a blow dryer for just anyone.”

  Her wit is back, and it makes me smile. “Well thank you. I’ll make sure to compliment your hair several times tonight to make it worth your while.”

  “A true gentleman,” she says, smiling up at me playfully. We step through the doors and into the building. It’s not a huge room, but it’s big enough to have several flat screens around the room, a bar that spans the entire length of the place, and booths lining all the walls with tables scattered in between. “Do you come to Buck’s often?” Her nose crinkles up like she smelled something bad. “Wow. That sounded like a bad pick-up line.”

  “That’s because it was a bad pick-up line,” I joke. “Thank goodness we already made plans to meet. That could’ve been awkward.”

  “It really could.” We look around for a table and spot an open booth in the corner that we head toward automatically. “But for real, I come here to watch games all the time. Why have I never seen you here?”

  I shrug. “One of my teammates has Sunday Ticket, and we make a party out of it at his place. Especially if there’s an alumnus playing.”

  “Oh, I can only imagine the trash talk that happens.”

  She has us pegged. “You have no idea. It can get downright nasty. Honestly, I think I’d rather be here most times.”

  After we slide onto the red vinyl benches facing each other, a waitress shows up almost immediately. She’s dressed in the normal game night attire: short shorts and a flannel button-up with one too many buttons open and tied at the waist to show a little skin and make bigger tips. Normally I might be attracted to her, but not tonight. Tonight, I don’t even give her a second glance.

  “What can I get y’all?” The squeaky baby doll voice that comes out of her is another good reason why I will never give her a second glance. “We got two-dollar drafts. You interested?”

  “You have Shiner on tap?” I ask, trying not to poke my finger in my ear to block out the noise. Annika tries to stifle her giggle at my reaction.

  The waitress never even notices, too busy tossing our napkins on the table. “Sure do. One Shiner or two?”

  I look over at Annika, and she’s wearing that expression again. I’m starting to figure out it means she’s fighting her instincts to run screaming. I consider grabbing her hand and saying something reassuring, but she doesn’t need me babying her. She doesn’t want that. If she kicked the social worker out of her room to talk to me alone because Pippa was too overbearing, it’s more likely she wants to power through this one on her own. So I let her.

  “Um, I’ll just take a water please.”

  “One water, one Shiner coming right up.”

  She walks away and for a fleeting second, I pray she doesn’t return if I have to listen to that voice all night. But that second ends quickly and my concern switches back to Annika. I know having an open drink, even if it’s just water makes her uncomfortable, so I’m surprised to see a gleam in her eye.

  As she smirks, she reaches down into the front pocket of her hoodie and pulls out a bottle of water. I laugh at her victorious smile.

  “Stealth mode,” she says proudly. “Even without a purse.”

  “I’m impressed.” I don’t tell her it’s not because she snuck in a contraband, but because she’s still smiling.

  The next couple hours are spent sharing a plate of loaded nachos, fried pickles, and some mozzarella sticks while we argue over the game. She’s team Steelers all the way, which I’m trying not to hold against her, even though I’m pushing for the Broncos.

  “Anyone can beat that asshole quarterback, Tim McGovern.”

  “What do you mean asshole quarterback?” Annika exclaims, throwing a broken chip in my general vicinity, missing me when I duck. “He has the best completion percentage in the league right now. And the lowest number of interceptions.”

  “Yeah,” I scoff, “because he has a good offensive live, not because he has any actual talent.”

  She gapes at me. “I can’t believe you just said that,” she whispers harshly.

 
“What? It’s true. Look at how many interceptions he threw before they got Randy Malone. Now that guy, he’s pretty amazing, and he’s what makes Tim look good.”

  Annika shakes her head a look of disappointment on her face. “I can’t believe you would say that. You, the mathematical genius.”

  “Trivia genius,” I correct.

  “After all these years of memorizing, how can you say he’s not one of the greats?”

  I snort a laugh. “Being one of the greats means you can lead a team to victory even if that team sucks donkey balls. As much as it pains me to say it”—I rub a hand over my chest like I’m hurting—“the Steelers don’t suck donkey balls this season.”

  “See? We do agree on that,” she says happily. “The Steelers are going all the way this year.”

  I look at her with disgust. “Unfortunately, I agree with you.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. But I will never agree that Tim McGovern is one of the greats.”

  “Fair enough,” she says with a shrug as she finishes eating her nacho and pulls the water bottle out of her lap.

  “How’d you become such a big football fan?” Her knowledge of games and players is impressive. And not because of her gender. I might have to invite her to my fantasy football league. I may have met my match, and it sure would make it more fun to have a worthy opponent.

  She swallows her water and crushes the empty bottle, dropping it on the pile of dirty napkins we’ve accumulated since we’ve been here.

  “Football is huge in my family. My dad and brother and I are obsessed. You should see my dad’s tailgating setup.”

  My eyebrows rise. She notices and points at me.

  “That’s the expression we get whenever we drive into the parking lot with his trailer and mobile grilling station hitched to the back of the truck. At first, security didn’t want to let him use it. Said it was a hazard because it was too big. And then he gave them some brisket.”

  I laugh. “Let me guess…he won them over with his secret recipe.”

  “Passed down for three generations,” she says with a laugh. “I’m gonna jump to the conclusion you don’t get to do a lot of tailgating, being that you have box seats and all.”