by Sarah Curtis
“I’m sure I’m headline news. The last thing I want is for you to have to see me get dogpiled over and over again on instant replay.”
“Thanks.” She appreciated that. It had been bad enough seeing it the first time.
He threw out an arm. “Come here.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“First of all, it’s just a sprain. Yes, it might be throbbing at the moment, but I’m only being careful with it so it will heal, not because of pain.”
Conceding, she wiggled over and laid her head on his shoulder. “And second of all?”
His arm came around her, snuggling her tighter. “And second of all, you’re so damn tiny, you couldn’t reach my ankle to accidentally hurt it even if you tried.”
She conceded that point, too. “I’m just glad you’re okay.” She couldn’t repeat that enough as thoughts of Colt being seriously injured swirled around her brain.
He didn’t reply, but his arm did squeeze her. And it wasn’t long before his breaths grew even and deep.
Ivy closed her eyes. It took a while, but she finally fell asleep to the muted conversation and bursts of canned laughter coming from the TV, but more importantly, the sound of Colt’s strong heartbeat.
Chapter Nineteen
Colt
“What are you going to do, sit around the house and mope all day?”
Colt looked at Ivy from his position on the couch. She stood across the coffee table from him, arms folded, hip jutted.
They’d been having the same argument for the past two days. She didn’t want him to be alone for Thanksgiving. He got that, he just didn’t think it was a big deal. Half the time he didn’t spend the holiday with his family anyway if they were on the roster to play. That year they weren’t slated, and Sunday was their bye week. If he had to be injured, it couldn’t have come at a better time. At least that’s how he was looking at it. It’d been how he’d kept his sanity the past few days, being stuck in bed.
But he just wasn’t up to spending the day with Ivy’s family. He wasn’t depressed, but he sure as hell wasn’t in the mood to socialize. Hell, he wasn’t even making the effort to go see his parents, using the excuse it was too hard to travel as his get-out-of-jail-free card. “I’m not planning to mope. The two games on today will keep me occupied while you’re gone.”
She came around the coffee table and flopped onto the couch at the opposite end from him. “Fine, you don’t want to go. I won’t go.”
He narrowed his eyes. “That’s evil.” He knew how much she’d been looking forward to it. Told him Thanksgiving was the only day she didn’t feel guilty about eating her body weight in food.
She threw him a grin. “I know.”
She was probably bluffing, but really, going to her parents’ was a small price to pay for all she’d been doing if it made her happy. “Fine.” He huffed as he stood from the couch. “Give me a few minutes to get ready.”
“Yay.”
He hid his smile at the excitement he heard in her voice, not wanting to kill her buzz of accomplishment.
“So, P. Colton, how do you know my daughter?”
Colt was situated, on yet another couch, sipping on a bottle of water, when Ivy’s father asked that question.
They’d arrived at Ivy’s parents’ about fifteen minutes prior, and at that point Colt knew nothing of Robert Clark other than the man got right to the point and did it fast.
“We’re friends, sir. She’s been a huge help while I recover.” Colt gestured to his ankle which was propped on an ottoman.
Mr. Clark raised a bushy, salt-and-pepper eyebrow. “Friends, uh? Is that some kind of code? Do you guys hang out and watch Netflix and chill?”
“Dad! Hush up. You’re embarrassing me.” Ivy appeared, stepping over her father’s feet to sit on the coffee table, facing both her dad and himself. “I’m so sorry. Honestly, I thought he’d be more enthralled by who you are than what you are to me.” She threw her dad a dirty look. “I thought it was safe to leave you alone for five minutes.”
“Hey now, this is men's talk. Why don’t you go back into the kitchen and help your mother.”
“Men’s talk? You know if Mom heard you right now, she’d kick your butt clear to Aunt Clara’s.” She turned to Colt. “Aunt Clara is Dad’s sister and lives in Miami.”
“Heard him say what?” Ivy’s mom, Bridget, came into the room, holding a long-neck bottle.
Eager to jump on the tattle bus, Ivy quickly responded, “That because I’m a girl, I can’t join in on the conversation.”
“Now, wait just a damn—” Mr. Clark started to say.
“Reeeallly?” Since Bridget Clark was an older version of Ivy—minus Ivy’s current shade of lilac hair—Colt was very familiar with the look she was giving her husband. He felt for the man, things were not going to go well for him. “And here I was bringing this for you.” She gestured to the beer. “But I think I’m going to keep it now.” She took a large swallow then gave him a fake, sweet smile.
“You know that’s not what I meant,” he gritted at his daughter. Then to his wife, he added, “I was grilling him for information.”
Bridget eyed Ivy and then Colt before slowly saying, “Well, in that case,” she handed him the beer. “Come on, Ivy. I’ve got about fifty potatoes I need help peeling.”
Colt hid his smile behind his bottle of water as Ivy stared up at her mom, mouth hanging open, for once, at a loss for words.
And then she looked at him and hiked a thumb toward his ankle. “I’d tell you to run, but sadly, that’s not an option for you.”
That’s when Colt lost it. He tipped his head back, laughing. “Go,” he said between chuckles. “I’ll be fine. Help your mom.”
She mouthed a silent, “Sorry,” as she followed her mom back to the kitchen.
“Now, where were we?” Robert leaned back into the couch, looking to be getting comfortable for a very long talk.
Around the dinner table, Jason made up for Robert’s lack of fangirling. Colt kept trying to steer the conversation from him and football but every time he succeeded, Jason found some way of circling it back. It was a holiday, family meal. He already felt as though he were intruding, and the last thing he wanted was for the table-talk to be all about him.
“These mashed potatoes are the best I’ve ever tasted.” Colt scooped another forkful, giving Ivy a wink—knowing she’d had a hand in making them—before sticking the bite into his mouth.
“Thank you,” Ivy’s mom said from across the table. “The trick is lots and lots of butter. The real kind, not that margarine crap.”
Colt looked at the mound on his plate with new trepidation. Not able to hit the gym as hard as he’d like since his injury, every calorie counted.
“Speaking of carbs, is it true you need to stay on a strict diet all year long to keep in shape?”
Colt looked down the table to Jason and hoped his exasperation didn’t show on his face or come through in his tone. “We have a team of nutritionists who help. All players have different diets. Some more strict than others.”
Under the table, Ivy’s hand landed on his thigh, right before she changed the subject for him. “How’s the new job working out, Jason?”
“I didn’t know you got a new job. What happened to the old one?” This from Ivy’s mom.
“New job? What’s this about a new job? Damn it, did you get fired again?” That from Ivy’s dad.
Jason was the topic of interest for the rest of the meal.
If Ivy’s parents hadn’t been at the table, he would’ve kissed her.
He did kiss her when, after a heated game of Monopoly, they finally made it home.
Ivy
Like weeping raindrops running down a windowpane in the dead of night, that’s how Ivy’s heart felt at the sight of Colt emerging from the medical building minus wearing his boot. She knew their time together was up. Not just her staying with him at his house, but over completely. The missing boot and the sure pace
of his step as he walked to the car meant he’d be going back to work and that was the deadline she’d set for herself. She couldn’t go back to the way they’d been for another six weeks.
Her heart couldn’t take it.
And like those cold, falling raindrops, her heart wept as, all smiles, he got into the car. “Good news. The doc says I’m good to play this Sunday.”
With their bye week, he’d only ended up missing one game in the nearly three weeks he’d been home, but with the team losing that game, he was antsy to get back.
She was happy for him, just not for herself. “I’m sure that’s a relief.”
He slammed his door and clicked his seatbelt into place. “I can’t even tell you how much. It feels as if a giant weight has been lifted off my shoulders. Or, should I say, my foot.”
And that weight had transferred to her stomach, forming a large, lead ball of dread. She started the car, the lead ball turning into a ticking time bomb the closer they got to his house. Her bag was packed and in the trunk—she’d had the forethought to take care of that while he’d been in the shower that morning. All that was left was rule number two—the conversation to end things.
She didn’t waste time, following him into the kitchen as soon as they got home. Like ripping off a Band-Aid, she knew it would hurt less if she didn’t drag things out. “We need to talk.”
He went straight for the fridge and opened it. “Do you want a water?”
“No. Thank you.” Maybe a shot of tequila, though.
He came out with a bottle for himself and shut the door. Cracking the lid, he took a long pull.
“Colt, we need to talk.”
He set the bottle on the kitchen table and took a seat in one of the wooden chairs then used his foot to nudge the chair closest to him out. “Sit.”
“I’m good standing.” She was too nervous to sit. “Listen, I…” Gah, how did she start. In the face of actually saying it, every gentle way she’d rehearsed flew from her brain, leaving her completely at a loss. So instead of what she’d planned to say, she blurted without the least bit of finesse, “Our involvement isn’t working for me any longer. I want to end things.”
His relaxed posture slowly vanished as he stiffened in his seat, going completely still. “Is there someone else?” His voice was even and controlled and more intimidating than if he had raised it.
“No. Nothing like that. It’s just…” How did she explain without revealing how she truly felt? “Things are getting messy. I’m growing too attached, and I know that’s not what you signed up for. I thought I was okay with this,” she waved her hands, “with the way things are. And I was at first, but now I want more. The time we’re apart is hurting me.”
He was silent for so long, she blurted, “Say something.”
“I can’t give you more.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Does it matter?”
She couldn’t read his expression. Couldn’t tell if he gave a shit or not.
She sighed, shoulders sagging in defeat. “I guess not.” Until that moment she’d still held out hope he would want more, too, and it would all work out, and she’d get to keep him. But now even that dream was crushed like a bug under a shoe.
A lump formed in her throat, choking off anything else she wanted to say. Which was probably for the best, as anything else would be a plea that she knew would fall on deaf ears. And she had more pride than that.
Straightening her spine to help beat back the tears that threatened to fall, she took a moment to compose herself. She still couldn’t swallow down the lump, so it was a struggle to talk. “Then I guess there’s nothing left to say.”
He got up, came to her, and took her hands and it was almost her undoing. “I’d like to remain friends. I understand if it’s too hard on you to keep up our physical relationship, but I’d hate to lose our nightly chats.”
Men. They just didn’t get it. Sex was the happy side effect, their talks were what made her fall in love with him.
She studied his expression and thought she detected an underlying sadness in his eyes that belied the firm set of his jaw. But maybe that was wishful thinking on her part. In any case, she couldn’t let it weaken her. Shaking her head, she pulled her hands from his grasp. “I can’t. Not now. Maybe after some time.”
Time for her broken heart to heal.
His head tipped, acknowledging what she’d said, but that was it. He didn’t say anything else. And she had nothing left to say either.
She turned and took baby steps through the kitchen, willing him to stop her. Maybe beg her not to leave. Show her he was hurting as much as she was. But she should’ve known better. He was nothing if not steadfast in his conviction.
She couldn’t fault him that. She had no one to blame but herself. It’s not as if he hadn’t warned her what she was getting into.
Reaching the front door, she paused with her hand on the knob, searching to feel his presence behind her. But she felt nothing. He wasn’t going to stop her.
It was truly over.
And the sad part was, he seemed okay with letting her go. She supposed she should be happy about that. No sense in both of them weeping into their Wheaties. But she also couldn’t help but feel extra hurt. He honestly didn’t care.
It was the loud crash she heard as she was closing the front door that belied his feelings and gave her pause. He was hurting. And that hurt had come out as anger.
She hesitated, debating whether she should go back in, but in the end decided their clean break was best.
Because she hadn’t changed her mind.
If anything, she was now sure she’d made the right decision. Football would always come first.
Colt had just proved that.
Chapter Twenty
Colt
The crowd was dwindling as day three, round seven of the draft got underway. He was losing hope. If he hadn’t been so nervous, he probably would’ve enjoyed his first trip to New York. They didn’t get much sightseeing done as most of their time had been spent inside the walls of Radio City Music Hall, but he had eaten some great food.
He fidgeted in his seat. Three days in the same suit, he was made to wear, was starting to suffocate. Or maybe it was the nerves.
Had he mentioned he was nervous?
He hadn’t expected to be picked in the first round—hoped but not expected—but he honestly hadn’t thought he’d be sitting here in the last round of day three. It was disheartening. Not to mention, embarrassing.
Over the loudspeaker, the announcement was made. San Francisco was up next for their final pick.
And a few minutes after that, his phone rang.
This was it. Leg bouncing, heart pounding, his finger trembled as it neared his phone. He looked at his dad, sitting next to him with a grin nearly splitting his face as he gave an encouraging nod.
He answered the call. “Hello?”
The voice was deep and echoed ominously over the line. “You didn’t think we wanted you, did you? Hahahahahahaha.”
I’m sorry, Jesse.
Colt jolted awake.
His lower back complained as he sat up, having fallen asleep at the kitchen table. Looking around to orient himself, the evidence of the previous night mocked him. The whiskey bottle, still uncapped, sitting in the center of the table. The upended chair across the kitchen that he’d thrown after Ivy had left and the broken remnants of the coffee maker he’d bought specifically for her, scattered on the floor next to it.
Standing, he scraped his hands along his face, trying to shake off the dream and the memories associated with it. He was sure his subconscious was trying to tell him something, but he was too off balance to think clearly.
He went to the fridge and grabbed the OJ to wash the bad taste from his mouth. He didn’t usually drink, so the shots he’d taken the night before had hit him hard. He glanced at the clock on the stove with one blurry eye as he downed the bottle’s contents. Apparently, hard enough to leave him comat
ose for the better part of five hours.
Pulling out his phone to see if he’d missed any calls from Ivy, he saw he missed one from Linc at eleven p.m. Shit, he needed to call him back. Linc was going through a tough time, making his problems seem negligible in comparison.
All of them but Ivy.
Except Ivy wasn’t really a problem.
Problems had solutions and he didn’t see one in sight for them.
She wanted more.
He didn’t have more to give.
He swallowed a handful of Advil with the last of the orange juice and headed upstairs to shower. If his dream told him anything, it was that he needed to get back to work.
Putting his pity party officially at an end.
Ivy
Ivy looked at herself in the mirror, frowning at the dark circles under her eyes. It was day four of no Colt. She’d allowed herself three days to grieve, holed up in her room, eating copious amounts of ice cream while watching every comedy movie she could find on TV as she ignored all of Colt’s texts. But now it was time to move on. She had an art class that day that she didn’t want to miss. And after, maybe she’d stop by The Parting Glass to visit Emerson.
Her friend was worried.
Emerson hadn’t come right out and said it, but Ivy could tell from her tone when she’d called the day before to let Emerson know she’d be MIA for Sunday night Football. She hadn’t offered an excuse for her absence but had reassured her that she was fine and hung up, promising they’d talk soon.
Although she still didn’t want to talk about it—that would make her breakup with Colt feel real—she knew it was something she had to do to have any hope of getting over him. And starting that process was this week’s goal—if she ate any more ice cream, she wouldn’t fit into her jeans.
The Pacific Northwest College of Arts was only two blocks from her house, and since the weather was nice, Ivy walked. Having never taken an art class that didn’t involve a computer, she’d started with the basics, enrolling in a techniques and applications course. And even though they hadn’t done much yet but study terms, learn about the care and use of supplies, and experiment with their paints to get a feel for how the acrylic applies, blends, and dries, so far, she was loving it.