So, in a roundabout way, news of Deck’s NFL career weaseled its way into being the only news, at least in the first three years after we split up, that I liked to receive about him.
The Draft on this particular year was an exciting one. There were six non-college players up for grabs, Deck being the top pick because of all his semi-pro experience.
I called Skate straight after my set—four A.M. London time, eleven P.M New York time. He’d been so excited, he was hardly able to get the words out. “B—Blaze! B—Blaze, how are you!”
I smiled instantly on hearing Skate’s rough voice, thinking of the snake tat on his neck, his gleaming shaved head. “Skate, what’s up!”
“He did it, Blaze! He’s in!”
“What team?”
“The frickin GIANTS, Blaze! Eagles wanted him, but there was some behind-the-scenes negotiation so that he could play with Trev! They’re a package deal, you know. They’re gonna kill the competition!”
My stomach sank, as if I’d drunk a glass of ice cold water too fast. I felt a sudden heaviness in my mind. But I’d learned to deal with these abrupt reactions whenever I heard anything about Declan Cox. It was for the best that we’d ended things—that’s what I’d said to myself at the time. So many fights, so much pain, so much turmoil.
I think differently about it now. But you can’t change the past. No matter how much it hurts.
I was seeing a guy called Laz Rinkton at the time of Skate’s call. And by “seeing” I mean hooking up.
Laz is a Londoner, dark-skinned, well-built, buzz-cut hair. He’s good in bed. We both knew what we had was nothing to write home about. He’s a local businessman, liked hooking up with me. Whenever I came to London—which was about once every two months—we’d get together, have a good time and then move on. I don’t know if he saw anyone when I was away, and I didn’t really care either way.
I’d become numb.
I didn’t see anyone else. Not because I was particularly attached to Laz (I wasn’t), but because I just didn’t feel the need to be with anyone seriously. Laz was a good distraction. He was the first person I was “with” since splitting up with Deck. And I’d been “with” him for about eight months at the time of this call—on and off. There would be more “on and off” with him over the next two and a half years.
Anyway, I was in the bedroom. London traffic honked and hooted outside, much like Manhattan traffic does. The lights were off. I was using the hotel phone on the nightstand. I heard the sheets ruffling behind me, Laz was rousing. I heard him groaning the groan of someone waking up slowly. He’d probably been asleep for over five hours already. I was only just getting to bed. The life of a nightclub DJ.
His warm hand found its way onto my bare leg. I’d already dressed for bed, had only a pair of cotton shorts and a loose tee on. He mumbled, “Mbloogumpf.”
It distracted me.
On the phone: “Blaze, you there?” Skate’s voice was suddenly loud and piercing in the room.
I’d drifted off, thinking about Laz, thinking about when I’d first met him, how he’d dined me, smooth talked—
“Blaze!” Skate called through a crackling line.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m here!” Now I was whispering, as if I hadn’t even considered that Laz had been in the room with me before, but now realized he was. Laz—a distraction, someone who was kind of there but not really. Ironic, and true. “Look, uhm, I’ll call you day after tomorrow from Berlin.”
My other regular gig is at a club called Tresor in Berlin. One of the best (if not the best) in the Europe House Music scene. I started playing at the European clubs in December of Year Zero, three months after Deck and I had split up.
“B—Blaze? I can’t hear you!”
I spoke louder. “I’ll call you tomorrow!”
That woke Laz up completely. His words were suddenly more lucid. Behind me, he smacked his lips three times, getting the cotton-feel out of his mouth. Then said, “Blaze. You’re home...”
His hand squeezed on my bare thigh, moved up. He said, “Mmmmm,” expecting a morning roll-around like we usually did after one of my sets.
Suddenly I didn’t like that hand. It felt out of place, unwelcomed, uninvited. Suddenly my skin was cold. This hot man who’d wrapped me and held me and smothered me when my mind had drifted to That Other Man—the golden haired love called Declan—now felt...superfluous.
I shook my head. I’d been through all this before. It was over between me and Deck. Over. Almost two years over. And Laz’s hand on my thigh was just another confirmation, another sign, that it really was.
So, for now, I let his hand snake up, under my shorts...
My own hand snapped to it, held it there so it couldn’t move any higher.
Skate: “Blaze, say again? I can’t―you.”
Damn international calls! “I’ll call! Tomorrow!” I repeated, almost screaming now.
I heard him say “O—” and figured he’d said “OK.” Calling back home always left me with the feeling of not having actually talked to anyone because of all the cut words and sentences.
I put the phone down with a final click. The echo of it in the quiet room was so final, that it left me wondering, What next? A familiar feeling...
Laz groaned seductively. He pressed his fingertips down on my leg and I felt him stir behind me.
I got up. My skin frigid, my body almost shivering. I turned to face him, arms crossed, saw his glowing eyes. Sexy eyes. Dark eyes. He was twenty-eight at the time. I was twenty-three. (I’m twenty-six now, Libra. Which says nothing for my faith in the Zodiac, because according to it Deck and I are supposed to be a match made in heaven. His birthday’s on June fourth.)
Laz frowned.
I was thinking of Deck now, thinking of the last few months we’d had together, of the arguments, the questions, the overriding passion intermingled in between all of that, the insecurities.
The Fear.
Most of all, I was thinking about how much I’d loved him once, and how he’d loved me. And how I screwed all of it up. Royally.
When I forgot that love, that feeling, when I thought of it only in conceptual terms, it was easy to undress myself in front of a guy like Laz. I’m a grown woman now, I’d justify. It was first-love, that’s all, that’s what makes forgetting Deck so difficult. You’ll get over it. These thoughts made it easy to move on, to move forward, to move onto something less exciting and more “normal.”
Being with Laz was “normal.” Being with Deck had been...wild. Out of control. Insanely mad.
But at that moment, in that instant, standing there looking at Laz’s frowning eyes, his chest bared to me, nothing but soft white linen covering the rest of him, I felt it again—that down-to-the-bone Love I’d once felt for Declan Cox. And at this very instant, it just felt...wrong to be with Laz.
So I told him, “Laz...” I looked away, cleared my throat. “Uhm... I think we need to give...this...a break.”
His eyes went hard.
He cleared his throat, got up off the bed. He was tall, and nude, and aroused. But he was also angry now, and softening quickly. He bent over, grabbing his boxers from the ground. I was also aroused suddenly. Laz was dark and handsome. The cliché man for the cliché fling. Sexy, dangerous, strong, influential. What every girl wanted.
Every girl except me.
He put on his slacks, slipped into his Oxfords, grabbed his dress shirt from the couch. He walked around the bed, came over to me. I just stood there, holding myself. He got to where I was. I smelled his spicy cologne and closed my eyes. He put his right hand on my shoulder, moved down and kissed my head. “We both knew it wasn’t love,” he said to me, not even needing an explanation. “But you know that if I walk out that door I’m not coming back, don’t you?”
I did know that. I didn’t say anything, just gave the slightest of nods.
“OK,” he said, his voice gruff, perhaps a little insulted.
He kissed my forehead again, warmly, kindly.
His heat radiated off onto my tired skin. He lingered there. I suddenly wanted to fall onto him, be held by him. To be touched by him.
And I knew that was wrong.
His lips moved lower. He kissed my temple, then pecked me once on the lips. I parted mine just a little, because it hadn’t been all empty with Laz. There had been at least a little something there with him!
Our tongues touched, just briefly, lightly.
Then I flicked my tongue back into my mouth, closed my lips, stiffened.
He waited, his lips an eighth of inch away from mine. After a second, he said, “I see.”
And he walked out.
We were back “on” again three months later, when I returned to London.
-2-
I know all about football now. I know now what a Running Back is and what a sack is (when the quarterback gets taken down), what a three-and-out is (basically, not such a good thing), and an endless number of other jargon terms.
So, here we are, Tom’s Restaurant, soaking with body-heat and bubbling with nervousness. Even though Brooklyn is white with snow, the grass at MetLife Stadium (which is in Jersey) is green as envy. Tom’s windows are decorated with window paintings of snowflakes and Christmas balls. The drink of choice tonight is hot mulled wine. But the gang and I are sticking with beers. Tom’s got its liquor license just over a year ago.
The commentators are already calling tonight’s comeback by The Giants “The Second Miracle at Meadowlands”—you know, after that whopper of a game in 2010 when the Eagles came back from 31-10 with only eight minutes of play left in the game. The Eagles won that game, The Giants lost. 31-38. It was a miracle. Which is why they called that game “The Miracle at the New Meadowlands.” Tonight, it’s the other way round.
The Giants were down twenty-five points, ten minutes left in the game. Then it all changed. They were four-and-twenty-six, pushed back sixteen yards from the compulsory ten they needed to move forward to keep the ball in their possession. The Eagles had The Giants pushed all the way back into their end zone. Trev called the snap, two centers from the opposing team tried for a blitz. They were blocked—two buffalo-sized men held back by two equally large monsters.
Trev held the ball, held the ball, held the ball...
Which is when the commentator noticed Deck. Running. Wide.
“Declan Cox is loose! He’s gone wide. He’s on the run. Perkins is going for the Hail Mary! Yes... Yes... Cox— Whoa! Look at him go! Oh my— Perkins is... Cox is almost in the Eagles’ end zone! They’re trying to get him. OH MY WORD, he’s a BULLET— Perkins throws! Look at that ball go—” There’d been a pause while the pigskin spiraled and spun and whirled through the Jersey air, like a ballet dancer waiting to be caught by her partner, tens and tens and tens of yards... “—AND HE’S CAUGHT IT! OH MY GOD, DECLAN COX HAS CAUGHT THE HAIL—”
Then all hell broke loose at Tom’s as Deck crashed past the end zone line. We didn’t hear the rest of what was being said. The screen flashed TOUCHDOWN! Hands went up in front of us, drinks were spilled, warm beer landed on my cheek. The crowd inside Tom’s imploded with roars of excitement. The score changed, nineteen behind now. Deck did a dance on the end zone, then a somersault. Trev ran the entire field and they slammed chests against each other. “THAT’S MY BOY!” Skate cried out, deafening us.
The crowd at Tom’s kept cheering. Hope was back. I felt teary, and happy. Vikki, noticing, slid out from under Skate’s arm and tapped her beer glass (spiked with Imperial Vodka) against mine. She held me tight by the neck, letting me know she’s there for me. We raised our beer glasses.
I shouted, “GO DECLAN!” and Mr. De Luca gave me a sad smile, a little sparkle in his eyes. Only then did I realize how loudly I’d called out! And I suddenly felt bare, exposed, vulnerable. Only a few people in this room know Deck and I dated—Mr. De Luca, Clarissa, Vikki and Skate (Vikki’s bodyguards are a long-gone deal, but we’ll get to that later)—and I think it’s clear to them that I still love him. Things just didn’t work out.
The Giants got the extra point from the dropkick. They were eighteen points down. Play went on for two extra minutes with no further sparks from the men in blue. Two minutes that felt like two years. People chewed their nails, went silent, complained, shouted out “You can do it, boys!” One guy—the loudest man in the Tom’s Restaurant crowd tonight—used to be a Jets fan. He’s also a Declan Cox fan, so now he’s a Giants fan. He’s said that if Deck and Trev play for the Eagles, he’d even be an Eagles fan.
That’s pretty much the sentiment of most folks here tonight. Mr. De Luca—owner of Tom’s—is responsible for engendering most of it. He keeps several pictures of Deck and Trev up on the walls; all of them autographed, of course. “To Mr. De Luca, thanks for the support over the years,” one of them says. Deck’s got his arm around Trev’s thick neck in that one, both of them helmeted, Trev holding a football. The ebony and ivory blood brothers, their relationship closer than actual family. But the one that gets me the most is the one of Deck alone, not helmeted, smiling. It’s a close-up: his blue eyes gleaming like glowing tanzanite, his golden hair shining like the rising sun. And his smile teasing me forever, reminding me of the last words I ever heard from him: “I’ll always love you, Blaze. And I’ll also always hate you for making me leave.”
I don’t look at that picture. It makes me cry. Even now, over four years later, it makes me cry. It’s like he’s looking at me in that picture. Mona Lisa’s smile; Declan Cox’s smile. And what is he smiling at?
Eighteen points down, eight minutes ago. The silence was deafening. A man in front of me had placed a cigarette in his mouth, then flicked his lighter on and off endlessly as if about to light the thing indoors (Mr. De Luca would have him out on his ears if he did.) And then the next cracker came. A wham-bam-thank-you-ma’am slammer of a touchdown.
Seventy-two yard line, second down. Eagles, McCoy gets the ball, starts rushing. Antrel Rolle chases after him—
Crush!
They roll and tumble and fall and, “Fumble!” someone at Tom’s cries. Paysinger—Giants!—recovers the fumble! He starts rushing. Suddenly three white shirts are on him, the ball is passed. Jacobs gets it, to Pascoe—to Brown! Twenty yards, thirty yards, forty yards! The commentator again: “Declan Cox is there ladies and gentlemen! I can’t believe it. Declan Cox is— Oh my God, he’s blocking— OUCH! Vincent goes down, tackled by Declan Cox... That’s gotta hurt. Fifty yards rushed by Brown so far. Could this be another touchdown. I don’t believe—”
Touchdown! Scored by Brown.
Tom’s exploded again. Beer splattered again. Vikki—the luxurious Viktoriya Golovkina—was at my side again. Glasses were filled again, replays were played, Declan chest-thumped Brown.
And I missed him just a little bit more...
They went all or nothing on the conversion. Trev hung back, waited, waited, waited—passed! They rushed the ball into the end zone. Another two points! And now they were ten behind.
If The Giants win this game they’re pretty much guaranteed to win their division, and so guarantee their place in the playoffs. They’ve had a good season this year, not perfect, but good. Last year was tougher. They made it then as well, but only just.
Last year there’d been discussions of Trevor’s competence—my big brother, Trev, who I’ve lost touch with by phone but stayed in touch with by email. He’s as much my big bro as Skate is: Declan’s best friends who I know will always have my back. There’d been discussions of Declan’s confidence, then news surfaced of a small drinking scandal involving him the night before a game, an unknown blond...
Deck is always in the news for something or other. Mostly something involving girls (women, actually) and bars, and drinking. Lots of drinking. “America’s Bad Boy.” He’s become hotter in the gossip news than some of the biggest Hollywood stars.
I tried to avoid reading about it, but it wasn’t always possible. It had been my ill-founded fears about Declan’s faithfulness to me that finally dro
ve us completely apart. Fears which had no grounding, no logical sense to them, but which I nonetheless believed completely. The mind plays tricks, I would later learn. So, it isn’t without some lingering bitterness that I watch how the irrational conclusions I came to, and which had no basis in fact, finally drove Declan to, well, actually being with other women! The sick irony of it all would be humorous if it didn’t burn so badly.
Another three empty minutes flew by. Five minutes on the clock. A few close-ups of Declan’s 37 shirt, then him spraying some water in his mouth. And the sheer lustful yearning I felt immediately at seeing the water droplets falling in beads down his chin, his lips, and then his face as he sprayed water on himself.
Yeah, me and every other woman in America who’d suddenly started watching football since Declan Cox made the team!
They lined up again, right at the Eagles’ end zone. Trev threw a cracker over three yards. Touchdown!
They went all-out again, missed the conversion.
They’d now gained a total of twenty-one points, leaving them four behind. Four minutes left on the clock. They tried two field goals, both stymied. Four minutes became three. They lost possession, three became two. Two became one. One became thirty seconds. They gained possession!
And here we are, seventeen seconds left on the clock, my nails down to nubs as I sit and stare up at the TV screen with Skate and Vikki on the other side of the table.
Watching the man who was once mine, carry the dreams of New York on his shoulders tonight.
Need Me (Truthful Lies Trilogy Book Three) Page 2