by K. Bromberg
I’m sure it’s coming.
It has to be.
“Johnny told me you lost your mum. Do you mind me asking how old you were?”
His directness shouldn’t surprise me by now, but it does. It’s a topic many people shy away from and when I turn to meet his eyes, there’s nothing but sympathy and compassion.
“I was thirteen.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t be.” I play it off like I always do with a shrug. “It was a long time ago.”
“Long time ago or not, it still hurts like hell. I was fifteen when I lost mine.”
“I had no idea.” Turning to face him, I reach out and take his hand, feeling like an ass for thinking about only myself. “I’m so sorry.”
“Like you said, don’t be.”
“Brain aneurysm,” I say about my mother’s cause of death. “Yours?”
“Cancer.”
My chest constricts at the thought. The one thing I’ve always felt lucky about is that my mother died quickly. There weren’t months on end where she suffered, or endless waiting for the inevitable. It was quick—unbelievably so—almost to the point that it was hard then and now for me to believe she’s gone.
But I can’t say that to Rush. I can’t be grateful for how mine died and then ask how long his suffered. I can’t tell him that any shrink would have a field day with me and say I probably have trouble forming attachments with men because the minute I feel anything beyond the superficial lust, I run to prevent more hurt.
And even though my mind processes that thought, I lie back down with him, my head on his chest, and both of us looking out toward the horizon beyond.
Fading memories fill my head and make me smile and long for my mother all at the same time.
“I always worry I’ll forget the sound of her voice. The smell of her perfume. The feel of her arms wrapped around me, her laugh.”
“You’ll never forget her. And just when you think you have, she’ll be in one of your dreams again, and you’ll experience her so you don’t. And you also have your dad to help remember for you.”
His words bring a bittersweet tear to my eye, and I think of the conversation I had with my dad a couple of weeks back about how much I was like my mother. “What about you? What do you miss about your mum?”
He runs a hand up and down my arm. “It’s been too long for me to miss anything. Too many things have overshadowed that time in my life.”
I look up at him. At his strong jaw and thick lashes, but he keeps his eyes on the sky. “Didn’t your dad help keep her memory alive?”
Rush’s expression remains as guarded as his voice, which lacks any emotion when he responds. “I never knew my dad.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t . . .” My words fade as I insert my foot in my mouth and scramble for something to say in its place. “The two cell phones.”
“Two mobiles—oh, in your handbag.” He laughs. “What about them?”
“One is my mother’s. It doesn’t work but I can’t get rid of it. I mean, it’s not like I think she’s going to call me on it or anything—hell, it’s not even charged, but I carry it with me still. I don’t know if I think it’s good luck or because it’s something tangible of hers I can hold on to, but regardless of how stupid it is, I can’t get rid of it.”
“It’s not stupid at all. I understand that.”
“Sometimes I even charge it so I can listen to the voice memos she’d left herself.” I haven’t told anyone that. What is it about Rush that makes me trust him so implicitly?
His chuckles softly beneath my hand. “I understand that. For the longest time after my mum died, I carried around a medallion she gave me after she got sick. It was unexciting, except for the intricate compass etched on its front that she swore would bring me good luck. When I asked her what was so lucky about it, she told me that no matter where I went in life, it would always help me find my way back to what was right. That’s the first tattoo I got. Right here.” He points to above his heart. “It’s her compass so I’d never lose my way.”
I sit up on my elbow and trace the intricate lines of the design on his chest, knowing how important it is to feel like you have something to hold on to. “It’s perfect.”
“Just as you carrying her mobile is perfect for you.” He shifts all of a sudden so that he’s half lying on, half lying off me. “You know what?”
“Hmmm?” Those eyes win me over again.
“I think we need a morning swim.”
“We do?” That is not what I was expecting.
“Last one in has to cook breakfast.” Rush jumps out of bed, and I follow right after him.
Our laughter echoes off the halls as we chase each other down the stairs and through the house.
We don’t think about suits or towels or anything else as we jump off the patio into the sand. The sky is lighting up with streaks of color that soften the dark ocean water. We both yelp as we hit the cold morning water, but just as quickly, he reaches out to me and pulls me against him.
The last thing that crosses my mind before his lips make me lose my thoughts is that Rush just gave me a sunrise to remember too.
LENNOX
“WAS THAT TERRIBLE TOO?” RUSH asks as he reaches out for me and pulls me through the warm water of the jacuzzi until I’m almost sitting on his lap, my back to his front.
“Horrible,” I say. “A huge mistake.”
“You seem to keep making mistakes and having horrible sex with me.”
“Dreadful ones.” He chuckles and shifts me on his lap so he can kiss me.
I startle momentarily at how used to this I’m becoming.
This feels too much like a thing, like we’re a thing . . . and I’m not sure what to do about it.
“You okay?” he asks, his smile fading, and I nod. The irony is while I’m silently freaking out, I’m also secretly reveling in everything about this weekend and him.
The way he made me coffee in the morning so I’d sit with him while he had his cuppa, as he called it. How when we sit near each other, his hand always finds its way to me somehow—fingertips tracing up and down my spine, a hand on my thigh, a finger tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. How he knows nothing about baseball, and how adorable he is trying to figure out its rules.
So many things that make me want to push myself back. But I find myself snuggling in a little closer.
Like right now. He’s wrapped his arms around me and set his chin on my shoulder from behind.
“I’m fine. I’m just dreading going back to LA tomorrow,” I murmur as I stare at the lights out on the ocean—some sailor somewhere trying to get home to his family—while we soak up the last night of our stay here.
“So am I.” Rush’s fingertips play idly over my bare skin beneath the bubbles. There’s a comfortable ease to us here that I’m going to miss when we go back to Johnny’s and remember that we’re not supposed to be together. And as if on cue, he asks, “Is there a reason you haven’t asked me to switch over to KSM and let you represent me?”
“Several, but the main one is that I’m not working right now, and therefore I don’t want to talk about work.”
“I can respect that, but I also think we need to talk about it at some point.”
I take his hand in between both of mine and play with his fingers as I try to figure out my next words to say. “Are we going to ignore that I’ve done a lot of talking this weekend and you haven’t done much?”
“I’ve done plenty.” He chuckles. “I’ve called your name. I’ve called God several times.”
I turn so I can punch him playfully in the shoulder. “That’s not exactly what I mean.”
“Then what do you mean?”
“If I were to ever be your agent . . .” Shit. I twist my lips and try to figure out how to say what I need to say. “Look, I’m not a spill-your-heart-out kind of girl, Rush, and yet when it comes to you, I’ve spilled more than is normal for me. So—”
“So you’
re expecting tit for tat.”
“Not necessarily, but I don’t like feeling . . . exposed. Vulnerable. I guess that’s the best way to describe it.”
This is not working. I’m fumbling big time.
“And why’s that? How did I make you feel vulnerable?”
“There you go turning the conversation back on me again.”
“What is it you want to know?”
“Nothing. Everything. Something.”
He laughs. “Talk about giving me the third degree. I’ve told you. I come from a shit upbringing. No dad, Mum died, and then I got the scholarship at the academy at age fifteen, signed my first contract at sixteen.”
“All things I could have looked up and most likely found on the Internet.” I sigh. “If you lost your mom, then who were you with until you received the scholarship? Family?”
“No one.” His smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “When I mean times were tough, I mean times were really tough. I got by and did what I had to do until I got the scholarship.”
“Oh my God. Rush. I had no idea—”
“Look. I don’t need your pity. I had some luck on my side. I had a teammate’s family take me in. It all turned out in the end. It’s not worth talking about.”
“I’m not giving you pity. I’m just—”
“So, what is it you want to know?” he asks. This clearly makes him uncomfortable. “That I hate sushi, and tequila is the one alcoholic drink I refuse to touch? One bad night was enough for me with that shit. That I like loud music and started out knowing how to use my fists more than my feet? Or is it that I like my schedule and routine, and being here in the States makes me feel out of sorts, so while I’m enjoying my time here, I can’t wait to get back?” He lifts me from his lap and shrugs as he moves to the other side of the spa. “Is that good enough, because we all don’t have mums and dads and memories galore that form us. My memories are of training and then more training.”
“Or maybe it’s that I’m sharing your bed but you haven’t said a word about the Esme situation and whatever the hell happened to cause it.”
And in that split second, I know I made an egregious error by the immediate stiffening of his spine. So of course, I try to overcorrect. “It’s only natural for me to ask. I mean, don’t I—”
“Don’t you what? Have I asked you the names of the people who’ve occupied your bed, Lennox? Have I asked you for details about your sex life and how each man has come into it?”
“Rush—”
“I thought we were enjoying each other. I thought you knew the kind of man I was or else you wouldn’t have pursued this—whatever this is—with me.”
“That’s not what I meant. You took it all wrong,” I say, scrambling to fix the assumption he made. How he assumed I was asking about if he slept with Esme instead of . . . instead of . . . I’m not sure what I was asking other than I want him to confide in me what happened, who the photo is of. I want to feel like he trusts me as much as I’ve blindly put my trust in him.
But before I can get the words out, he speaks. “I should have guessed.” His sigh that follows is like a dagger in my chest.
“Figured what?” I ask, immediately on the defensive.
“Is that what this was all about? You. Me. This?” he asks throwing his hands up.
“What are you—” And then I realize what he’s asking, and I’m dumbfounded by it. “You think I’m sleeping with you because I want answers? For what, Rush? You think I’m being paid by Seth or LFC or someone to get the truth out of you? Then what? I’m going to sell the sordid story to the tabloids and make money off it?” I climb out of the spa, pissed at the insinuation, and turn to face him. “I can make my own money, Rush. I don’t need to make it off selling athletes’ stories, so screw you for even implying it.”
“That’s not what I was saying.”
“Isn’t it?” I shout. “Maybe you’re so used to people fucking you over that you don’t know what it looks like when someone is actually trying to help.”
“Help with what though?” he asks in too calm a voice. “The last thing I need is someone I’m sleeping with to hold my hand, Lennox. I’ve got plenty of people for that. You’re—” He runs his hand through his hair and mutters an obscenity. “Never mind.”
“I’m what?” I ask, heart in my throat, as I wonder if I’m going to like or loathe the answer he gives me.
“You’re the one person I feel like I can be myself with. The one person who . . .” His sigh is so heavy it drowns out the waves. “I’m doing what I have to do. Okay?”
“For who, Rush? Who are you doing it for, because it sure as shit isn’t for you? Quit hiding behind some stupid club gag order and just tell me the truth.”
“No,” he says unequivocally.
“Don’t you trust me?” It’s the worst question I could ever ask given the expression in his eyes.
“I don’t trust anyone.”
“What a sad way to live,” I say reflexively and see the slightest wince, before his guard goes back up.
“Now you’re insulting who I am?” The words come out in a laugh.
“No. I just . . . is it so wrong to want to help you? Is it such a bad thing to see you suffering for something I don’t think you did and for the fucking life of me, I can’t understand why?” I throw my hands up.
“It’s none of your business.”
“Got it. So I’m good enough to fuck, but not good enough to open up to. Perfect. Classy.”
He pinches the bridge of his nose and rolls his shoulder. “Those are your words, not mine.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Why can’t he tell me?
Why can’t he see I’m more than a pretty face? Trust in me. Why am I not even enough for his truth?
I need him to be the good guy I think he is instead of this asshole who’s standing before me trying to pick a fight.
“So you want people to believe you’re fucking her with no remorse. Good to know.” I start to walk away when the low, frustrated grit of his voice rings out.
“I’ve slept around my share, Lennox. Even done some things I’m not proud of, but I’d never sleep with a married woman, let alone a teammate’s wife.”
I turn to face him and when our gazes meet, his eyes are burning with emotion that is all but boiling over. “Then explain the picture to me, Rush. Tell me how the hell there’s photographic evidence that you did.”
“Why does it matter?”
We stare in silence as the cool breeze chills my wet skin. His honesty equally hurts and fortifies my heart.
“I don’t understand. If that image isn’t what it looks like it is, then why in the fuck are you silent about it? Why the hell—”
“Drop it,” he demands. “Can you please just drop it?” This time his voice is softer, almost begging, and my last thought before I turn to walk away and do as he asks, is that there’s a whole host of pain in his eyes.
I wish he trusted me enough to let me know what it is.
Maybe I could help.
Or maybe I could sit by silently and hold his hand to let the man, who thinks he doesn’t need anyone, know that someone is there.
Because I want to be that person. He said he doesn’t trust anyone, but I want him to trust me. And honestly, I want to trust him too.
Because I’m slowly beginning to need him.
RUSH
I WATCH HER SLEEP.
She’s lying across the bed. The sheets have fallen around her so they’re positioned just below the swell of her breast, and one hand is resting on top of her heart. Shadows from the moon outside play across her face, and her hair is fanned out on the pillow beneath her.
Jesus.
My chest constricts as I try to figure out why the fuck there is a heavy lump in my throat.
We fought, I had every intention of setting her straight, end of story.
And yet it isn’t.
Far from it. She asked a simple question she deserves an answer to. A simple question that I w
ould want to know if I were in her shoes.
What exactly is this between the two of us? Before Lennox, a question like that would have had me cutting my losses and moving on.
Isn’t that why I slipped, though? Am I hoping she’ll hold out until she realizes she’s right? That I really am the man she thinks I am?
But I didn’t chase, I didn’t give her the answers she wanted, and I didn’t give her the man she deserves.
Instead, I sat downstairs with a beer in my hand feeling like shit when every part of me wanted to come up here and tell her my story from beginning to end. The starved boy chasing a dream. The man who stepped in, giving him the chance at the academy, to the cashed-in IOU . . . and the necessity to ride this thing out for Rory’s health. For my brother’s future. Because he never gave up on me.
I want her to know that I’m protecting others, that I am the man she thinks I am . . . and not the selfish bastard everyone thinks I am.
I stare at her and panic hits.
Wouldn’t it be easier to walk away, chalk us up to some stellar sex, and then blame our demise on the moment being ruined? But standing here watching the rise and fall of her chest, all I want to do is slide into bed beside her and hold the fuck on.
Lennox quiets the shouting in my head. She placates the rebellion that fights from within. She makes me wish I’d never agreed to this thing with Rory so that there didn’t have to be lies and secrets between us.
There’s something about the way she looks at me, the way she treats me. As if I’m Rush McKenzie the man, instead of the football phenomenon everyone else fixates on.
But how can she know me? How can she get me like she does when all we’re supposed to be is a quick fling to help pass the time?
I sit on the bed and face her, my fingers reaching out to brush a piece of hair off her face, to touch her a necessity.
Just a fling, huh?
She stirs, those eyes of hers flutter open, and she immediately turns her cheek into my hand as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Almost as if there’s an instinctive trust in me.