“And Brent flies you out?”
“Yep. A college student’s salary is pretty terrible.”
“Tell me about it,” I reply in agreement. “What about your parents? Do they go to any of the games?”
“Sometimes. Mom is really busy with work, and Dad hates to get on a plane, but they’ve been to a few.”
A couple comes down the aisle, and we have to stand up to let them through to their seats. They’re a matching pair, wearing identical jerseys.
“How about when he was in Sweden?” I ask, settling back into the seat. “Did you go to any of those games?”
Cohen sits back and clasps his hands together. “None.”
“Not even once? He was there for such a long time.”
“Yeah”—he focuses on Brent running across the field—“he was.”
There’s something Cohen isn’t saying.
“Did you visit him at all?” I probe.
He exhales through his nose, tightening his lips. “No.”
“Not once in three years?”
Running his hand through his sandy hair, he resembles his older brother. Their mannerisms are so similar.
Cohen slumps slightly in his seat. “He went over there, and I didn’t see him at all. After he moved to Sweden, the first time I saw him was when he moved back to the States.”
“Really? Huh. He never visited you guys?”
“No.”
My focus returns to the field, following Brent as he dribbles the ball and sends it into the goal. He was over there and never came back, not even to see his family. I wonder if it was because he was so busy, but that doesn’t seem right. Not once in three years? That is such a long time to be away from family.
“Did you at least talk to him while he was there?” I ask, prying for more information.
“Did you?”
“A little,” I reply meekly, realizing I might have pushed a little too far. “Only the first month or so though. Then…we just kind of lost touch.”
He gauges my face, I’m not sure why, and then returns his focus to the field. “I guess he didn’t talk to anyone then.”
“Oh? You didn’t hear from him at all while he was over there?”
“He sent birthday cards and stuff, a few emails here and there, but I didn’t talk to him at all until right before he moved to California. He called me a few months before he came stateside.”
“Really?” This is all…strange. “Did he talk to your parents at all?”
“My dad a little, I guess. My mom went to see him once, too.”
“Maybe he was just really busy,” I offer in Brent’s defense even though I don’t believe the words crossing my lips.
“Yeah, right,” Cohen huffs. “I highly doubt that. Plus, you don’t need to protect him. It’s all good now.”
“Is it?”
“Sure.” He rubs his hands along his thighs. “Life’s too short to be angry forever. I’m sure he was just mad at my parents. Heck, I was pissed to all hell over the whole thing. I was probably just collateral damage.” He pauses. “Who gets divorced after twenty-five years of marriage?”
“I guess they do.” I shrug.
“They sure do. It really messed with my head. I started to wonder about what was real and what was a lie. That whole what does is all mean thing kind of takes over. I’m sure it did for Brent, too.”
“Yeah, I guess something like that would make you question everything.”
“Anyhow,” he says, tapping his knee, “it was a long time ago. No reason to dwell on it.”
We don’t say much more after that, and we turn our attention to the field. Brent and his teammates continue to run a few drills as the stands fill with people.
It’s getting close to starting time, and the players head to the sidelines, clearing the field. Brent is talking with a fellow teammate as he makes his way to where his team is gathering. Just before he’s out of view behind the wall dividing the fans from the players, he looks directly at Cohen and I. He smiles at me, and my hand instinctually rises in a half-timid wave. Then, he proceeds out of our sight.
“He told me how you guys met up again,” Cohen offers as a conversation topic over the growing noise of the crowd. “In Chicago where you work. Sounds kind of crazy.”
“Yeah, it was. He was just there out of nowhere. I’d thought he was still in Sweden.”
“And you just decided to come out here on a whim?”
My actions are difficult to explain because my reasoning can’t be confined or defined by words. There’s no way to rationalize that to anyone. While flying here so suddenly might not be right or commonsensical to some, I had to come.
My life, like many others, has been a series of hard and life changing decisions since I was old enough to make them, and I’ve always used logic and facts to make the best ones. But not this time. This was a decision beyond any reasoning of the mind, and it was made solely from the heart, a part of me that has been set aside for many years.
“I guess you could call it a whim,” I answer Cohen. “But…I don’t know. It doesn’t feel like one. It feels…different, like I’m…” I shake my head. “Never mind.”
He guffaws.
“What?” I ask, confused.
“Nothing.”
“What?” I ask again.
“You sound like him.”
“Who? Brent?”
“Yeah.” He laughs.
“How do I sound like him?”
He waves his hand, trying to close the discussion. “Brent would kill me.”
“What?” I nudge his shoulder.
He grins widely.
“Cohen!”
“No way.”
“Oh, c’mon! You can’t do that and then give me nothing. That’s not fair.”
Crickets.
“Cohen!”
“All right, Ruby!” he teases, loving that he has the upper hand. “All I’m going to say is that he’s turned into a bit of a dick since you last knew him. He’s my brother, so I shouldn’t talk about him like this, but even though we hang out and I see him now…well, he’s not exactly that much…fun anymore.”
“Oh. Really?” I shrug. “I’m sure I’m not the same either. We were both so much younger when I knew him back then.”
“That’s not what I meant. I’m saying, he’s kind of become a tight-ass, but when he told me you were coming…let’s just say, he’s stopped being such an asshole.”
I tilt my head, not sure what point Cohen is trying to make.
He adds, “This weekend is the first time I’ve seen him relax in a long time, maybe even since high school. He’s been acting…different.”
FOUR
Three and a half hours later, the game is over. Brent’s team won and is progressing to the next round on Thursday. For my first professional soccer game, I found it beyond riveting. I’ve only been to one other professional game in my life, and it was a Chicago football game a few years ago. It wasn’t nearly as fun as this. Then again, I didn’t have the enjoyment of watching Brent play on the field and assist with the team’s only goal, which happened to be the winning point for the match.
Cohen and I wait in our seats while the majority of the fans exit the stadium. He says there’s no reason to rush since we’ll be meeting Brent, and it could take him some time to wrap up. After most of the seats have cleared, we decide to head out.
Cohen leads the way up the steps and into the hall.
“Wait!” I half-shout as we come to one of the vendors near the exit.
Cohen stops and joins me, assessing the team merchandise. “You don’t need to buy any of this. Brent has a ton of this stuff at his place. I’m sure he’d just give you one.”
“Maybe.”
My hand goes to a cardboard box sitting at the edge of the counter. On the outside of the container in large print is the team name and Cromwell. Inside, behind the clear plastic, lies a figurine with Brent’s face…on a bobblehead.
“But does he have on
e of these?” I lift the object closer to his brother’s face.
Cohen cracks up. “Nope. That he does not. They must have just gotten those for the play-offs.”
“I’m so getting this.”
I pay the man for the mini-Brent toy, and Cohen and I continue walking through the halls to the place where we’re supposed to meet his brother. People are gathered around the locker room door, waiting for the team to exit. A group of women, heavily dressed in tight-fitting team attire, are obviously here as more than fans. Some of the players trickle out, greeting fans, family, and friends.
“Hey, Cohen,” a blonde waves in our direction as she passes by to meet her friends.
Cohen waves back, but he doesn’t say a word.
“Do you know her?” I ask. Yes, I’m wondering if Brent and her…
“Nope, not at all.”
“She knew your name though.”
“They all do.” He shuffles the hair on his head. “Groupies. Internet.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t worry.” He shoves his hands into his pockets.
I’ve seen Brent do a similar gesture when he’s contemplating.
“Remember that no-fun thing I was telling you about?” he adds.
“Yeah, I do.”
He gestures his chin toward the group of women. “Applies to them, too.”
“Really?” I say, not believing him.
“He’s nice, but he doesn’t go out with them. Not his scene.”
“Geez, Cohen.” I bump his hip. “No fun. No girls. A total dick. I’m sure he dates though.”
He quirks his brows, indicating the negative. “Not that I know of. If he does, he certainly hasn’t introduced me to anyone.”
“Well, maybe he’s just been too busy—”
“I was starting to wonder if he was gay.”
“I think I can safely say, he’s not.”
“Is that your way of telling me that my brother got some last weekend?”
My cheeks heat up.
“Stop. Don’t tell me.” He turns away and then looks down to his toes, trying not to laugh. “Guess that explains his good mood.”
“All right, enough!” I quip, embarrassed.
It’s not that Brent and I slept together last weekend, but this is not a topic of conversation to be having with Cohen.
About ten minutes have passed since we arrived at the locker room area when Brent finally comes out the door. He’s dressed casually in jeans, a button-up shirt, and an open jacket, and his dark hair is slightly damp, glistening a little from the artificial lights. He stops to talk with a few people asking for autographs, and he signs a couple of balls, notepads, and T-shirts. Then, he takes a few pictures with fans.
Out of the way and to the side, Cohen and I wait patiently until he’s finished.
Brent high-fives a little kid and then comes over to join us.
“Great game,” Cohen says.
“Thanks,” Brent replies, pulling his bag higher up on his shoulder.
“Yeah, it was really awesome,” I add.
“You enjoyed it?”
“Sure did.”
“She was yelling and screaming like a seasoned fan,” Cohen pipes in. “I had to tell her to sit down a few times.”
“It was that good, huh?”
“Thanks, Cohen,” I tease. “And yes, I loved it.”
“Why don’t you show him what you got?” Cohen says mischievously.
Tightening my grip on the bag in my hand, I sternly say, “No way.”
“What is it?” Brent insists, focused on the plastic bag swinging near my knee.
“Just a souvenir.”
He whips his head toward Cohen, knowing we’re keeping something from him. Cohen lifts his hands in a motion of surrender, and Brent tongues the inside of his cheek.
“Fine,” Brent says, resolved. He pulls out his phone, peers at the screen, and then shoves it back into his pocket. “Well, Cohen, we don’t have too much time before your flight. Guess we’d better get you to the airport.”
Brent takes my free hand in his, and we all walk together to the parking lot that is now filled with significantly less cars. Cohen pops the trunk and hands Brent his keys. He loads his bag, and we all get into the car. I sit in the back, allowing Brent to have some time with his brother before he leaves.
Cohen and Brent tease each other throughout the ride to the airport, but it’s easy to see that they’re enjoying one another’s company. If there was ever any tension between them in the past, it’s undetectable now. The highway is brightly lit, and I zone out for the majority of the drive, watching the sprawling city pass by. It doesn’t take too long before we’re pulling up to the curb for airport departures.
“Well, this is it,” Brent says, leaning down and pressing the button to pop the trunk before opening his door.
Cohen exits as well and I allow myself out of the car to say good-bye. After Cohen has retrieved his bag, slinging it over his shoulder, Brent shuts the trunk.
“I’ll be sure to have you out if we make it to the National Cup Finals,” Brent tells Cohen. “But if not, I’ll see you at Christmas.” He comes to stand next to me.
“We’re going to Dad’s this year, right?”
“Yep. Mom has plans with friends in Hawaii.”
“Sounds good.” Cohen opens his arms, and he and Brent exchange what I like to call a man hug. It’s the kind of hug where their arms might be around one another, but they’re trying really hard not to let their bodies touch. “See you soon.”
“Yep.” Brent pats him on the back. “Keep in touch.”
Cohen adjusts his stance and then swoops me up into a hug. It takes me by surprise, and I end up making a few awkward noises as I’m lifted off the concrete sidewalk.
“It was nice to see you, Ruby,” he says, lowering me to the ground. “Make sure to give my brother hell for me.”
“I sure will.” I back out of his arms and rejoin Brent.
“What is this?” Brent interjects. “Are you two ganging up on me?”
“Nah,” Cohen says. “We both love you.”
My heart hits my spine as Cohen includes me into the affection. Do I love Brent? Love comes in many levels and there’s no doubt that a part of me has always loved Brent. So, maybe Cohen is right, but I’m not sure to what degree.
“Have a good flight,” I tell Cohen.
“See you guys,” Cohen says with an uncanny smirk similar to his brother’s.
He tightens his grip on the strap of his bag and then turns to enter the airport, leaving Brent and me alone together.
FIVE
It’s nearly eleven by the time we reach Brent’s apartment. He opens the door, lets me inside, and then closes it softly, encasing us in the dimly lit space. Despite my desire to be here, alone with him, my anxiety is palpable. Anticipation buzzes in the darkness. A switch is flipped, and the overhead light floods the hallway, clearing away some of the nerves.
Brent sets his bag on the floor, and I stand aside, watching as he settles into his home. I’m unsure of what to do with myself.
“Are you tired?” he asks, hanging his jacket in the closet.
“No, not really.” Taking the cue from his waiting hand, I slip off mine as well, never letting my recent bobblehead purchase leave my possession, and hand it over. “I took a little nap before the game. How about you?”
“Not at all.” He shuts the closet door, reaches around my shoulder, and flicks on the light in the kitchen while turning off the light above us simultaneously. “So, what do you want to do now?”
Brent’s palms slowly drags across my shoulder, down my arm, and to my hand. Taking their time, his fingers note every curve and indentation of my body while his green-gray eyes are set on my brown ones.
“Not sure.” Like I can think when he’s touching me like this.
I relax my digits, and Brent swiftly swipes the bag from my hand.
“Hey,” I playfully screech, surprised. “That’s mine
.”
“So, what did you get?” he taunts, holding the bag in his outstretched arm, out of reach.
“None of your business.” I lunge, trying to reacquire the bag, but it’s no use.
Brent’s arms are too long, and I don’t even come close. With his other hand, he pins me by my shoulder to the wall. Most of his strength might be in his legs due to his career, but there’s no denying he’s solid and strong.
Holy shit! He’s way stronger than he used to be.
“So,” he drawls, “are you going to tell me what it is?”
“Brent…” I laugh as I reach for the bag once again, but I know it’s useless. “It’s a super secret, private, and very important piece of art.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes.” This time, I tickle his ribs, hoping it will cause him to bring his arm closer. It doesn’t.
His hand leaves my shoulder, grabs a hand attacking his sides, and pins it against the wall above my head.
“So…” he says again, trying to act serious.
I attempt to snatch his arm with my free hand. He jumps back and out of my reach.
“Do tell.”
His face is full of mischief, so I come up with another plan. Slowly, my hand floats into the space between us, landing deftly on his taut abs. His muscles contract, and his pupils dilate from my touch.
“If I tell you,” I seductively tease, dragging my finger lower toward his waistline, “will you give it back to me?”
His breaths quicken and catch the moment my hand reaches his belt buckle. His body remains stagnant while one hand holds my merchandise out to the side as the other presses my wrist to the wall. I lightly trace my fingers along his beltline.
“Yes,” he speaks evenly.
“It’s you.” My palm pushes up to his chest and over his shoulder.
Brent takes a step closer, and I run my hand down the length of his arm, almost reaching the item in question.
“Your bobblehead.”
He bends his elbow, allowing our fingers to meet, and he hands the bag over to me. I let my arm fall to my side and drop the bag of dispute near my feet.
“Now, was that so hard?” he questions.
Deciding Tomorrow Page 3