Blindsided

by Shey Stahl

  Truth is, I love him, and it’s killing me that I can’t have him.

  It’s killing me that he said those things to me, even if it was out of anger for the way he’d be portrayed by the tabloids and everyone else waiting for him to fail.

  It’s killing me that he wants me to forgive him, but I’m too fucking stubborn to do it.

  I knew when I slept with him that if anything were to happen between us, I would give myself to him and there would be no coming back from it. Still, like a goddamn idiot, I did it, and it did end badly.

  “Em,” Cat says. “Are you all right?”

  My eyes drift to the painting, and though to anyone else, it’s just a blend of colors and vaguely resembles a quarterback midthrow. To me… when I look at that blend of colors, I see him staring at me, I feel his burning gaze on my lips. Wildfire spreads through my veins, and I sense that hot and raw way his eyes on my body affects me. It’s fucklust. By the way, I love that word. Who doesn’t? It mean an insatiable sexual desire to fuck the hell out of that certain special someone you think about all the time.

  Even when you’re mad at them.

  I studied French for a short time. I learned one thing. In French, you don’t say, “I miss you.” You say, “Tu me manques.”

  It means, “You are missing from me.”

  #truth

  Sighing, the sharp pain in my chest refuses to ease. “I’m fine. Totally fucking fine.”

  “I think you’re lying. You love him and you’re pissed off that he was an asshole.”

  “I am, but it doesn’t change anything,” I admit. It doesn’t change the fact that he was my friend, that he became more than a friend the first night we met. That no matter what, we can’t work.

  “What makes you think it can’t work?” Cat asks.

  “Because after everything he said to me... in all the years I’ve worked for him, I never felt like I was his employee. I was his friend, along for this crazy ride with him, until then. Until he made me feel like I was anything but his friend.”

  “He was scared.”

  “I know.”

  “Do you though?”

  I let out a dry laugh. “I do, but it doesn’t stop the fact it made me realize I wasn’t living my life. I was living his. My entire life became about taking care of Landon.”

  “You mean me, too, don’t you?” she asks, her face falling.

  I can’t lie to her. “Yes.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” I tell her. “You didn’t ask for this life. It’s something you’ve been dealt.”

  “Do you think he asked for this?”

  She’s right. He didn’t. At least, not the kids. He wanted to be a star football player, but raising kids, that wasn’t something he planned. It usually never is.

  Reaching for her birthday swag bag, Cat pulls out a princess crown and places it on her head full of dreads. “Forgive him. He’s dumb and miserable.” And then she points to the painting. “How do you do that? Make it look like him, but not at all?”

  “I start with an idea and remove all traces of reality.” I look at the painting. Art helps you express yourself by understanding and escaping. There’s no beginning to it, there’s no end. It’s being helpless, abandoned, and lost in forgiveness.

  If only the heart and your pride worked the same way.

  In the grasp – When a play is ended by an official because the quarterback is being held by a defender and in the official’s opinion the quarterback is no longer attempting to complete the play. This call is to protect a quarterback from getting unnecessarily slammed to the ground.

  That game in Miami, I play like absolute horseshit. And I hear it from coaches, the media, other players, just more people disappointed in me. I can’t seem to make anyone happy these days. Aside from Nalani. She loves me. And Adler.

  Who doesn’t love me, as if she ever did, is Alessa. You thought I was going to say Ember, didn’t you?

  She doesn’t love me either, but here’s where things took another turn into the shitter. That game in Miami where I ran into Alessa at dinner with the guys. Photographs were conveniently taken like we were there together and it wasn’t at all what it looked like.

  Here, take a peek at it and you tell me your take. A bunch of the offensive line went out to dinner. Where isn’t important and I’m not sure I remember anyway. Admittedly, I’d had a couple drinks with the team by that point. But look, right there while I’m by the bar with Quinn and Kumonde.

  “I’m not sure if you need Jesus or whiskey,” Kumonde says to Quinn, or me, I’m not sure, but I remember him saying that to one of us right before things got worse.

  Wait, no, rewind just a frame or two. It happens as we’re walking up to the bar and Alessa is walking away. Our paths cross and her arms find their way around my neck. I cringe because I’m not a hugger, and Alessa is the last person I need to be hugging.

  A funny thing happens in that moment we’re embraced for the briefest of moments. I think of Ember and how when my arms are around her, everything in the world feels right. When my body is next to Alessa, it’s as though there’s a storm raging inside my head and I can’t decipher one thought from the next. It’s all confusion.

  “Miss me?” she whispers in my ear.

  And then someone takes a photograph to our left.

  I draw back, almost immediately. “Nope.”

  “You will.”

  She leaves, I head to the bar. All is good, right?

  Ha. Not a fucking chance. The media got a hold of that photograph, or Alessa planned that, I don’t know. Whatever the reason, it certainly didn’t stop TMZ from making it out to be more. Next to a photograph of me, Alessa and Ember and on the other side were the words: ONLY I CAN MAKE HIM HAPPY!

  Oh, and my personal favorite: KIDS DESTROYED BY LC

  You sense my sarcasm by the favorite part, right?

  You should, because I’m fucking pissed when I read that. How could they bring the kids into this? Easy. I’m a public figure and it doesn’t matter what I say or do, or hell, think, it doesn’t matter. My life will forever be criticized by the media.

  And the picture they took of the kids together? When I was at the park with them, covered in vomit and not wearing a shirt. Fuckers. I hate the goddamn paparazzi. They take everything out of context.

  With security working overtime and the kids pretty much not let out of Kasen and the bodyguards’ sight, I have one very unhappy hormonal teenager and a pair of cranky twins. The little ones are too small to understand what being caged in is like, but it’s rare those two aren’t smiling.

  But you don’t care about all that, do you? You probably want to know what’s up with Ember and me. Or maybe it’s just me trying to find meaning in it.

  Listen, I know I was a complete asshole. You don’t need to remind me over and over again. That’s just rude.

  Now, if I thought fan appreciation day overwhelmed me, I clearly wasn’t prepared for a child’s birthday party. Do you notice how uncomfortable I look? And out of place. Amongst ten-year-olds, I look like a goddamn giant.

  By the way, I hate having this many people at my house. I didn’t even throw parties growing up—everyone was afraid of Oma anyway—but it wasn’t from my fear of her. Okay, maybe a little bit, but I don’t like a lot of people around. It makes me claustrophobic.

  And now my backyard is teeming with people I don’t know. It’s miserable. Forget the fact that it’s a sunny fall evening—the only time I could fit a birthday party into my schedule—which, by the way, I was told through text messages from Ember I would be hosting and I wouldn’t complain. She can’t respond to my heart-breaking I’ll-do-all-the-groveling-in-the-world text messages, but she’s still bossing me around.

  It’s fucking hot.

  In fact, take a look at her today. She’s wearing tight black pants. I suppose they’re probably those legging-looking things that are easy to slip off. I love that it shows off her amazing ass and to top it of
f, she’s wearing a long burgundy-colored shirt that clings to her ass and outlines every gorgeous curve, movement… fuck. Not the time to be thinking about this.

  With a plate full of cupcakes, Ember rushes past me, and you’re probably not surprised by this, but she ignores me completely. Naturally. What the fuck do I matter? I’m only her best friend, boss in some ways, and if we’re being honest, yeah, I fucking consider her my girlfriend. Might be presumptuous of me, but hello, don’t you remember the last few weeks of the fuck hot sex? I do. I miss those days, as does my dick.

  “Move on, dude,” Quinn tells me, noticing me watching her. “It’s just pussy.” Quinn and Kumonde got an earful of my problems on the flight to Miami the other day and yet still, they’re not offering me any good advice. At least Quinn isn’t, but I should learn not to trust his swipe-right Tinder ass.

  Just so you’re aware, I’m holding Nalani. She stares at Quinn, her brow furrowed. I’m almost certain she doesn’t understand what he’s saying, but I guess you never know. Her next word could be pussy for all I know.

  Setting her down, she walks away from me, following Ember and the cupcake tray.

  That’s when I think about what Quinn said. It’s just pussy. It’s not though. It never was with her. “Move on? How? She’s been the one constant in my life for the last five years. How can I just move on from that?”

  Quinn rolls his eyes, lifting the beer in his hand to his lips. “You’re puttin’ too much weight on it. Tap it and cap it.”

  If it were any other woman, I would have listened to Quinn. But Ember isn’t just any other woman. She’s not the rule. She’s the exception. She’s the one you lay it all on the line for in the final play, even if it means risking injury.

  Quinn leaves, finding interest in one of the mothers lingering in the backyard. And there’s certainly a lot of them.

  Kasen approaches me, setting Haisley down off his back. “Um, what’s with this guy demonstrating the paint ball guns?”

  I look around the backyard. “What guy?”

  “Hank.” He gestures with a flick of his hand toward a guy sitting in a lounge chair near the pool holding a rag to his face. “He’s apparently the owner of Ballers.”

  “The company is called Ballers?”

  “Yep.”

  “Classy.” You know I roll my eyes on that one. “It’s a paintball gun. Don’t they already know how to use them?” Before you go thinking it was my idea to have a paintball gun party with a group of ten-year-olds, you might be surprised to learn it wasn’t. It was Adler’s. “What is he holding to his face?”

  With a slow shake of his head, Kasen laughs under his breath. “He shot himself in the eye with the paintball gun.”

  “Are you serious? Is he still alive?”

  “Sadly, yes.” Kasen laughs. “He was wearing safety glasses at least.”

  I’m not at all surprised by that. If you saw the guy, you’d totally understand how it was possible. I stare at him for a moment. Have you seen the movie Old School? You remember the character played by Sean William Scott? I think his name was Peppers. Anyway, he reminds me of him. Only, instead of Will Farrell shooting himself with the tranquilizer—for the sake of making any goddamn sense to you—Peppers shot himself. He even has a slight resemblance with the mullet and creeper mustache.

  In my head, I keep repeating that line in the movie: “If any of these fuckers freak out on the kids, I get to take them down.”

  Looks like Peppers took himself out. “What was the purpose of that?”

  Kasen runs his hand over his face, sighing. “I think to show the kids what not to do?”

  “Don’t let him near the children.” Ember rushes by again, along with Cat, and I notice Kasen’s eyes hang on Cat longer than usual. I don’t know what their deal is, but I have my own shit going on. It’s not like I need to worry about what is or isn’t going on with the nanny and Cat.

  “I thought this was a drop off your kid kind of thing.”

  “I thought so too.”

  Haisley pushes against my leg with her hand. “Uncle?”

  I look down at her pink cheeks and cute pigtails. “Yeah?”

  “B’s sad.”

  “Huh?”

  Rolling her eyes, she points to her sister near the pool and appetizer table. “B. She’s sad today. It’s her birthday and you can’t be sad on your birthday. Do somethin’.”

  What the fuck am I going to do? Offer her a pony? I don’t even like Twitch. Still in disbelief we now have a cat who can’t walk in a straight line and growls like a dog, I can’t imagine what having a pony around would be like.

  My eyes catch Braylee in the distance sitting in a chair by herself. She’s not playing her video games or even remotely interested in anything around her.

  I think I’ve told you this before, but I don’t know much about Braylee. She’s the quiet one of the five and honestly, she reminds me of Revel in a lot of ways. While I was always taking shit—much like Adler—and getting into fights at school, Revel was the quiet brooding one, always into his music. And I don’t know about Grant. By the time I was old enough to understand him, he was out of the house. With the seven-year age difference, I never had a chance to get to know him.

  Making my way over to Braylee, I grab a handful of Skittles off the table as a peace offering. Braylee declines them with a shake of her head. “What’s with the sad face?”

  “These kids aren’t our friends. Adler thinks they are, but we don’t have friends here. I miss Texas.”

  Her words are a dagger to my heart—my already beaten heart. These kids gave up their home and lives in Texas, and not once did I ever think about the implications that would have caused for them. I didn’t think about anyone but myself in all this. My stare drifts to Adler in the distance, kids surrounding him and the paintball gun in his hand. They’re thoroughly engrossed in everything he’s saying, but she’s right. It’s hard to tell if these kids are his friends or just here because of whose house it is.

  I bump my shoulder to hers. “What will cheer you up? You have a paintball gun. Shoot someone.”

  There’s a spark of interest in her eyes as she sits forward. “Who?”

  “I suggest Quinn.”

  An intentional attack on Quinn occurs and you know, it might be a few weeks before he’s swiping right on Tinder for a while. As the party kicks off and the real paintball fight between the kids go down, I slightly regret the idea of said paintball fight because I’m soaked in color—wearing a white jumpsuit—and standing in front of Ember breathing heavily. Not because I’m nervous—though I sort of am—but because I just bullied my way for a win against a group of ten-year-olds.

  “It’s their birthday. You could have let them win,” Ember notes, pushing her hair from her face. Look at her, bathed in sunlight, patches of red, blue, and yellow on her cheeks. I’ve never seen her look so beautiful.

  “I don’t have it in me to let anyone win. Winning is earned.”

  “And what makes you think you earned it?”

  “Because I gave it everything I had.” Once the words slip past my lips, Ember’s expression is unreadable. I’m not sure I earned anything with her, but in my defense, I gave it everything I had. I just fucked it up in the process.

  Reaching up, I brush a strand of hair from her face. I see her like I did the day we met—a beautiful array of light, colors, love, and fear. She’s a canvas, the space around her heart painted by others who have destroyed her over the years. While some painted off the canvas and onto the walls of her carefully guarded heart, others dared to paint over her, their strokes creating texture and rigid lines over art that should have remained pure, undefined and unbroken. I was one of the ones who painted over her, recklessly disregarding her meaning before I stumbled over the masterpiece that’s her.

  Standing next to her, there’s a constant ever-present connection between us. It’s like a live-wire of warmth and familiarity. Just as I’m about to say something to her, one of the m
oms walks by, her hand on my shoulder. “Thanks for inviting Aubrey and me.”

  Her? I didn’t invite anyone. My eyes drift to her hand on my shoulder, then her face and the child at her feet. A cute little blonde girl who looks just as thrilled as her mother to be here. “You’re welcome.” I shift away from her, toward Ember, but then she reaches for my hand, shaking it.

  “It was a pleasure meeting you.”

  In the distance, I catch Quinn watching me, smiling. Fucker.

  “Yeah, you, too.” My eyes drift to the child at her feet, bursts of red and blue paint splattered in her hair. “Did you have a good time?”

  She nods eagerly. “Yep. Best party ever!”

  When the child and her mother walk away, I turn back to Ember who’s surprisingly still standing there.

  “You’re a sexy hot pot when you’re jealous.”

  Her eyes open slowly, blinking up at me. Her eyes lock on mine and it’s like she’s stealing my breath at the same time. There’s a shadow of annoyance in her features. “Okay, for one, I’m not jealous. Two,” she even holds up two fingers, “a hot pot isn’t a thing.”

  “Just admit you’re jealous of these mamas checking me out.”

  She meets my gaze head on. “I am not.”

  “C’mon.” I nod cockily. “Admit it.”

  “I won’t.” And then she reaches up, clasps her arms around my neck and kisses me.

  Just kidding.

  She slaps me.

  I’m joking, again, but she might as well have drop kicked my balls because after all that, all the attempts I’ve been making to right the asshole I’d been, she walks away. So yeah, that fucking backfired.

  But I’m a man of commitment, or insanity, depending on how you want to look at it, so I follow her.

  “Ember….”

  “Not now.”

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Not. Now.”

  “Okay, so when? It’s been a fucking week and I can’t take it any longer.”

  “Why don’t you call up Alessa?” she snaps. “I’m sure she can help you out.”