"Did your mom bring you to any of these festivals?"
Yet another topic we hadn't broached yet, but I guess Leah was feeling talkative today. "No, I didn't grow up here. I lived in Tottenham, it’s about an hour outside of the city."
"And what do your mother and father do?" She sat on a bench overlooking the Thames, signaling for me to sit down.
I sighed, thinking I needed about three more chocolate beers to have this conversation.
"My mum raised me on her own, she was a night shift nurse and worked a diner job during the day. I never met my father."
Her pale hair blew in the wind and I caught the vanilla and citrus scent in the air. She looked picturesque on this bench, such a casual outfit, no makeup. She was breathtaking even now.
"Do you see your mom a lot?"
I huffed, annoyed with the 20 questions. "Jeez, Leah, I was having a nice day. Do we really need to do this interrogation now?"
I saw her chewing on her lower lip. "Fine. I just wanted to know a little bit more about your life, where you come from, that kind of stuff. Besides being a sex god who likes exotic food and can kick things well, I don't know all that much about you Killian."
She had a point. I didn't open up about my past. To anyone. But for her, I would try.
"Alright. I grew up in Tottenham with my single mother. Times weren't great, it was a rough neighborhood, and I was plucked up by the football gods at age nine. I moved to Central London, went through puberty and much of my teen years in an academy for prospective players, and then I signed my contract and have been playing ever since."
Leah turned, her green orbs burring holes in me. "That's just a brief description, a resume highlight. Tell me the connections, Killian. What about your mom, are you close now?"
"I bought my mom a house, got her out of the ghetto and I call her on Christmas."
She threw her hands up in an exasperated gesture. "That's it? She's your mom for goodness sake!"
"I don't know what to tell you, Leah. We were never close, not even when I lived with her. To be honest, I think she resented me for causing her so much struggle. I took care of her, because yes, she is my mother. But we don't feel the need to connect and bond. Some families just aren't like yours, Leah."
It was so American of her to try and analyze and therapy these feelings.
"So that’s it? You just have never had a family?"
Her question sent a pang of grief and agony through my body. I hadn't mentioned Eve to her. And I wasn't going to now. Of course I had had a family. At one point in my life, I was so ready to be the picture perfect unit that she'd described when talking about her own relatives.
"Nope, never." I felt the lie sting all the way up my throat before making its way to her ears. "Now can we talk about something else? Or better yet, I'm going to buy some of that hazelnut chocolate sauce. I have an idea that involves your naked body and my white bed sheets."
18
Leah
The first Saturday in April marked one of the biggest matches for Windingham. All the way to the stadium fans lined the streets in their gear, shouting and guzzling beers out in the open. You could do that here in Europe.
As the car pulled closer to Cafsham Stadium, I saw Krow Villa colors start to appear on the sidewalks, or pavement as they called it here. And I also saw fights. Burly drunk men getting into it, women openly shouting at each other in the streets.
I'd done my homework, I knew the rivalry that existed between these two teams. It wasn't unlike the rivalry that Oklahoma and Texas had in the Red River Shootout each year. We would get so pumped up for those games, and even the scrimmage between the ROTC legions for both schools.
There was blood in this rivalry though. Broken bones out on the field and between fans. And a decade ago, when a Krow Villa fan had murdered a Windingham fan after Krow had lost 3-1. It was gruesome and the worst part of sports, and I could tell it was getting to Killian.
Or more likely, Roman Judarsky was getting to Killian. I researched each club before his games, wanting to know more about the sport he played and more about how I could better do my job. And as I was looking up Krow, I stumbled across Judarsky's name. And then I remembered, that question the first reporter had asked him on the red carpet.
Killian had gotten a yellow card in the game prior to that event, for shoving Judarsky down when the ball was nowhere near them. I went back and watch the clip, seeing Judarsky clearly trash-talking Killian before he pushed him.
I asked Jimmy about it, no way was I bringing this up to Killian, and he said the two had history. They'd come up in Windingham's academy together, were constantly battling for the top spot. When Windingham traded Judarsky away for money and instead signed Killian, the rivalry really began.
I had anxiety up until the players took the field, and still the pesky gnats in my stomach wouldn't subside even as Killian raced around the grassy rectangle.
The game was going well, all signs of the tension Killian had held prior all but vanishing. He was on fire out there, lapping the field and his competitors as he sunk two balls into the back of the net within five minutes of each other.
As he pumped his fist, kissing the badge on his jersey and pointing to the fan section, Roman Judarsky trotted up alongside of him. I saw his mouth moving, an evil look directed right at Killian.
The game continued on, but Killian froze, standing stock still in the middle of the field as Judarsky sneered at him. And then he swung.
Killian cocked him cold in the face, Judarsky's body lurching unnaturally to the side as blood shot out of his mouth before he crumpled to the ground. The crowd gave a collective gasp, and all of the other players turned to watch the video screens, not knowing what had just happened.
But Killian just kept swinging his fists, climbing on top of Roman and pummeling his face so hard with such blind rage in his eyes that I immediately stood in my seat.
I had to get to him. Whatever was happening, I knew I could make it stop. I just had to get down on that field.
"Where do you think you're going?" I barely heard Jimmy's question as I started to run down the concrete steps.
The security guard manning the barricade in front of our section caught me around the waist as I tried to run out onto the pitch.
"Killian!" My voice was a blood curdling scream as I tried to wriggle out of the guard’s hold. Killian never looked up, just went on beating Judarsky bloody. "Killian, please!"
I broke free, turning the other way and sprinting through the stadium’s maze of hallways. I wound down into the bowels of the building to where I might be able to get to the locker room and exit through the tunnel.
My mind raced as I ran. What would this do to him? To his career? Finally I made it to the player’s tunnel and ran to the entrance to the pitch.
“KILLIAN!” My voice was closer now, it must have registered in his brain because the fist above his head finally halted, his fury-filled eyes still pinned on Judarsky. The other man tried to roll over, spitting up blood while Killian held him down.
Olivier ran to Killian, hooking his arms around his shoulders and pulling him up. He then started to drag Killian away, all the while the Krow Villa fans reigning boos and obscenities down on his head. I waited for them, following them into the locker room as Olivier dragged him into the tunnel.
"Get a grip, Ramsey!" Olivier was shouting at him as he dumped him onto the bench in front of his locker cubby.
Killian's fists were balled so tight they were turning white, save for Judarsky's blood dripping down them. Olivier was rubbing the back of his own neck furiously, frantically trying to decide what to do with his friend who had just gone nuclear. I stood back, unsure of what to say or do. Killian looked absolutely lethal. I had seen him with a dominating look on his face, when he was on the field, when he would control me in the bedroom. I had seen with that cocky, snide attitude when we'd first met. This was different. He had nothing short of murder in his eyes.
"What th
e bloody hell was that about?!" Olivier finally turned to him, throwing his still-gloved hands in the air.
"He started in about Eve again." Killian's voice was unrecognizable, a monotone sound without emotion. He focused on a spot on the floor, never moving an inch of his body.
I didn't even know what he was talking about and he was scaring me.
"Jesus, Kill...I told you to ignore that Italian piece of shit. It doesn't matter what he says!" Olivier knelt down by him.
"I tried. But then he started talking about the...the rope around her neck. That she just couldn't stand to be with my pathetic ass anymore...that killing herself was the only option. That I should be relieved she's dead so I can stop disappointing her."
Olivier grabbed the nearest item, a shin guard it looked like, and blasted it across the room. "That filthy piece of shit! I will kill him."
My insides had gone numb. I had no idea who Eve was or what she meant to Killian...but he was talking about suicide. Roman Judarsky had been mocking him about suicide.
"Calm down. I will make a statement to the press, he won't get away with this. You shouldn't have attacked him, but it was unprovoked." I was trying to think rationally, even if I was the only one in the room doing so. "Now who is Eve, so I can go prepare some remarks? I’ll fix this, Killian, I promise."
Olivier turned to me, confusion and something else unreadable in his expression. "Eve was his wife." Turning to Killian, he asked, "You never told her?"
His wife.
Killian had been married. And she'd died. No, she'd committed suicide.
There were so many emotions going through my body that I couldn't even process it. Sadness and empathy for Killian. Nausea and fury for his hidden lie. Heartbreak and grief for myself.
A cold chill started at the base of my spine, rolling up through the vertebrae so that when it reached the top of my scalp I shivered. I thought I might be sick, but at the same time was blinking back the tears threatening to fall fat and heavy on my cheeks.
Killian finally looked up, a deadness tinging his eyes as he met mine that made me want to shake him profusely.
"I'll just give you a minute..." Olivier said quietly as he walked out of the locker room.
I stood immobile about five feet from where Killian sat, the air heavy with tension and anguish. "You...you had a wife?"
"Yes."
The simple and quick answer shocked me, although I know it shouldn't. Olivier had just told me that.
"And she died...sh...she took her own life?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"Five years ago."
It struck me that at the same time in my life that I was first falling in love, coming into my own as a woman, Killian's world was being obliterated.
"I'm...I'm sorry Killian." And I was. I could feel his suffering blanketing the entire room, hell the entire stadium. I wanted so badly to make it go away. But at the same time, I couldn't help but be furious. He had lied when I'd asked him about his family.
"Why?" The word came out of my mouth before I could stop it, so small and fragile that I was unsure if he'd actually heard it.
Killian scoffed. "Jeez, you really didn't Google me or anything, did you? You must not be as great of a publicist as I thought. You didn't want to see all of the theories on why Eve Ramsey hung herself? Maybe I was cheating, maybe she couldn't take my lifestyle anymore. Maybe I really was abusing her."
I stayed silent, digging my nails into the flesh of my palms so hard that I thought I would draw blood.
"ALL SUCH FUCKING LIES!" He roared, before grabbing the extra stool in his locker and launching it across the room. I had to dash aside it was headed right in my direction. The wood object smashed against the wall, splintering and skittering onto the floor.
I could feel the salty tears pouring down my face now. I had never been afraid of Killian. Not really. Not until right now.
"She miscarried. We were in the fifth month, so excited about making a family. Neither of us had ever really had one. I was going to be a father. We'd just gotten home from picking out a few things for the nursery. I'd even bought these tiny cleats that had been hanging on the rack next to the register. How perfect, right? And then all of a sudden she said my name, fuck I'll never forget her voice when she said my name that day. And then there was blood. Blood, everywhere. On my clothes and hands. Swimming in blood on the tile of our entryway."
His voice was barely above a whisper as he recounted the horrific tragedy.
"The baby was gone. We were...we were so devastated. But Eve, there was something wrong with her. She wouldn't get out of bed. For months she wouldn't move. She wouldn't eat, god she lost so much weight. She had no will to live. And then one day I came home...it was a sunny Tuesday in September. And I found her hanging from the shower rod."
Killian started to silently weep into his hands, grounding the heels of them into his eyes. I couldn't move, I didn't know what to do. This man...I didn't know him. He was so broken, so vastly different than the person I saw when I looked at that body, that face.
He didn't want me, he wanted Eve. I saw it now, this shadow and weight he carried around with him always. I hadn't been able to place it before, but it all made sense now.
I dried my eyes. "I'm going to address the media. I'll fix this."
And I turned on my heel and left him to grieve alone.
19
Killian
I had been stuck on the second stage of grief since Eve died five years ago.
Denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance.
They say those are the healthy, natural steps to take when someone close to you leaves this earth. What they don't tell you, and what no one can understand unless it has happened to them, is that when your loved one takes their own life, those steps fly out the window.
People who commit suicide? Their death hits you like a battle tank. It’s worse than regular old death, because there was absolutely nothing physically wrong with them. It wasn't a freak accident, there was no resolution or taking the perpetrator to court. My loved one CHOSE to die. That was what made it a million times worse.
For me, there was no way I could deny it. I'd pried her cold, lifeless form from our shower and sat with her head in my hands for hours before I had the strength to get up and call the police. And then I'd gotten angry, and stayed that way.
Why the hell would she do this? Why would she leave me alone? Why hadn't she told me how horrible she'd been feeling? I knew she'd been sick with her own grief, but Jesus, I hadn't known she was going to do that.
I had been swamped with my own grief as well, over the death of our baby, for that entire summer.
Eve and I had met at a coffee shop near the stadium when I was 22. By 23 we were married, the year we turned 24 she was pregnant, and by 25, she was dead. I'd loved her fiercely, with a passion that couldn't be extinguished, even in her passing. She was so full of life, her vibrant energy could be felt everywhere. Eve was always that person surrounded by a crowd at a party, telling a funny joke or story. She was the woman who volunteered her time at a local battered women's shelter even though it meant she got up at 6 a.m. each day to serve the breakfast rush. She was the woman who first captured my heart, showed me what love could really feel like. On the day of our wedding, I remember pulling her aside and whispering in her ear that I meant it when I said I'd cherish her until death did us part.
And we had parted. I only had three beautiful years with her and then she was gone.
I'd blamed myself, been angry with her, thrown tantrums, fallen in with the wrong crowd, spent obscene amounts of money, etc. All of the textbook descriptions of someone who is grieving, yeah that was me.
But I think Judarsky's bullying sent me straight into the fourth stage. Depression.
I hadn't left the house in a week. I hadn't even bothered to go to practice, because who knew if I was even allowed to play professional football anymore. I'd ignored Jimmy when he'd tried to come in, instead se
nding him away and telling him not to come back. The same with Olivier. Even Reese reached out via text, and I'd ignored them all.
And Leah. Well, she hadn't even tried to reach out. Part of me was bloody happy about that. I wanted to remain in my cone of depression all alone. But part of me knew she was hurt. I had lied to her, even if it was a lie of omission. I'd purposely not told her about Eve, not told her about my past. And she'd been so up front with hers.
I'd watched what she'd said to the media at the post-game press conference the one time I'd bothered to turn on the TV. Leah was probably single-handedly responsible for saving what was left of my career. She'd let the press know, without going into much detail, that Judarsky had attacked the sensitive subject of my late wife, and that he'd bullied and provoked me. I hadn't checked out the stories online to see if the media had a positive or negative reaction to that.
I hadn't gone to her, hadn't reached out. And even though my mind was squarely on Eve and her death for the last week, I missed Leah. Thoughts crept in, how much I wanted her in my bed, in my arms. I thought about her when I made breakfast, seeing her dance around the kitchen in nothing but my T-shirt.
The lock on the door clicked and I didn't even lift my head from where I was dazing out on the couch. I had been laying in silence the whole morning.
Jimmy came into view, his brown patchwork suit swelling over his belly. "Enough of this."
He slapped my head, rather hard, making me sit up to rub the spot. "What the hell, Jimmy!?"
"This has got to stop. She's gone, Kill. She's been gone for five years. You're going to deal with this. You can't fly off the handle every time some arse uses it against you. And you sure as hell aren't going to give up the best thing that's come into your life since she died!"
I seized up. He knew about Leah? "What do you mean, Jimmy? I am living my life the same way I have since she passed."
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