by RC Boldt
A slap on my shoulder jars me, drawing me from my conflicted thoughts, and my gaze locks with Corbin Hartson, the coach of the Jags.
“All set?” he yells to be heard over the crowd.
I nod. “All set!” I holler back with far more conviction than I feel.
“Then get out there. Let’s do this!” Another slap to my shoulder punctuates his enthusiasm, and I resist the urge to rub the spot. What is it with coaches and players and the slapping thing? Geez.
I close my eyes and drag in deep breaths that are meant to be soothing, attempting to psych myself up to follow through with this plan. That damn internet story about a guy who played the piano nonstop to try to win back the love of his life had spurred this idea.
When I’d mentioned the story to Darcy, she’d asked, “You ever notice it’s never the girl who does the whole grand gesture thing? Why’s that, I wonder?”
My mind began to race a million miles a minute, and the seed for this idea was planted.
My eyes flash open, and I know this is it. It’s time.
With my first step onto the field, carpeted with crunchy Bermuda grass, I force myself to put one foot in front of the other. My focus is centered on one thing—on one object—sitting on the fifty-yard line.
For the first time in my adult life, I’m wagering what I’ve long believed was cold and bitter. Useless.
My heart.
I stride over to the baby grand piano that sits on a platform to protect the grass from any damage. Once I ease myself down onto the seat and place my hands on the keys, the stadium grows quiet and the announcer’s voice booms over the speakers in a loud echo.
“To help kick off this year’s Super Bowl, we have a special guest who will be performing a song dedicated to Florida native and beloved quarterback, Becket Jones. Let’s welcome the talented, Ivy Hayes!”
I draw in a deep breath, attempting to combat the flurry of nervousness rushing through my veins, and exhale slowly. I hit the button for my headset microphone and close my eyes as the stadium falls to a dull din when I play the first few notes.
I was trapped in the darkness
Convinced that I was heartless
Then you showed me how to see the light
Don’t recall how to love
You showed me how to rise above
Now I see in color
Now I see the rainbows
You were the cure
Who my heart chose
But I ignored my heart’s song
I let the door close
Did it all wrong
But I’m coming clean now
I love you
And this I vow…
I pour my heart and soul into my performance, hoping it will help prove I’ve changed. That I love him, and I want to be with him.
Once I play the final note on the piano, I remove my hands from the keys and turn off my mic before releasing a long, heavy breath. The applause is deafening, but it’s not what I’m most concerned with.
I rise from the seat, step down from the platform, and hand over the microphone headset to an attendant as the roar from the crowd escalates. When I turn to exit the field, I stop short at the intimidating sight of a football player in full uniform standing two feet away from me. He holds his helmet in one hand at his side, and eye black is streaked beneath each of his eyes to deflect the glare from the stadium lights. His dark gaze is centered on me in such a way that everything surrounding us fades away.
“Did you mean that?” He regards me cautiously. “The words in your song?”
“I meant every word.” A tear spills down my cheek. “I love you, Becket. And I’m sorry for hurting you, for not telling you the truth about my past. I’m—”
He advances suddenly and draws to a stop when we’re practically toe-to-toe.
His brows pinch together with that pronounced crease between them. “I’m sorry”—he turns to point his right ear toward me—“could you speak into my good ear? Because I could’ve sworn you said you loved me.”
Relief floods through me, and I shove at his chest with a wet laugh. “Wiseass.”
He snakes an arm around me to tug me closer, his mask of innocence gone and in its place one of consternation, utter seriousness. “Say it again.”
I gaze into his deep-brown eyes and repeat myself. “I love you.”
As soon as the final word leaves my lips, his mouth crashes down on mine. He kisses me with fervent intensity, with such ardent emotion, I feel it all the way in my soul. Our lips part and he raises his head to dust a light kiss on my forehead.
“Ivy Hayes.” His voice increases in volume to be overhead against the roaring crowd and cheers. Backing away to gaze down at me, he swallows hard, and his eyes possess a slight sheen. “I love you more than you could ever know.”
“Time to get this game started!” Dax hollers from a few feet away, waving Becket over.
“Go.” I nod in the direction of his team. “I’ll be waiting for you when it’s over.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
The smile that spreads on his face is infectious, so boyish and joyful, and I can’t help but mirror it. He jogs off the field while I head in the other direction to take my seat to watch the game.
Dax had called in some major favors for me and insisted on ensuring I’d have a seat. I’d been apprehensive, especially since I didn’t want to waste the available spot in case things went south and Becket’s response was not in my favor. Needless to say, I’m grateful for Dax and his optimism.
I only make it a few feet when I hear Becket shout my name and turn to find him grinning at me.
“You know I plan to put a ring on it, right?” he calls out with a wink.
I laugh and yell back, “Baby steps, Jones. Baby steps.”
There’s confetti everywhere. The fans are absolutely bonkers, and it’s pandemonium to the nth degree.
I lean against the stadium wall on the outskirts of the crowded field and watch as the Jacksonville Jaguars are presented with the trophy. As team captain, Becket accepts it on behalf of the Jags.
He hefts it up in the air and speaks into the microphone. “Jacksonville, this is because you continue to believe in us and have supported us through the years! You earned this trophy right along with us! Thank you!”
Collective cheers sound and Becket hands off the trophy to his teammates once he spots me. After being stopped along the way by a handful of sports reporters wanting a sound bite, he finally makes it over to where I now stand.
He draws to a stop before me. “I’m sweaty and disgusting as hell, but once I get showered and cleaned up, I’d love to get a celebratory kiss.” He smiles at me with a hopeful glint in his eyes.
“Mmm.” I hesitate, a smile spreading across my face. “I’m not sure I can wait.” Then I launch myself at him, wrap my arms around his neck, and fit my mouth to his. He automatically grasps me at the waist, and I wrap my legs around his waist and kiss him as if my life depends upon it.
Once our lips part, I peer down at his bearded face and tease, “Not sure about this look, though.”
His brown eyes sparkle with mirth and, most of all, love. “I think you’ll learn to love it.” He smiles mischievously. “Between your thighs.”
I laugh, and he cups my nape to bring me back for another kiss. And I’ve no doubt I can learn to love his beard the same way I learned—the way he taught me—to love.
Thanks to this particular quarterback, my life is now more than I ever imagined it could be.
Just like his tattoo depicts, there’s only love.
39
Becket
ONE YEAR LATER
“Ivy?” I call out as I walk in the quiet house after work.
She’d left work early today to make it to an appointment for her annual exam. Her car’s in the garage, but she doesn’t answer. The only response I receive is the sound of nails clicking on the hardwoods.
I set my briefcase on the dining r
oom table and crouch to pet Daisy. “Hey, girl.” She nuzzles me, tail wagging happily. “Have you seen Ivy?”
No sooner do the words leave my lips than I detect the faint sound of the piano playing downstairs.
Toeing off my shoes, I pad down to the lower level and stop at the doorway and take a moment to observe her.
I didn’t think it possible, but she’s even more beautiful when she loses herself in the music. When I listen to the mesmerizing lilt of her voice, it soothes my soul, knowing she’s free from her past. And I can’t help but reflect on how far we’ve come.
After that final Super Bowl, I didn’t waste time proposing to her. I knew without a shadow of a doubt she was the woman I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. And I’d done it without the fanfare most women would want because, well…that’s not Ivy.
We’d come home from grabbing frozen yogurt after she’d finished up another successful “ditching,” and I’d suggested we head out back to sit by the fire pit and relax. Beneath a clear night that sparkled with stars and a nearly full moon illuminating the sky, with my heart in my throat, I’d told her every reason she should marry me.
“If you marry me, I’ll make you sunflower butter-granola wraps and sweet potato pancakes whenever you want. I’ll buy a bigger, better piano for you if you want. I’ll do a better job of not watching SportsCenter as much. I’ll always take you out for frozen yogurt to celebrate your successes at work. I promise I’ll be”—I’d had to pause to regain composure—“the best father if you want to have kids.” Then, rushing on, I’d added, “But I’m good with it just being the three of us: you, me, and Daisy. Basically, what I’m trying to say is…” I dragged a hand down my face, realizing I was screwing up, and flashed her a sheepish grin. “Ivy Hayes, will you marry me so we can live happily ever after?”
I’d withdrawn the ring that had been practically burning a hole in my pocket the entire night and held it up. I leaned toward her and winked before adding with a mock whisper, “By the way, it’s not cubic zirconia—it’s the real deal.”
The smile that spread across her face, the way her eyes danced merrily as she laughed, was a moment I’ve savored.
Even more when she’d said yes.
Watching my wife at the piano, admiring the way her long, dark hair cascades down her back and drapes over her shoulders, I know what true happiness is.
It’s not being awarded the Heisman Trophy, being named the captain of the team, landing a major advertising campaign, or even winning a Super Bowl.
It’s this right here. Having someone I can come home to who knows me inside and out, all my flaws, and still loves me. Still appreciates me. Someone who doesn’t care about trophies or money. Someone who simply wants—loves—me.
Ivy’s voice stops abruptly, and her fingers still on the piano keys. Slowly, she turns to look my way, and when her blue eyes meet mine, unabashed love shines through.
“You beat me home.” I stride over to where she’s still seated on the piano bench. She turns her face up, and I frame it with my hands, lean down, and dust a soft kiss on her lips. “Missed you.”
Ivy scoots over and pats the available space on the bench. “Sit with me for a moment?”
I eye her curiously, detecting something odd in her tone, and lower myself to sit beside her.
She turns back to the keys. Her fingers stay poised above them, the overhead lights making the diamonds in her wedding and engagement bands sparkle. “Tell me if you recognize this one.”
She doesn’t sing, only plays the notes of a song I recognize, but it strikes me as curious. The lullaby, “Hush, Little Baby.”
Until it dawns on me.
“Ivy?” I lay a hand on her thigh, waiting for her to meet my gaze.
A slow smile spreads across her face, and she reaches to her opposite side and withdraws what I initially assume to be a small square photograph. When she hands it to me, my world stills, my breathing becoming shallow.
I can’t quite believe what I’m seeing.
I look down at the photo and caress the edge of the ultrasound photo with my thumb. I raise my eyes, already welling with emotion, to lock with hers.
“Surprise,” she says with a glowing smile. “You’re going to be a dad.”
I’m rendered speechless, so overcome with emotion. We’ve been trying to start our family, and to learn this now is simply…everything.
I drape my arm around her and pull her close, pressing my face into her hair. “God, I love you.”
I lean back, and she peers up at me, her eyes shining with happy tears. With a soft kiss on my lips, she whispers, “I love you more,” against my mouth.
“We’ll just see about that.” Catching her by surprise, I gently scoop her up in my arms and carry her upstairs to our bedroom to show her just how much I love her.
The kisses she places along my jawline and neck along the way and the way she softly murmurs, “I love you,” serve as further confirmation.
All the Super Bowl wins in the world could never trump winning Ivy’s heart.
Ivy Jones.
The one woman who certainly won’t ever be getting ditched.
THE END
Use this link to gain exclusive access to a bonus scene from DITCHED!
Want to know more about Emma Jane and Knox? Keep reading for an excerpt from their story He Loves Me…KNOT!
Dear Reader
If you would be so kind as to leave a review on the site where you purchased the book, it would be appreciated beyond words.
If you send me an email at [email protected] with the link to your review, I’ll send you a personal ‘thank you’!
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If you enjoyed Ivy and Becket’s story in DITCHED, be sure to check out my other books:
Standalones
Out of Love
CLAM JAM
Out of the Ashes
BLUE BALLS
He Loves Me…KNOT
Tap That (with Jennifer Blackwood)
The Teach Me Series
Wildest Dream (Book 1)
Hard To Handle (Book 2)
Remember When (Book 3)
Laws of Attraction (Book 4)
He Loves Me…KNOT Excerpt
PROLOGUE
EMMA JANE
“Bless her heart.”
This—the quintessential Southern phrase “bless her heart”—is the ultimate kiss of death.
The irony isn’t lost on me since I just avoided my own kiss of death, figuratively speaking. Instead of walking down the aisle, I’m trudging along the Pensacola Beach boardwalk in my wedding dress.
Alone.
With tear-stained cheeks.
Two elderly women peer at me, blatant curiosity etched across their features, and one turns to the other to hiss, “I wonder if the groom left her.”
“Would you blame him?” the other woman responds, disdain dripping from her tone. “She’s got a”—she utters the next words much like they’re absolutely scandalous—“nose piercing.”
My sunglasses conceal the dark glare I direct at them, so with a dismissive huff, I continue plodding along, swiping a hand across my tear-streaked cheeks. Judging by the black smudges on my fingers, my waterproof mascara clearly lied.
Damn jackass mascara.
Damn jackass groom. I’m starting to see a trend here…
The longer I walk, the more stares I get. One little girl in a tutu bathing suit points at the top of my head and squeals with joy, “Look! A princess!”
Damn jackass tiara and veil my mother insisted I wear.
I march over to a large trash bin and—without any finesse whatsoever—begin tugging the pins holding this awful tiara-veil combo in place. As I’m attempting to remove it, agitation takes ov
er due to my sad lack of progress. I bunch the veil in my fists and give it a firm tug from my elaborate updo. Bobby pins shoot and ping in various directions, and I distractedly pray no one gets too close and loses an eye. Shoving the obscene length of fabric in the trash, I feel a bit lighter.
The June sun beats down on me as I stand on the stamped cement of the boardwalk, the heat radiating through the soles of my favorite flip-flops. My eyes flutter closed as I inhale a deep breath of the salty Gulf of Mexico air.
God, I love this beach. It’s always been one of my favorites, especially since it takes just under an hour to drive here from Mobile. The water is a gorgeous shade of blue-green, and the sand is perfectly white and free of pesky shells. Any other time, I’d be kicking off my flip-flops and running toward the surf. Now, though, I have different priorities: a stiff drink. Or ten.
Or twenty.
The challenge is finding a place where I might not draw attention—er, as much attention. I slowly survey the nearby choices of bars and restaurants lined up along the boardwalk; I scan and dismiss them one by one.
“No…no…no…n—”
Wait a minute.
One particular sign snags my eye. It has an outline of two men standing back to back, their forms filled with a swirl of rainbows and the name Be-Bob’s written in script-like font beneath it.
A gay bar.
Perfect.
With my key ring clipped to my small wristlet, I stalk over to the bar, doing my best to ignore the startled looks and gawking from other beachgoers. Tugging open the heavy door, I step over the threshold and into the brisk air-conditioning.
Into a place where I might find slightly more acceptance.
I slide my sunglasses to rest atop my head and take a moment to allow my eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. There are only about eight people scattered about, chatting over drinks. When I don’t earn more than a brief glance before they return to their own conversations, I breathe my first sigh of relief. Most of the patrons are likely indulging in the great weather and enjoying a Saturday at the beach, not looking for refuge and hiding out like I am.