by K. K. Allen
Desmond
If I’m thrown off my routine or unable to check a box, irritation sneaks in like a crippling anxiety. Suddenly, it’s like I’m struggling for whatever control I can maintain while slipping outside myself. My anger spikes. My mood shifts. And anyone around me becomes a target on my warpath.
Before I met Coach Reynolds, my life was void of the routine that keeps me sane now. Grappling was my normal, and every day felt like a fight just to move through it. The only way I ever felt like I was in control of my own feelings was when I was unleashing my darkest demons, giving into the anger, the insecurities, and the utter disappointment I had for myself and my life.
It didn’t help that my father was a raging alcoholic. At the time, he hadn’t yet been diagnosed with autism spectrum disorder, not that I would have known what to do with that information when I was a young teen.
When I was a kid, dealing with my father each day was like playing Russian roulette. I would wake up, spin the cylinder, and take my chances. I didn’t know what type of mood he would be in or what would set him off to become the version of himself that sent me running. I refused to let my peers get too close to me because I was too embarrassed for anyone to know what was really going on at home.
Things seemed to only get worse the older I got. Instead of running away from the angry drunk my father would become, I was picking him up from bars, tucking him into bed at odd hours of the day, and thanking the Lord he was too messed up to take a swing at me. Not that he would have made contact anymore. I was bigger at sixteen than most of the boys my age. And I’d learned how to fight since it was the only thing keeping the fear in my peers’ eyes. That fear I’d instilled in them was the only thing that protected me from hurting more than I already was inside.
“No excuses.” That was what Coach would always shout at me the moment I tried to blame one of my teammates for my volatile behavior. “You’ve got anger inside you, son? Good. So do we all. Use it on the field, but we’re not your enemies.” He would say those words just inches from my face. “Look around you, Blake.” He would point to a row of downturned heads on the benches in front of their lockers. “These men are your brothers. And this right here”—he used his arms to wave around the entire locker room—“we’re family. We protect each other however we need to. If that means taking a beating in order for Zach to have time to release that ball, then take the damn beating. Because if he gets sacked, that’s on you. Be there, Desmond. No excuses.”
Lord knew Zach had taken plenty of beatings from me prior to us joining that team. So of course, my answer was simple. “Yes, sir.” I would say those words without fail every single time. And every single time, I meant it, until the reminders were no longer necessary.
In a way, football taught me how the world worked. It taught me right and wrong, forgiveness and how to trust. It taught me how to protect myself without resorting to violent retaliation. But above all, it taught me what a true family bond was like. And Coach Reynolds was the glue.
How he could have ever been something less to his own family is beyond me. I can’t picture it and don’t want to. Until Maggie Stevens entered my life, I didn’t have to. Sure, I know what Zach and Monica went through to be together, but that’s none of my business. With Maggie, I can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt for her situation.
My workout on Saturday morning is my first opportunity all week to relieve some of the building tension. Maggie hasn’t spoken to me at all since that night at the concert. She’s shown up to work and done her job without complaint, but not a single word has been muttered in my direction. She’s pissed off because I didn’t tell her where I got that car, but would she have been any different if I’d told her sooner? I’m pretty sure the answer is “not a chance in hell.” So I’ve rewarded her silence with an air of indifference, speaking only when necessary. We’ll talk when she’s ready.
I’m currently pushing a weight into the air in midgrunt when Coach Reynolds walks up behind me and lowers his hands beneath the barbell. “That’s it, son. Give me another one of those. Focus on your breathing.”
Focus on your breathing is code for “calm the fuck down” in Coach-speak.
Breathing is one of the first things he ever taught me about how to control the terrible anger inside me. But that isn’t all. He taught me the responsibility of being on a team, which in turn helped me direct my impulses in a positive direction. He taught me compassion and empathy by understanding that my anger dwelled from a lonely childhood in which my father had become my child in a way. He gave me a family through football and the occasional dinner at his house, which helped immensely with my self-esteem and feelings of inclusiveness. He taught me respect. Respect for others. Respect for family. Respect for myself. Overall, he gave me the ticket to better myself with the skills he knew I already possessed, and I’ll forever be grateful. But I’m still nowhere near perfect.
“Good,” Coach says while he helps to lift the bar and secure it.
When I sit up, he takes a seat next to me on the bench. “I haven’t seen you work out like that in quite some time. Everything okay with your dad?”
I spin the cap off my water and take a long chug before shrugging my shoulders and looking at the floor. “Is anything ever okay with Pops? He’s out of rehab. Got a call from the facility last night.”
My father’s episodes have become a clockwork thing in the past four years. Hence my frequent travel back to Dallas, the last time being the trip when I met Faye. He’d just gotten out of rehab, and I rushed there, hoping that if I spent time with him when he was freshly sober, my chances of getting through to him would be better. I’ve found that the only way to speak to him when he’s halfway coherent is when he’s either in jail or at the rehab clinic. But no such luck. He wasn’t at his apartment when I arrived there. And then I saw the flashing lights of the police car a few blocks away.
“I should probably get out there soon to visit him.”
Coach nods. “Sounds like a good plan.” He tilts his head at me. “Something else bothering you?”
How well this man knows me is almost scary. I shrug again. “Besides your daughter being a royal pain in my ass, life is the same as always.”
Coach lets out a light chuckle. “I see. Well, she wouldn’t be a Reynolds if she wasn’t a pain in the ass, so I’ll have to take some credit for that one.”
I twist my neck to look at him with confusion. “She’s not a Reynolds, sir. She’s a Stevens.”
The humor leaves Coach’s eyes and face, and he nods. “Yes. I know her mom had the girls change their names. She’s still a Reynolds.”
The firmness in his tone halts me some. “She’s also still a pain in my ass.”
Coach smiles, but it’s not with the same humor as before. “I suppose she’s been through a lot. And being surrounded by constant reminders of a man she’s grown up hating can’t be easy either.”
“She doesn’t hate you, Coach. She wouldn’t still be so upset if she hated you. But she sure hates me.”
“Well,” Coach jeers with a squeeze of my shoulders, “can you blame her?”
I grin and shake my head. “Not really. Especially since she just figured out I’m driving your old car.”
Coach’s face falls, and I swear I see his throat bob like he just swallowed a gulp of guilt. “I imagine that didn’t go over so well.” His eyes glaze over just like Maggie’s did the other night. “She loved that car. She would always beg me to take her around the block a half million times.” He chuckles at the memory, his eyes turning sad. “She was my first baby girl, you know.” His eyes start to water, and my throat closes at the shocking sight. “I had no clue how I would handle being a father to a girl, and then I held her in my arms for the first time. She made it feel so easy. She needed nothing more than love, and I failed her.”
My own thoughts are running rampant. I tried to block all feelings for Maggie from my heart and mind this week, but now they’re back with a vengeance. “You h
urt her pretty badly, Coach.”
His eyes shoot to mine, and he sighs with a shake of his head. “Between you and Zach, I can’t catch a break. I never would have thought to imagine that you two would find my girls and fall head over heels.”
I jump at his suggestion. “No, Coach, not me. Maggie and I aren’t…” I shake my head, hoping he’ll fill in the blanks.
He creases his brow and locks eyes with me. “Are you sure?”
I bark out a laugh. “Positive. Zach asked for a favor. Maggie needed a job, and Monica needed Maggie out of her hair. It all worked out, for me too. Maggie’s filling in at the kitchen until she finds the next best thing.”
I say nothing about the possibility that’s always been in the back of my mind about Maggie moving back to LA. The truth is, I want that less and less as the days go on.
Coach looks thoroughly confused. “Well, you fooled me. It sure sounds like you care about my girl. Looked like it too at the game last weekend.” A few beats of silence pass. “And if along the way, you figure out you do…” His gaze narrows in my direction.
“Yeah, I know, I know. If I hurt her, you’ll bury me beneath the bleachers.”
Coach chuckles and claps a hand on my back. “Glad we’re on the same page.”
26
Through the Trees
Desmond
After Coach left, I decided to stay at the gym and work out more of my frustration on the treadmill. Five miles later and with Maggie still on my mind, I went home, showered, and now I’m ready to face the big day ahead.
It’s a little past ten when I get to the kitchen. Maggie is already there, going over the wedding menu and pulling out the fresh ingredients available while jotting a list down of everything we need to pick up.
“Morning, sunshine,” I say while avoiding eye contact. I got a good look at her as soon as I opened the door, and it’s definitely a horrible idea to look at her again.
Maggie doesn’t have to try hard to look beautiful, and when she puts in the least amount of effort, she seems to look her best to me. Her hair is still wet from a shower, and it’s pinned up at the top of her head. She’s wearing a simple white tank top that cuts off above her belly, and light-blue baggy jeans that are shredded in so many places, I’m shocked the damn thing doesn’t fall apart. She’s wearing just enough makeup to mask whatever natural blemishes might be visible beneath, and my urge to know every single freckle and scar is unbearably strong.
After our heated kiss and the way she stormed home with me trailing her in my car the entire damn way, I wish I could give up the fantasies that take over my mind when it comes to her. But I’ve come to find out that’s simply impossible.
Maggie doesn’t return my greeting, and I don’t expect her to. She’s been ignoring me all week, refusing the meals I cook her as part of our bet, but then I’ll find that they disappear from the kitchen’s refrigerator later on. But communicating is part of the job, and I can’t go another entire day without a single exchange. I’m going crazy, and today is important—to the kitchen, to me, to Chloe and Gavin, and to all the wedding guests we’re about to feed. Besides all that, Maggie’s still my employee and tenant. The silence needs to end.
“I need to run to the market,” I say in an attempt to keep things normal and professional. When she doesn’t look up or say anything, I continue. “I’ve got some pasta dough in the refrigerator if you want to start flattening it and cutting up the fettuccine.”
Maggie sets her pen down, slides a sheet of paper across the island in my direction, and turns toward the refrigerator. For a second, I just stand there as she takes the ball of dough out of the refrigerator and sets it near the flour and pasta machine I laid out the night before. She seems to know exactly what she’s doing, so I take the grocery list she made, turn on my heel, and head for the door.
It’s a smaller shopping trip than normal since the only items I really need to grab are some ingredients for the broccoli salad, fresh chicken for the pasta, flank steak to go with the fresh chimichurri sauce, and fresh bread. I’m not going to have time to prepare fresh loaves today, not for 120 guests.
I pay for my groceries and carry them back to the kitchen within thirty minutes of when I walked out. Maggie hasn’t left her pasta duties at all from what I can tell. She’s completely in the zone, her light brown eyes wide beneath bent, concentrated brows as she focuses on the mission at hand. A mission, might I add, that she’s kicking ass at. I set the groceries on the island, unable to take my eyes off the dozens and dozens of long and thick fettuccini, made just the way I taught her in a previous class.
There’s a special technique that goes into making scratch pasta. Even with a machine, it’s not as simple as it looks. Maggie just made it look like she’s been making pasta for years. There’s even a hint of a smile on her face as she rolls out the next batch of noodles, catching it easily on a sheet of Saran Wrap.
When she’s done, she lets out a heavy sigh and looks up, her chest still inflated as her eyes register something resembling hope. She wants my approval. “Well?” she asks with a shrug as I glance down at her handiwork. “I did it.”
I walk around the island to inspect the noodles with an exaggerated effort. I don’t need to look any closer to know she made my job look like a walk in the park. I arrive behind her and reach my hand out like I’m going to touch one, but I don’t. “All right, should we move on to the chimichurri sauce? I could use help gathering the ingredie—”
She whips around so fast, I swear her hair might fly out of her twisty bun. Her gorgeous eyes narrow on mine, and she steps forward as if she has an inch to spare. She doesn’t, causing her to push up against me, her chest heaving with frustration. I don’t look, although I want to badly, but it doesn’t stop me from picturing my tongue on her tits in the back of my car last week.
“That’s all you have to say to me? I did a great job.”
I can feel the corner of my mouth tugging up against my will. “I didn’t say otherwise.”
“You didn’t acknowledge how great I did either.”
Without taking my eyes off of her, I lean down until my nose is almost touching hers. Then I lick my lips and hear the hitch in her next breath. I like it too much. I like Maggie too much, which is exactly why I need to put forth every effort possible to show her the man she loves to hate. He’s the safe version of me, the version I don’t have to worry about fucking up every five seconds of the day.
I draw in a slow, steady breath and open my mouth to respond with exaggerated slowness. “I don’t give awards for pasta cutting.”
With a growl, she places her palms against my chest and starts to push.
I chuckle and grab her hand as she starts to leave, then I swing her back toward me. “Wait a second. Since when do you need affirmations to know your worth? Just doesn’t seem like the Maggie way.”
She yanks her hand from mine and folds her arms across her chest. “I don’t need affirmations. But I sure as hell deserve one after that.”
I sigh, unable to piss her off anymore. As much as I love messing with her, she doesn’t seem to be in her normally playful mood. “You did great, Maggie, but it hurts to admit it, okay? You nailed it. They’re perfect. If you never go back to modeling, you should consider a career as a pasta cook. You happy?”
Although my tone was dryer than dry, Maggie’s smile is as bright as the hundred-watt bulb I screwed into the ceiling yesterday.
“Yes, I am, thank you very much.” She slips past me and starts to thumb through the recipes.
“Want to make the broccoli salad while I prepare the steak?” I offer, knowing Maggie is in a mood where she has to be the one to call the shots. I figured that out about her last week. If she feels like she’s in control, then she’s much more pleasant to be around.
She shrugs and plucks a recipe from the pile. “Sure.” Then she walks to the grocery bags, grabs the broccoli, and immediately starts to wash the florets.
“If all goes well, I can
probably get you out of here by four o’clock. Does that work?”
“That’s fine. Monica is swinging by at four thirty, so that gives me enough time to shower. I’ll get ready at her hotel.”
And that’s about how things go for the next four hours as we prepare the food, pack it up, and pile everything in the Edible Desire catering van. As much as I would love to deliver the food hot and fresh, that’s just not possible given the fact that I wasn’t provided a kitchen on site. The food will be refrigerated until I can get everything on the warmer about thirty minutes before the reception begins.
After the food is secure, we step into the elevator and take it up to our apartments. She walks immediately to hers and only stops to unlock her door.
“Hey, Maggie?”
She shoots me a glance over her shoulder, and I don’t miss the fear she carries behind that gaze. What is she afraid I’ll say?
“Thanks for your help today. You were a lifesaver.”
She shrugs and turns back to her door while pushing it open. “Just doing my job.”
I sigh as her door shuts behind her then push through my own. I have time for a quick shower to scrub off the scent of four long hours in the kitchen, and then I’m climbing into the van. I’ve only been given an address, and that’s what I plugged into my GPS before I left the house, so that’s where I head, with nothing but thoughts of Maggie Stevens on my mind.
Is this how things are going to be between Maggie and me from now on? Is it just going to be forced conversation, uncomfortable silence, and heated exchanges that stem from a hurt and betrayal I wasn’t the cause of? I don’t want to live in this uncomfortable space with her. I thought we’d finally gotten over the hump of misunderstandings and hate, but now it seems to have only become more complicated.
I pull up to a parking lot in the park and know instantly I’m at the right place. There’s a large gazebo set up in the distance, decorated in bright white lights that match more lights strung from tree to tree, creating a tented appearance throughout the woods. A carpeted aisle is laid out, separating ten rows of seats, six on each side. And to the left is an entirely different setup. Long wooden tables are situated beneath symmetrically lined evergreens and make up enough dinner seating for all the guests. White tablecloths run across their lengths and are tied in knots at each end, giving them the freedom to move with the light breeze. Horizontal black trellises hold up the low-hanging branches, creating a sort of ceiling of trees and lights. And a large, brilliant chandelier hangs from the trellised ceiling.