47. Greer
Greer
I can’t be entirely sure how long the kiss lasts. I lose track because it’s just me and him on Sunday like we promised.
My sister cheers with everyone else when it first happens, and eventually she starts clearing her throat loudly, but I can hardly hear it because there’s this thing happening in my body that’s never happened before—the start of this new sound, my heart and my brain in harmony.
Sunlight , my brain whispers.
We love him , my heart echoes.
“Davis.”
I do hear that, because it’s a new voice and it sounds irritated.
Beckett doesn’t seem to, judging by the way his tongue sweeps against mine and his hand fists the hair at the nape of my neck.
“Nineteen. Enough. This isn’t a fucking movie.”
He must hear that, because he does pull back, but it’s begrudgingly. He drops his lips roughly to the corner of my temple before he turns and looks down to the field. “Could have fooled me. Come on, boy breaks the record, boy gets the girl? This is riveting stuff, Coach.”
He does sound a bit like a boy, and he looks like one, too—sharp planes of his face softer somehow underneath the stubble dusting his jaw, green eyes wide and brilliant, chocolate hair matted and tumbling every which way. There’s even a tiny grass stain on the bottom left corner of his jersey.
Shoulders raised and straight, like they’ve never held anything at all.
His coach pinches the bridge of his nose, all of him exasperated, but I think those are smile lines trying to score across his skin. “This is how you want to celebrate a record-breaking win? One that only proves you’ve got fucking work to do because it should have belonged to you last year?”
A lazy grin rolls along Beckett’s mouth. “Can’t think of a better way, really.”
His coach claps his hands together before jerking a thumb over his shoulder. “Post-game. Let’s go. You’re holding everything up.”
Beckett turns to me, one hand brushing across the top of my earmuffs. “Wait for me?”
I would, for the rest of my life, I think.
And I do wait—it’s fun to watch, actually.
It’s this other thing he’s so good at that he’s never thought was really worth anything. He walks out for the interview, one hand raised and a lazy smile on his face that puts everyone at ease.
He’s a man of many talents, but I do think this one is one of the loveliest—the way he makes everyone feel special, feel seen, and he does it without effort.
They mostly ask about the kick. What it felt like to reach it, and to do it against Baltimore.
Eventually, they ask who I am—not in the general sense of the phrase, because everyone knows all there is to know about me now, all my deep dark secrets and my scars—but who I am to him.
To everyone’s delight, he grins, that dimple digs in, and he runs a hand through freshly showered hair and says, “Just the love of my life.”
That sound starts up again when he says it—my brain tips its proverbial chin up, bathing in all things Beckett, and my heart plucks at its strings.
There are more questions when we walk out to his truck, hands interlaced and his mouth pressed to the side of my head or the shell of my ear, whispering all these wondrous things.
People do ask things that are entirely too personal. They ask about my dad.
But Beckett does this thing I’m not sure he’s ever done, and he draws a line in the sand. It’s for my benefit, but I hope it means one day, he’ll be comfortable drawing one for himself. He doesn’t look amused, he doesn’t grin, and he certainly doesn’t look likeable when he says it. “Off-limits.”
I finally take my earmuffs off when we get to his apartment, and I sort of expect the world to be this jarring, loud thing.
It’s not.
All the usual sounds—the low hum of the lights, the occasional whistle of wind through a still-cracked-open window, and the creak of the leather couch when we both sit down.
But most of all, my heart and his.
His fingers wrap around my wrist, tugging me towards him, one palm gripping my thigh and lifting me up until I’m straddling him.
Beckett tips his head, neck resting against the back of the couch, one wave curling against his forehead. His hands grip my sides, and one thumb skates up under my sweater, pressing against the bottom of my scar.
“I shouldn’t have asked you to leave,” I whisper.
“Don’t bother trying it again, because I’m not going anywhere.” He shrugs.
I cock my head and bring my pinky finger up. “Promise?”
He meets it with his. “Promise.” He swallows. “Thank you. For coming today. I don’t take for granted how hard that was. I know you said I can’t fix it—that you don’t want me to—but I’ll do everything I can to make it right. To make sure that nothing like this ever happens again.”
My fingers feather against his shoulders—I’d brush anything sitting on them away—but I think they might be unburdened for the first time in a very, very long while. “As far as I know, I’m not suffering from amnesia, and I haven’t secretly given away any other organs to any other family members. We’re probably in the clear.”
The corner of his mouth kicks up. “How are those boundaries and lines?”
“Blurry.”
“How’s your brain?”
“Quiet.” I blink softly. “Right now. I don’t know if I trust it’s going to stay that way, though.”
“That’s okay. If it does get loud, you tell me about all those things it says and we’ll talk through them, okay?” He stares up at me, so beautiful and wonderful, imploring, in wait for the little nod of confirmation I give him. “You want to learn with me, Dr. Roberts? I’m sure you’ll outpace me in no time, but in case you haven’t heard, I’ve got the best legs in the league.” His fingers drum against both sides of my rib cage, scarred and unscarred. “I mean, I’ve got a lot of work to do. You’ll probably casually mention helicopters and the next thing you know—boom. You’ve got your own incredibly unsafe mode of transportation and a helipad on the roof.”
“I’m not sure I know how to date,” I whisper. “But I want to learn.”
He shakes his head. “We aren’t dating.”
I arch a brow. “We aren’t?”
“No. We’re starting the rest of our lives.” He snatches the remote from the arm of the couch and points it at me, like it’s a casual thing he said. “Buckle up, because your lack of revolutionary war knowledge isn’t limited to France. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”
“That’s how you want to spend the first night of the rest of our lives? Watching the History Channel?”
He smiles, dimple scoring a line across his left cheek, and I do think it carves a scar along my left rib cage.
But it’s a gift, like the one on my right.
Beckett taps his thumb on the remote before he gives a jerk of his chin and throws it onto the coffee table. Those emerald eyes, with all that amber through them, are the last thing I see—and I hope, maybe, the last thing I see for the rest of my life—before his lips crash against mine. “Not a chance.”