Chapter 11
Josephine
Stretching my arms overhead, I roll out my neck and squint as I tip my head back and bask in the late afternoon sun. I’ve been out on the deck for a few hours, alternating between working on my laptop at the table and dozing in the hammock.
It’s been a quiet afternoon, for which I’m grateful. Kylian FaceTimed me between his last class and a meeting with the coaching staff. Locke checked in via text every hour or so.
I received an email this morning confirming that I’ve been excused from classes for the rest of the week.
My assignments have been magically excused as well.
Thank god for Kylian or Decker or whoever made that happen.
I couldn’t focus on logic or technical writing right now if my life depended on it.
I’ll take the reprieve and get back into a routine come Monday.
I squint at the screen of my MacBook and adjust the brightness just as Mrs. Lansbury comes out to refresh my sweet tea. Again.
She’s nurturing by nature, but I’m beginning to suspect that she’s got some sort of timer set and is required to check on me at regular intervals.
This setup also has Kylian and Decker written all over it.
Whether the directive came from one or both, I’m not sure.
I wouldn’t put it past either of them. Or hell, maybe all of them.
Regardless, her quiet company is comforting. I smile appreciatively at her, and when she heads back into the house, I hit play on the tutorial I’m working through.
I don’t have the attention span to focus on reading for school today, so I brought my laptop out on the deck to watch a few photo editing videos.
Before the day Decker handed that DSLR camera to me, I had no interest in photography, but working to capture the grit and brutality on the field through the lens of my camera is undoubtedly thrilling.
After finishing the video I have cued up and watching a small portion of it again to get it all just right, I practice quick actions in Photoshop. So much of the post-production comes down to presets and shortcuts, but I want to learn all the ins and outs of manipulating raw files, too.
I’m working to reduce the motion blur on an action shot of Kendrick when the telltale sounds of a boat float in on the breeze, warning me that I won’t be alone for much longer.
The whirl of the pontoon engine grates on my nerves almost like nails on a chalkboard, but it doesn’t send me over the edge like it did yesterday. I blow out a steady breath, relying on the mantra I’ve used for years to edge out the panic.
I am here. This is now.
I am here. This is now.
It’s a lot like photography, the way I cope and calm myself. Capturing a mental snapshot of what’s actually happening around me helps ward off the terror that threatens to run rampant.
On the deck, with the sun kissing my face, I’m safe and out of harm’s way.
I feel the stickiness of the humid afternoon air on my skin.
I smell the roasted vegetables Mrs. Lansbury is preparing for dinner.
I hear my friends bounding up the stairs from the beach to the upper deck.
Pulling in a centering breath, I rise from the table, then I make my way to the overlook that offers a view of the entire isle below.
Each step I take is slow and deliberate while I force my movements to remain smooth and relaxed.
The lower decks, the docks, the rocky beach, and the lake—it’s all part of the private kingdom of Decker Crusade.
Below me, my friends approach the house, unaware that I’m watching them. The guys all have wet hair, and Hunter and Greedy are with them, too. I wasn’t sure if either of them would be back tonight, but I’m glad they are.
Kylian leads the pack, laser focused on the sliding glass door ahead of him, no doubt on a mission to get to me first.
Locke and Hunter are behind him, laughing together like old friends. Which is accurate, I guess. They’ve known each other for years. My best friend and my boyfriend. Or, well, one of my boyfriends.
Kendrick and Greedy trail behind them, heads bowed, deep in conversation. They don’t look like enemies to me. They don’t even look like opponents right now.
Decker brings up the rear.
As soon as I set my sights on him, his head snaps up, as if he can sense my energy.
His scowl deepens, and his gorgeous onyx black eyes drill into me with startling intensity.
Rather than follow his friends, he alters his course and beelines for the lower patio, then climbs the stairs to the upper deck where I stand.
His hair is still wet, and his cheeks are flushed. All signs that point to him clearing concussion protocol.
“You got to practice today?” I ask, shuffling to the top of the stairs.
His hard expression softens just a smidge, and the hint of a smile teases the corner of his mouth.
“I did,” he confirms, coming to a stop in front of me. Our height difference is nonexistent as he hovers one step below.
“And you feel okay?” Concussions are no joke. He was in rough shape last week, and, knowing Decker, he let the drama of the last few days and my well-being supersede his own health.
“I’m okay. Tired,” he admits. “But that’s to be expected after the week we had. It was good to be out on the field… to get my head back in the game and to show up for my team.” He scans me from head to toe as if he’s trying to reassure himself that I’m okay.
"How do you feel?” he asks, turning the question on me.
I consider him, standing eye to eye for maybe the first time ever.
“I’m alive,” I snark, though it’s immediately clear my joke has fallen flat.
His irises darken until they almost match the pupil, and his scowl deepens.
Pivoting, I offer a more detailed assessment.
“I’m still really sore,” I admit. “I’m keyed up and exhausted at the same time.
I can’t focus on much of anything, but I don’t want to just sit around all day, either.
” Dropping my chin, I study my bare feet for a moment, getting my thoughts in order.
He wants the truth. He needs all the details.
“I’m glad I don’t have to be back in class until Monday.
It’s going to take a few more days for me to fully shake this. ”
“Makes sense.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “Your adrenals haven’t recovered. You need more rest. What about the panic?” he asks, one brow cocked and his focus boring into me.
“It’s there. On the periphery. But it’s under control.”
“Even when you wake up? How do you feel then?”
His questions are intense and disarming.
Dr. Ferguson has me cross-tapering meds with the hope that a different SSRI can target the acute sense of dread that rises up when I’m on the precipice of spiraling.
His theory is that if I can stay out of that almost-panicked state, then my brain won’t default to that setting when I’m unaware of my surroundings.
Switching meds means the world is a bit blurry around the edges, a sensation I’m hoping wanes with time.
Decker doesn’t need to know the finer details about my medication regimen. But I want to open and honest with him…with all of them, so I lay it all out for him.
“I was totally fine when I woke up this morning. And when I woke during the night.” I leave out the part where one of his best friends had to crawl into my bed to snuggle me into submission. “I think it’s under control for now.”
He dips his chin, brushes his knuckles along my cheek, and nods once. “Hold on to that, okay?”
His words are whisper-soft and wary, so different from the way he usually operates.
Before I can ask what he means or reflect on the exchange, he’s bending low, letting his bag slide off his arm, and scooping me up behind the knees.
I’m so disarmed my first instinct is to giggle.
I fucking giggle.
Like I’m a damsel being swept off her feet by the gorgeous knight in shining armor. Or in this case, the gorgeous Crusader in red.
Except, for me, that’s not the way the story ever goes. And Decker isn’t just a hotshot football player trying to impress a girl.
He’s been the antihero in my story since day one.
Apparently, this moment is no different.
I bounce in his arms as he turns and takes off down the deck stairs. A squeak of surprise, followed by a grunt of objection, escapes me, but my lungs are tight, and my mouth can’t articulate actual words.
When his feet hit the sand, his arms tense around me, and a shout rings out from the direction of the house.
“Hey!”
It could be Kendrick or Locke, or maybe even Greedy, but I can’t see a damn thing or lift my head because of the way he’s bracing me.
Decker tightens his grip but doesn’t slow his pace as he strides along the uneven lakeshore.
“The actual fuck? Crusade!”
That one was definitely Greedy.
And then, “Put her down, Cap!”
Kylian’s howl pierces the heavy, humid afternoon air, and I swear Decker falters for just a moment.
I twist in his arms, desperate to get back to the house, but instead of yielding to me, he glares down as I struggle, homing in on my mouth, then my eyes, the chiseled muscle of his jaw working overtime.
“Decker,” I pant, breathless, my mind spinning as I fight to get away and stay in the moment all at the same time. I can’t slip back into the dark. Not now that I know what it feels like to live in the light. “What the hell are you doing? Put me down.”
He whips his head away and raises his chin, ignoring my plea.
I crane back, straining against his hold, desperately searching for one of my guys.
Kylian comes into view just as he reaches the lower patio. He’s running at a full sprint, powering toward us.
It’s in that moment I realize just how far out we already are.
We’re not on the rocky beach anymore.
We’re nearing the end of the landing, on the side where they dock the pontoon.
Decker heaves me up higher and hurtles over the side of the vessel, his grip never loosening and his stride never slowing.
He holds me so tightly it’s a struggle to fill my lungs.
It’s not until the boat moves that the sound of the engine registers and I realize he’s released me. He’s got one hand on the throttle and the other on the steering wheel, while I’m the one clinging to him, my arms looped around his neck in a death grip.
Screams and chaos are just audible over the roar of the engine, the whooshing of the water slapping against the sides, and the rushing of blood in my ears.
I want to scream.
I want to protest.
I want to smack Decker Crusade upside the head until he gets it through his thick, over-inflated skull that he can’t manhandle me and make me go where he wants me to go.
But all I can muster the energy to do is slither away from him and sink to my knees.
To let go. To crash. To will my mind to stay in the moment. To beg my consciousness to hold on against the torrential storm of anxiety threatening to pull me under.
All I can do is bury my head in my hands and dig the heels of my palms into my eyes as I sob. And scream. And try not to puke.
Because I’m on a boat.
I’m on a boat, against my will, being taken to places unknown, again.
Because of Decker fucking Crusade.