Chapter 65
Josephine
It’s better than I remembered. Soft, lush sand. The brilliant warmth from the sun.
Sure, it’s significantly colder than the last time we were here, but the temperature doesn’t take away from the beauty of the place or the contentment that washes over me like the waves lapping along the shore.
Decker carries all our things, which is ridiculous, because I have arms, too. He also packed like our whole crew is here rather than just the two of us.
The car ride was surprisingly painless. It turns out we have similar taste in music, something I didn’t know until today.
Decker didn’t make any of the expected remarks when I queued up my favorite playlist, which Hunter has jokingly named my Sad Ohio Girl Songs. I can’t help it if I have taste, while her preferences sound like a remix of the Barbie soundtrack.
I watch wordlessly as Decker works to set up our spot, shifting from hip to hip, sinking a little deeper into the sand with each movement. Awkwardness sinks in as I observe him quietly, but I’m determined to be noncombative today, so I don’t dare offer to help.
I don’t mind princess treatment from the other guys, but letting Decker do it all makes me anxious.
The urge to help claws at me, yet the idea of helping stresses me out.
It feels as though there’s no solution for us.
Either option will inevitably be the wrong move.
With Decker, I’m always waiting for the other shoe to drop.
To distract myself from my spiraling thoughts, I turn and take in the ocean scene. I take a deep breath so I can taste the salt air on my tongue. A shiver runs through me, but it has little to do with the crisp temperature.
“Want to walk the beach?” he asks from behind me, his voice full of gravel and hesitation.
Peering over my shoulder, I inspect his setup.
“Sure,” I agree.
See? I can do noncombative.
Clearing his throat and patting his pockets, probably to confirm he’s got his wallet and phone, he takes a step closer. “Which way?”
I open my mouth to make a cutting remark about being shocked that he’s actually going to let me choose, but I snap it closed just as fast. Clearly, I’m not the only one putting in the effort today.
“This way.”
We meander along the water’s edge, neither of us in a rush or with a destination in mind. The sound of the waves crashing onto the shore creates a melodic, meditative rhythm.
Decker’s hand brushes mine every few steps. He doesn’t course correct or shift away from the contact, but neither do I.
We pass two kids trying in earnest to fly a kite. Probably siblings, based on the way they bicker as the little girl tries to rewrap the string on the handle.
“Heads up!”
Lightning fast, Decker is on me, a hand pressed to my lower back and his body looming over mine, blocking me from the unknown threat. Heat crawls up my neck and paints my cheeks as memories of all the delicious ways he touched and pleased me two nights ago riot in my mind.
When we’re not immediately approached, I peek over his shoulder and take in the scene.
A man’s jogging toward us, shaking his head. “Sorry about that,” he yells once he’s in range.
Decker smooths his hand from my back to my hip and squeezes before releasing me. Warmth pools in my belly. His touch is intoxicating, even when we’re fully clothed on a public beach.
He bends and snatches up the football that soared toward us a moment ago.
He tosses the ball—underhand; nothing like how he usually throws a football, which I assume is intentional—to the man, who thanks him, then heads over to a little boy.
We don’t immediately continue our journey. Instead, still standing close to one another, we watch as the man grips the boy’s shoulder and bends low to talk into his ear. He helps his son square his hips and then lines up the stitches in his hand.
The boy hesitates, barely holding the ball in the grasp of his small hand. He can’t be more than seven or eight years old.
We can’t hear the exchange because of the distance and the pounding of the waves behind us, but it’s clear what he’s seeking—what he needs.
The man squeezes his son’s shoulder, whispers once more, nods, and steps back a few feet.
After another breath, the boy launches the ball into the air. It arches over the sand in a wobbly spiral. As it tumbles through the air, the dad claps and hollers so loudly his enthusiasm reaches us.
The little boy’s joy is palpable as his dad scoops him up, hugs him close, and spins in a circle. It’s a sweet moment. One I wish I could capture on camera.
When I peek up at Decker, he’s got a massive grin plastered on his face.
I bump my hip into his to get his attention.
“Is that what it was like for you?” I nod toward the duo, who are running side by side to retrieve the ball.
“That? No.” Decker grimaces, shaking his head.
“What do you mean no?” I frown up at him. “Your dad’s a professional quarterback. You’re telling me he didn’t teach you how to throw a football?”
His hand once again finds the small of my back—why is that so sexy?—and he’s quiet while he watches the boy launch the ball into another decent throw.
Finally, he pulls in a long breath. “Thomas is not a patient man. Or a good teacher. And honestly? I’m not a great student. Coach likes to say I have to learn my lessons the hardest way possible.”
I snort. If that isn’t the understatement of the year…
“What?” he demands, his expression going from hard to sheepish when I give him a pointed look.
“You? Not being receptive to training and coaching? That just might be the most accurate assessment I’ve ever heard.”
Decker grumbles, running his hand through his hair over and over again. “You think that’s funny, huh?”
I answer with silence and a knowing smirk.
“You’ll love this, then,” he murmurs, scanning the horizon. “I was the second-string quarterback on our U-12 Little Dukes team until middle school.”
“Who was first?” I demand, because I have a sneaking suspicion I already know.
“Greedy,” he admits.
I bite my tongue hard.
“I had the better arm. The quicker reads. But I couldn’t nail the timing.”
“That’s what a lot of people don’t understand about football. There’s a rhythm to the game. A deep-seated trust between the players. It took being sacked a couple hundred times for me to trust my offensive line and step up into the pocket so plays could develop.
“Thomas hated that it took so long for things like that to click. He’d explain it a million different ways.
Make me watch film for hours. Hired mindset coaches and throwing coaches and half a dozen other kinds of instructors and guides.
He recognized my potential, but he wasn’t willing to meet me where I was or do the work to help me learn in a way that worked for me. ”
“So you learn best by failing,” I tease, thinking I’ll get under his skin with the jab.
“Yeah.” His knuckles brush against my fingertips. “Sometimes I think that’s the only way I ever learn.”
It takes a moment for the confession to really sink in. For me to catch on to the admission that he even has shortcomings. He’s more self-aware than I thought. It irritates me in a way, but it’s also really telling.
His hand hovers near mine, hesitant, close enough that I can feel his body heat. This time when he touches me, it’s not just a brush. He circles my wrist while keeping his attention locked on my face, silently searching, as if to ask if the contact is okay.
When I don’t pull away, he interlocks our fingers, slow but sure.
We walk hand in hand for a few minutes, quiet and lost in thought. Eventually, he turns to me, cups my face, and leans in close enough to kiss me.
Hovering until we’re sharing breath, he confesses, “I’ll rarely get it right on the first try, Siren. But I promise I’ll keep trying until I do.”
His earnestness makes me squirm.
Because I believe him.
And yet, my sense of self-preservation can’t allow me to hope that he’ll follow through. I’ve been burned too many times by Decker’s words to take them at face value.
Sidestepping him, I squeeze his hand and hold on a bit tighter as we continue walking along the beach.
I appreciate that he’s willing to do the work. I just hope like hell it doesn’t always have to be this hard.