Chapter Forty-Two - Henry
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Henry
IT’S BEEN RADIO silence from her since the article came out announcing we had gone our separate ways.
What a pretty way to say something so ugly.
Mirabelle and I are unofficially broken up since we never had a conversation where we explicitly said we were done; however, it’s implied.
Owen and Blake welcomed me into their home for Christmas since my family and the Walkers were in France. I had a few days off in my schedule when I could have flown to meet them, but I chose to see Andrew instead. While I was there, photos of Mirabelle and Julien Dubois, a popular French actor, at a quaint bistro in Paris hit headlines. I stared at the pictures for hours, trying to dissect her smile directed at him, and what he could have possibly said to make her laugh so freely.
I asked Kaitlyn, and all she could tell me was Julien stopped by Thalia’s gallery in Paris while Mirabelle was picking something up, and he asked her to go with him to the premiere of his movie. I couldn’t bring myself to ask my sister any further questions about Mira during their trip because I’m a coward.
The pictures from the premiere gained more traction, and rumors started swirling that Mirabelle was moving on from our whirlwind relationship.
On the other hand, Greg loosened my leash, and while Stacey still accompanies me to everything, they didn’t assign another intern.
I’ve become more of a recluse as I spend my nights drinking probably too much, but football is the only thing going right at the moment. We have one regular season game left before playoffs begin, and my approval rating among the Panthers’ fan base is much higher than where I started last summer, which should feel like a relief.
Yet, it doesn’t feel like I thought it would feel.
There’s something missing—or rather, someone .
My jog slows to a walk as I barely make it to the bushes where I sometimes throw up any leftover alcohol from the night before. I might need to buy a new plant for them if this trend continues. I feel disgusting, but I continue on the last half mile to my house.
I spot the news vans parked on the road and the photographers on the sidewalk in front of my house before they see me, and I don’t have the patience for this today. What the fuck do they want?
The second they catch sight of me, flashes start going off, and I regret having taken my shirt off on the last stretch.
“Henry—”
“What do you have to say about the photos of Mirabelle? What about the ones of the two of you?”
“Henry, over here!”
“Have you seen Mirabelle?”
I lift my hand up to block my eyes because I can’t see a goddamn thing, and that’s when loud honking causes enough of a distraction for me to push through. Wilson’s pulled his car out of the garage, waving me in, and not a single person dares to step onto my property.
Wilson enters the house a minute after me, and I breathe heavily as I reach for my water bottle on the counter, swishing the taste of bile from my mouth. “What the fuck is going on?” I ask, and he shakes his head.
“See for yourself.” Wilson unlocks his phone and hands it to me.
It’s an article about Mirabelle and me, but I’m not sure how that warrants the insanity outside. There’s a mature content label, and I look at him skeptically, but it’s the grim expression on Wilson’s dark features that spikes my anxiety. I scroll, skimming past the words detailing our relationship, but my heart stops fucking beating when I get to the pictures of Mirabelle naked in my backyard swimming, and more through the back windows, sitting on my couch in my jersey with a glass of wine in her hand. I feel nauseous, my blood boiling as scrolling further leads to more pictures of Mirabelle and I having sex in the pool. I turn the phone off, unable to look at the invasion of our privacy any longer. What the actual fuck?
Oh my god, she was right. The pictures of her in the house are from when we played the Denver Blizzards. Mirabelle said she thought someone was in the backyard so she went out to look, and this is proof there was someone.
I think I’m going to be sick.
I hired Tom to keep her safe, but I was the one who couldn’t keep Mirabelle safe at the one place where I should have been able to.
“How the fuck did they get these pictures?” I seethe, looking up at Wilson.
“I checked the fence line. There’s a few boards by the tree in the back that come loose to create a hole big enough for someone to squeeze through. Because of where they got in, I’m not sure the cameras will have captured who it was,” he says, his voice shaking with anger. “I tried getting ahold of you, but you left your phone.”
I barely carry my phone on me anymore.
What’s the point?
“Can you call the security company to ask them to check the dates we were in Denver?”
“You think they came while we were out of town?” he asks, and I drag a hand over my face.
“Mira said she thought someone was in the backyard then. It’s why I hired Tom for when I couldn’t be with her,” I explain briefly, heading upstairs to find my phone.
Fuck, I need to call Mirabelle. She’s probably so far from okay, but I’m hoping she’s with her family at the beach house. Kaitlyn let it slip in our conversation a few days ago, but she— like everyone else —clammed up when I tried to ask questions.
My phone is still plugged in, sitting on my nightstand where I left it earlier. The screen is lit by a steady stream of notifications, but one name stands out above all the others.
It only rings for half a second before the line clicks. “Is Mira okay?”
“Why the fuck haven’t you answered your phone?” JJ snaps back at me, ignoring my question.
“I was out for a run, and I left my phone,” I say, trying to keep my temper in check. “JJ, she’s at the beach house, right?”
Please let her be at the beach house.
“No, she’s not here. Why the fuck do you think I’ve been calling you? Mira drove back to Charlotte last night for a meeting this morning, and she won’t answer anyone’s calls. Please, can you check on her?” JJ didn’t have to ask. I’m already halfway down the stairs again, swiping my keys off the hook by the door to the garage.
“I’m leaving now.”
“We changed the code to the house: zero-eight-one-one.”
The line beeps with another incoming call. I quickly decline it as I commit the code to memory, laying on the horn to scatter everyone blocking my driveway.
“I’ll be there in a few,” I promise, and there’s yelling in the background on his end. “How are your parents taking it?” I ask, even though I already have a pretty good idea.
“Dad’s been yelling at whoever he’s on the phone with for a while now, trying to get the pictures taken down, but they’re everywhere. Mom’s on the phone with the lawyers, trying to send out cease and desists.” JJ pauses and then scoffs in disbelief as Stacey calls again. “Are you fucking kidding me? What the fuck were you guys thinking?”
“JJ, we were on my property—”
“Yeah, that wasn’t your best idea in the first place, but I’m talking about the audio recording that just dropped on social media of you two fucking in the backseat of a car.”
“We weren’t fucking,” I say, as if that makes what we did any better. I paid the guy to stay quiet, but I never thought he could have recorded the audio. I should have used common fucking sense.
“Sure not what it sounds like, but whatever you say,” JJ says, and I speed up. “Have Mira call me, please.”
“Of course,” I respond, just before JJ hangs up on me.
I’m not surprised to see an even bigger swarm of photographers hanging out on her street. Thank god Sebastian and Thalia had a security gate installed in front of the house during the renovation.
I honk in warning to tell everyone to get out of my way, and if they don’t, fuck it, I’ll run them over. Nothing is going to stop me from getting to Mirabelle.
They scatter like ants, choosing self-preservation as I pull up, entering the code. Looking at the house, you’d never know there had been a fire five months ago.
It’s only when I step outside my car that I realize I’m still shirtless from my run because I didn’t think to throw a shirt on. The photographers start yelling at me through the gate. I didn’t consider the optics of showing up shirtless, but it’s too late. I’ve already added fuel to the madness, and I can’t do anything about it now.
I take a gamble that the garage code is the same as the beach house’s, and thankfully, it is.
“Mirabelle? It’s Henry,” I call out, announcing myself after closing the door behind me. With everyone outside, I don’t want her to think someone is breaking in.
I make it to the living room when she comes flying down the stairs behind me. Mirabelle slams into my chest, forcing my balance to waver as I wrap my arms around her. She sobs against me, her tears burning my skin as a lump forms in my throat.
“I’m here. I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere, mon c?ur, ” I say, holding Mirabelle tightly to me. Her knees buckle, and I catch her, carefully lowering us to the ground, cradling Mirabelle’s shaking body in my arms. “I’m so fucking sorry,” I whisper, pressing my lips to the top of her head.
“You’re here. You’re really here ,” she mumbles against my skin, and I stroke my hand over her hair repeatedly, tears pooling in my eyes as I silently promise I’m never going to leave her for as long as I live.
“ I’m here .”
~
Mirabelle is curled up against my side on the couch where she fell asleep, completely exhausted.
We spoke with her parents and their lawyer, but there’s nothing that can be done other than suing the shit out of the magazine that originally ran the photos, and hope they’ll give up the photographer who took them. As for the audio recording that the town car driver posted, a cease and desist has already been filed, and the Walkers’ lawyer is drafting a lawsuit for privacy violation. The original article and recording were taken down, but it doesn’t matter. They’re already everywhere.
I looked outside earlier, and there were even more people camped out than before, probably waiting for a shot of the two of us together. They’re vultures.
I slip out from underneath Mirabelle to grab my phone from where I discarded it earlier on the kitchen counter. By the time I return the necessary calls, I’m drained, but I’m desperate for a shower.
I feel a little better after, but not by much. Borrowing clothes from Sebastian, I make my way toward the stairs to take a nap with Mirabelle when I see she left all the lights on in her room.
I flip the switches, and at the last second, I decide to shut the laptop sitting open on her bed. I wasn’t trying to look at it, but when the screen lit up before I could shut it, I couldn’t look away from the email to Stacey.
Stacey,
Here is the piece about Henry that I promised you. I hope you find it satisfactory. Please let me know if it requires any changes.
Best wishes,
Mirabelle Walker
Against my better judgment, I click the file Mirabelle attached to the email to see for myself if she wrote some kind of scathing article. Not that I wouldn’t deserve it, I’ve been a total dick to her.
The Real Henry Price
By: Mirabelle Walker
Henry Price is many things. To all of you, he’s the quarterback for the Charlotte Blue Panthers, doing his best to help bring home another Super Bowl win. Henry probably looks like the kind of guy you dread your daughter will bring home: a brooding, dark-haired man with tattoos. While he does brood more than he probably should, when he smiles, it could light up the whole world.
I’ve had the privilege of knowing him my entire life, and yes, I do mean the privilege . Henry is one of a kind. You’ll never meet a more loyal friend, a more supportive teammate, or a more dedicated player. He’s the first person to offer you the shirt off his back, and let me tell you, the view isn’t so bad either. Kidding! (Actually, I’m not, but for the sake of this article, we can pretend I am.)
Henry also carries the weight of the world on his shoulders, never settling for anything less than perfection. You’re probably wondering what he could possibly be stressed about when he has everything?
He constantly worries about not being enough for everyone. That kind of pressure can be crippling, especially for a professional athlete. Henry puts his mental and physical health on the line every single day for this team. You praise him when the team succeeds, but the second he’s human, it’s time for the guillotine. It’s harder than it looks to be the best when you’re also competing against the best.
To me, Henry Price is a perfectly imperfect human being. He has good days and bad days. He’s just like you, and like you, he enjoys having privacy despite being a public figure. Excelling at the highest level when it comes to throwing a football doesn’t mean the private details of his life need to be made public for your entertainment.
I know that I’m biased when it comes to Henry. I’ve only spent half of my life loving him for who he is and not for who everyone expects him to be. He is an incredible person that we are lucky to exist at the same time as.
I have never met someone better fit to lead this team than Henry, and I think his teammates would agree with me. He has a way of making you believe you’re capable of anything, and leaders like that are how teams thrive.
Have more grace and accept him for who he is, or find another team to root for because Henry Price isn’t going anywhere.
My jaw hangs open.
She wrote this? After everything?
The floor creaks to my left, and I twist to see Mirabelle standing there, catching me red-handed. She offers me a timid smile, but her swollen eyes tear my heart apart. “Does it read too much like a love letter?”
“Did you mean what you wrote?” I ask, my voice thick with emotion.
“Every word.”
I fucking love her. “Mirabelle, fuck . . . I’m so sorry,” I say, cupping her face in my hands as her lower lip trembles.
“I don’t want to talk about today anymore. It fucking sucks, but I’m so tired of crying. I want to forget this ever happened,” she says, a broken laugh escaping her as a tear slips down her cheek. I quickly brush it away with my thumb, my heart pounding loudly in my chest.
“We don’t have to talk about today,” I agree. We’ll figure the rest out later. We’re a team.
“Henry, kiss me. Please,” she whispers, and I don’t need to be told twice, taking the opportunity I didn’t think I’d have again.