16. Identity Crisis
16
Identity Crisis
Rose - Now
A nton and I are both subdued as we finish up our workouts. I had to ask about his family and Penwick. If I want to make this Sports Magazine article credible in any way, those are subjects I need to cover. But it’s a delicate topic where Anton is concerned. My mind spins with memories of my one and only in-person meeting with his mother. When she got me one-on-one, she called me a tart. She told me she didn’t think I could adequately do my job if I was, and I quote, “too busy snogging her son to keep an eye out for him.”
Basically, she put me in an impossible position back then. I was hired—by her—to get close to Anton so I could ensure his safety, but then she told me I was getting too close to him.
I reminded her I was just doing my job and that I was good at my job, so she had nothing to worry about. But truthfully, she called me out on something I didn’t want to admit to myself—Anton was more than a job. He was everything to me. I wasn’t sure how to stop falling for him, so I doubled down on my intention to keep him safe. I told myself I could do that, and even do it better because I had actual feelings for him, but then I overheard what Queen Della said to Anton about how I would never be the type of woman who he could end up with.
There she went, being right about something else I didn’t want to believe.
Anton and I were destined to fall apart. It was that meeting with the queen of Penwick that spelled out the beginning of the end for us. Sure, we stayed together for another three months—three months when I let myself be deliriously happy in his presence, when I soaked up his kindness and his kisses like a sponge.
I never let Anton know that I heard his mother call me a nobody. I wished he would have stood up for me, but it really didn’t matter. Queen Della was right. I’m not who he needed—then or now—and I knew it wouldn’t last. It couldn’t.
The final thing the queen told me was, “I hope you’re thinking as hard about how you’re going to end this little dalliance as you are about keeping up appearances. Because when your work is done, I don’t want my son to have any hope that this relationship can continue. It’s up to you to convince him that you two aren’t meant to be.”
Convince him I did.
Little did the queen know—heck, little did I know—she’d need my services again.
Here we are.
Guilt at bringing up his mother—at working for his mother without Anton’s consent, twice now—gnaws at me, shredding my carefully constructed outer shell like a cheese grater to a block of sharp cheddar. I keep the rest of my questions surface level. Anton’s polite, if a little distant, in his responses. I can’t help but wonder if his mind is on the past like mine is.
After we change out of our athletic gear and into street clothes, I manage to convince him to show me around the stadium under the guise of wanting to have a full picture of the place for my article. Truthfully, I’m scoping out security cameras and envisioning where a potential attacker could be lurking if he or she was going to make an attempt on Anton’s life.
“That about covers it. Pretty much your basic NFL stadium.” Anton stops and turns to me. “Now I need to go and get some rest.”
“Yeah, sure.” I adjust my grip on my purse, my pulse kicking up. I’m not his full-time security. He doesn’t have that because he’s refused it all these years. I get that. It’s not my job to be with him 24-7, but I don’t like the thought of leaving him alone with the looming threat. I pull up a mental picture of his high-end apartment complex. At least it’s secure, with a manned desk and locked doors. I’m sure he’ll be fine at home alone. Or maybe he’s not going home alone. My pulse accelerates even further. Maybe he has a date.
I blink and find him staring at me. I immediately rearrange my facial features, attempting to mask my thoughts and the displeasure they’re causing.
Without waiting for me, Anton turns and heads down the hallway. “I’ll walk you to your car,” he says over his shoulder.
“What? That’s not necessary.” I jog to catch up with him.
He spins around, and I collide with his chest. I suck in a breath as he sticks out a hand and catches me on the elbow, steadying me.
“Where are you parked?” he asks.
“Right outside.”
“Right outside? As in the visitors’ lot that’s practically in the next county?” He rolls his eyes. “I’ll walk you over there.”
“I’m perfectly capable of getting to my car on my own.” If he knew that I was professionally trained in defensive techniques and take-down maneuvers, this would be a non-issue.
“I know you are.” He sighs, flicking his gaze to mine. “I’m trying to be a gentleman here, okay? Let me have this one thing.”
I swallow down a retort and nod my head. He pushes the door open, and we walk into the cold winter air. The change in temperature from inside to outside momentarily snatches my breath. I fold my arms across my chest to conserve body heat and lean into the wind.
“Feels like Penwick here.” Anton has his chin tucked into his coat. He glances over at me, and I remain silent. “Much more so than it did down in Mobile.”
“Do you miss it?” I slide along a patch of ice, shuffling my feet to keep my balance .
“Mobile? Or Penwick?”
“Either. Both.”
He tips his chin up. “I learned a ton playing for the Tigers, and I’m so grateful to them for taking a chance on me right out of college. But I feel like I’ve hit my stride here. My teammates are like family.”
It’s a good response. Honest yet very politically correct. I can tell he means it about his teammates too. Judging from my earlier interaction with them, the feelings go both ways.
“As for Penwick,” Anton continues, “it’s a beautiful country. I wish I could visit more, but…” He shrugs.
“It’s still a lot of pressure when you’re there, huh?” I say quietly.
He nods. “More so now, with my thirtieth birthday looming. Back home, there’s a spotlight on my every movement. The press churns out stories about how I act, what I say and do, and all the pundits weigh in on what type of leader I’ll be. Everything is picked apart and analyzed. I want to live and do my work, but it’s paralyzing with that amount of pressure and publicity.”
We walk on in silence, the only sound the crunch of leftover snow beneath our feet.
“You probably think that sounds like a sob story.” Anton chuckles bitterly. “A poor, miserable royal, unhappy with his silver spoon and privilege.”
“That’s not what I think. You know that.” I’m surprised by how fierce I sound. After a beat, I add, “I can keep that off the record.”
He curses under his breath, reaching up and raking a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t thinking about the article.” His eyes hold a pleading gleam when I meet his gaze. “You really won’t publish any of that?”
“Of course not. We’re just a couple of old friends, catching up.” My voice hitches on the word friends . I look away, grasping for a way to deflect. “Speaking of friends, you’ll invite me to guys’ night?”
“They won’t let me get away with not inviting you. ”
We stop outside my car. “Alright, then. Let me know the details. I’m going to head home.”
“To Cashmere Cove, right? Noli mentioned that’s where you’re living these days.”
Darn him and his open-faced interest in me. He’s not supposed to care. The fact that he does makes it harder for me not to want him.
“Yeah. It’s a small town—“
“Up the bay. I know it.” He nods thoughtfully. “It’s wild you’ve been so close, and I had no idea.”
“Yeah. Same here. I sort of stopped following the league after getting out of cheering.” That’s a bold-faced lie, and I chew the inside of my cheek to keep from saying anything incriminating. No one knows he’s the reason I was so willing to follow Poppy to Wisconsin. It’s pathetic of me, really, but somehow being in the same state as him eased the pain of our break up, which still ate at me, even years later.
He studies me, a whole slew of questions scampering across his unfairly handsome face. “You still writing?”
“No.” I shake my head briskly. “I don’t think I’ll ever come up with something good enough to publish.”
He frowns. “I don’t believe that.”
I shrug. “It is what it is.”
“But you loved writing.” He sounds almost accusatory, like he can’t believe I had the audacity to quit.
I tap my bag. “I’m still writing, aren’t I? That’s what I’m doing here.”
“It’s not the same thing.” He crosses his arms. “You told me writing makes you feel the most like yourself—writing fiction,” he says, as if I don’t know exactly what he’s talking about.
It’s my own fault he knows this about me. I opened up to him and shared the real, true parts of me all those years ago. I’m paying the price now. But if I’m being honest, deep down, it’s nice to feel known—scary too .
“Yeah, well, life happens.” It’s a cop-out response, but I don’t have a better one. I’ve dabbled with different story ideas over the years, but I can’t seem to stick on one.
“What else have you been up to?” Anton looks like he’s settling in for a heart-to-heart. How is he not freezing? It’s going to take three large cups of cocoa to warm me up after this.
“If you insist on giving me the third degree, get in.” I unlock my door and get behind the wheel, turning the car on and cranking the heat in one swift motion.
Anton jogs around to the passenger side and slides in. Slide isn’t exactly accurate in this case. He folds himself in, but his knees go up to his chest in the cramped space.
“Uh…” He feels around on both sides of the chair for the lever to move the seat back.
“Sorry, it’s right here.” Without thinking, I reach toward the lever directly in front of him. My hand grazes the inside of his thigh.
Do not dwell on his muscular legs. Do. Not. Dwell.
I pull up on the lever, and he shifts back. The movement sends me careening into his lap, but I lunge back to my own side of the car as quickly as possible, like an unhinged jack-in-the-box. One of those creepy ones.
“Where are you parked?” I grab the steering wheel to give myself something to focus on that isn’t the warmth of his body. “I’ll drive you to your car.”
“Head that way.” He points me forward, and I feel his gaze on me and hear the smile in his voice. “You were about to tell me what else you’ve been up to.”
“I’m the one who’s supposed to do the interviewing.”
“Humor me.” He throws my own words back at me.
I make a face at him. “Nothing exciting. I worked abroad for a while, then lived down in Florida, and then followed my big sister up here. The three of us all live in Cashmere Cove now. I work at Mood Reader, the bookstore in town. ”
“That’s fitting for you,” he says. “Nice to be close to your family, I’m sure.”
He directs me to a side lot. He has to hold out a badge to get the gate to go up so I can get in. That’s good from a security standpoint, but it won’t help him if it’s someone within the River Foxes organization who has it out for him. But why would they? He’s their star. Who would want him out of the picture?
I make a mental note to look into the backup quarterback. Maybe he’s dying for more playing time or something? It’s a weak motive, and I know it, but I need to cover all my bases.
“What about when you’re not working? What’s your favorite way to spend your time?”
I have no clue .
It’s the sad reality of my life. I truly don’t know what my own interests are these days. I do what my job tells me to do. I live in the deceitful bed I’ve made. I don’t even know who I am. I have no passions of my own. It’s a sobering reminder that I’m a shell of a person.
“I-I don’t really know.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I don’t know,” I snap, trying and failing to keep my voice level. I’m not angry at Anton. I’m angry at myself. Why couldn’t I have come up with something? Said I liked yoga, or badminton, or making bread, or anything.
It’s because something about his presence chips away at the bricks of my carefully constructed walls.
I blow out a breath. “Sorry.”
He’s watching me closely. “You don’t know what you like to do these days? That’s what you’re saying?”
Tears prick at the backs of my eyes, but I blink them away like a champ. I will not break down about this. Not now. Not in front of Anton. If I can stay focused on my job, then I can keep this identity crisis at bay .
“I just…I don’t know. I haven’t done a lot in my free time lately, so I guess I don’t know how to answer your question.” Understatement of the century. “I’m mostly busy with the bookstore. And my freelance work.” Another cop-out answer. Shocking.
“I see.” Anton sounds like he has fifteen follow-up questions, but he doesn’t press. I’m grateful for that. “There’s my truck.”
I pull in next to it.
“Thanks for the lift.” He opens the door. “I’ll text you about getting together with me and the guys.”
“Great. Thanks.” I attempt to slip back into professional mode. “I’ll be around at practice tomorrow, the walk-through on Saturday, and your game too.”
He bends down so he can see me. The wind whips his hair, tossing it into his eyes. “You’re coming to the game this weekend?”
“Ned got me hooked up with a sideline pass and everything.”
Anton looks almost stricken, and I can’t quite figure out why. He plays in front of thousands of people in person every week—millions more, if you count the TV broadcast. What’s the big deal if I’m there? Is it a big deal to him? The thought makes my breath come in shorter bursts.
“Is, uh…that okay with you?”
Anton swallows. “Yeah. Sure. That’s good. Okay, then. ‘Night, Sam—“ He breaks off and clears his throat. “’Night, Rose.”
I’m so stunned by his slip-up that I almost don’t notice that we’re not alone.