18. eighteen
eighteen
Nora
It’s dark and loud inside the skate rink, and it smells like a fine mixture of sweat and bodies and greasy cheese. Brooks sneakily buys our passes while I use the bathroom, and after placing our shoes in a sticky cubby hole that probably hasn’t been cleaned in a decade, we find a bench to sit on so we can put on our rollerblades.
“I’m telling you now,” Brooks says. “If you need a hand to hold onto, I’m your guy.”
I nearly hiccup at his words and busy myself with my adorable new rollerblades. I think I just found my new favorite pastime. I don’t even care if it takes me three years, I’m going to figure out how to use these puppies. I will not be wasting the precious gift he just gave me. Heck, I might even start requiring all my servers to wear skates at the diner like the good ol’ days.
“You’re assuming that I’m going to need your help?” I fire back. “Watch me. I’m going to be flying past you like Twinkle Toes over there.” I gesture to an older gentleman zipping past who’s wearing skin-tight green sequined leggings and a neon-yellow tank, revealing an inappropriate amount of chest hair.
“I suddenly feel underdressed,” Brooks says. He looks incredibly attractive in his fitted grey long-sleeve t-shirt and jeans, but I’m not quite brave enough to tell him that. Maybe I can convince Twinkle Toes to slow down and capture a photo of us so I can stare at it later.
“You could have borrowed some of my leggings,” I say, reaching down to pull on my second rollerblade. “My collection has quadrupled since becoming a mother.”
Brooks’s lips curl up in a cheeky smile, and he glances away. I’m jealous of his eyelashes. Men shouldn’t have lashes as thick and long as he does.
“What?” I ask flatly.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he replies in a low, gravelly voice that does funny things to my pulse.
“Like what?”
Suddenly his mouth is pressed right up against my ear. “Wanna know something I remember about you?” he whispers. My breath snags in my throat as his lips brush over the whirl of my ear.
My voice comes out scratchy. “What’s that?”
Brooks pulls away and lets out a little snicker before pressing his mouth to my ear again. “I remember how into me you were every time I wore my baseball pants.”
I jolt away, sliding two inches down the bench. “Brooks Alden!”
He gives a one-shouldered shrug, looking smug. “I don’t blame you. They make my butt look good.” I blink, open-mouthed. “Your words, not mine,” he says with a slanted smirk that makes my heart flip a U-turn, tires screeching.
“You can’t say things like that to me!”
“I’m the only person who can say things like that to you,” he says with a confidence that makes me shiver. He stands up and extends a hand towards me. “Just as a precaution, I’m going to skate right next to you this entire evening just to make sure you’re not checking me out while I’m skating.”
I laugh as he tugs me to my feet, then let out a little eep as my blades slip beneath me on the carpeted floor. Brooks moves lightning fast, grabbing my elbows to steady me.
“Would you quit thinking about my baseball pants? We haven’t even stepped out onto the rink yet.”
“You’re terrible,” I say, tossing my hair out of my eyes to look up at him. I’m firmly determined to not let my gaze stray anywhere near his butt, no matter how badly I want to, especially now that he’s mentioned it. Because, yes, okay? Brooks wears the heck out of baseball pants. There. I said it.
He smiles at me, his eyes dipping to my mouth as he loosens his grip on my elbows. “You like it. Or at least, you used to.”
Mercy me. I still do.
“Somebody needs to tip the DJ,” Brooks says on our third slow turn around the rink. “He’s playing some bangers.”
“What DJ?” I laugh because there’s definitely nobody spinning the tunes here tonight, but Brooks is right. The amount of Pitbull, Kesha, and Flo Rida in this rotation is incredible.
“I liked your walkup song,” I say. “Getting Started, right?”
“Oh, yeah?” he says with a grin. “You a fan of Aloe Blacc?”
“Well, I wasn’t until I heard that song blasting through the stadium when you stepped up to bat,” I admit. “That alone may have converted me.”
“I’m losing you, Nora,” Brooks says playfully, giving our joined hands a tug as we round a curve in the rink so we’re skating side by side again.
“If you would just slow down a little, maybe then I could keep up!”
Brooks points at two little kids up ahead of us. “Gear up. We’re gonna pass those slow pokes in t-minus five seconds.”
“What!” I cry, trying to yank my hand away as Brooks starts picking up speed. “We are not taking down children just so you can feel like you’re winning!”
He clamps down on my hand so I have no choice but to start lengthening my strides to keep up. We’re both laughing, and I’m breathless, and the party music is bumping through my body. I haven’t felt this light in ages.
“That’s right!” Brooks raises a fist in the air as we successfully pass the kids.
“Your competitive streak is still going strong, I see,” I say. “As well as your good sportsmanship.”
“How else do you think I got drafted?”
“My dad was so proud when he heard you’d be playing for the Stormbreakers.”
“I’d better get my crap together before next season,” Brooks says, and I get a tiny glimpse of the fear he buries so well. The anxiety that fuels his work ethic. “Can’t let Mr. Foster down again.”
“You didn’t let anybody down,” I say, or yell, rather, because we skate right under one of the speakers. “Nobody’s perfect, Brooks.”
He gives me a sidelong glance, and his grip on my hand tightens. I’m feeling pretty confident on my skates now, but I’m not about to let him see that. I want him to think I’m an invalid for the duration of this entire evening so I can keep my hand firmly locked inside his big, strong one. It feels so good. His skin on my skin. I haven’t been touched by a man in a long while.
“When you’re playing a sport at my level, everybody still expects you to be.”
We skate in silence for half a lap around the rink, and I think about what it must be like to have that pressure hanging over you every time you have to do your job.
“Is it worth it, do you think?” I ask.
Brooks is quiet for a moment. “I used to think so. I’ve always loved the game.”
“But you don’t anymore?”
“It’s different when it’s your livelihood. I could get traded or my contract could expire or any number of things could happen to me if I don’t perform well.”
“But you’re just one player,” I point out. “You’re not carrying the weight of every game by yourself. That’s what your teammates are for.”
Brooks dips his head slightly. “True.”
“At the diner, for example, as manager, I’m making schedules, doing payroll, updating the menu, you know, that kind of stuff. But there’s no way I could run the entire restaurant by myself. I’ve got servers, the kitchen staff, busboys, a hostess who hates me…”
“Hates you ?” Brooks says. “I don’t buy it.”
“It’s your fault that she hates me. She sat you at your table the last time you came in and thought it was love at first sight. Once she found out that me and you were…you know…”
“Seeing each other?”
“Is that what this is?” I say, giving him a nudge with my shoulder and trying to keep the thrill his words sent through me hidden. “I thought I was just helping you fulfill your assignment from your therapist.”
“No,” Brooks says, gently pulling our joined hands across his body so I move closer to him. “We’re definitely seeing each other.” My pulse is bursting through my skin. But I try to maintain a cool exterior and offer a sigh instead of screaming. “Well, in that case, Molly is going to murder me.”
Is this real life? I, Nora Foster, am actually seeing the man I once thought would be my forever? If someone had told me about the twists and turns my life would take to get me here to this moment, I think I would still agree to all of them, if in the end I get a chance to see Brooks again.
“What were you saying?” Brooks asks, and the smile he throws me tells me he knows full well that he derailed my train of thought.
“I think the point I was trying to make was that we all work together to make sure the diner is successful. Just like you and your teammates do every time you play.”
“I see your point.” Brooks takes three smooth strides before speaking again. “You wanna know something?”
“Hmm?”
“Every time I’m with you, I forget about losing that game,” Brooks says. “I forget about baseball. When we’re texting or talking or hanging out, I feel like I can just let go and enjoy myself.”
A warmth floods through me as I realize that since I stepped out onto the rink with Brooks tonight, I hadn’t been worrying about Ollie. I hadn’t been burdened down by financial concerns or stressing about the diner or paralyzed by fear of the future.
“I feel the same way,” I say, bringing my other arm up to grip Brooks’s forearm. Good golly. His arms are so thick.
“Thanks for coming with me tonight,” Brooks says, and I look up at him, melting under the warmth of his kind smile. “Now…” he says, leaning closer. “Race you around the rink.”
He lets go of my hand and takes off in a wildly athletic sprint in his rollerblades, leaving me and everyone else in the rink in the dust.
After deeming the pizza at the rink to be inedible, we walk a couple blocks down the street to find somewhere to grab dinner.
“This place looks pretty good,” Brooks says, stopping outside a pub that’s buzzing with people. We glance over the menu before stepping inside to get a table.
Brooks greets the hostess at the stand, and I glance furtively around as the entryway seems to grow quiet. I see people starting to stare at Brooks in recognition and hear his name hissed in whispers as the hostess leads us to a tiny two-top in a back corner of the restaurant. Brooks acts completely oblivious to it all, but people are being far from subtle as we pass by. I even see someone raise their phone and snap a picture of him from the bar.
Once we’re seated, Brooks’ smile widens as he looks at me from across the table. I shift in my chair as a server drops two glasses of water on our table. “Is it always like this?”
“Like what?” Brooks takes a sip from his glass, looking nonplussed.
“Everybody’s looking at you.”
“Maybe they’re looking at you,” he counters. “I would, if I didn’t know you.”
“And why is that?” I say, proud that the rust is slowly fading from my long-dormant flirting abilities.
“Because,” he says softly, leaning towards me across the table. “You’re the most beautiful girl in any room.”
I smile down at my napkin as I smooth it over my lap, my heart rapping against my ribs.
“Excuse me.” Both Brooks and I glance up to see a mother and her son have approached our table. “We’re so sorry to bother you, but my son is a huge fan of yours and we wondered if you could sign something for him.”
“Of course,” Brooks says with a broad smile, reaching out for a high-five. “What’s your name, my man?”
“Theo.”
“You like baseball, Theo?” A nod. “Do you play?”
“Shortstop,” Theo says shyly. “Like you.”
“You keep it up, okay?” Brooks says, scribbling his signature on the napkin Theo proffers. “Thanks for saying hi.”
Theo beams, and his mother asks for a picture. I offer to take one of all three of them, and she then thanks Brooks profusely for making his day. Brooks waves as Theo retreats, and I wonder if moments like this would be the norm if I were to become serious with Brooks. Would people recognize me? Or Ollie? Does he ever get to eat meals out in public without being interrupted?
There’s a lot I still don’t know about the life he leads.
“You’re not bothered by kids, are you?” I say.
“Nah,” he says. “A lot of the guys on the team have kids I see pretty often. We have a good time when they’re around. Probably because I still am one myself.”
“Do you want kids of your own?” I ask, and Brooks’ blue eyes shoot up to mine. He knows my question is about more than just a hypothetical future. I have a son. That’s not something either of us should take lightly.
“Of course I do,” he says with a tilt of his head. “That’s part of the reason I’m seeing a therapist. I need help now so I can be the kind of father I never had.”
I love his answer. I love his honesty.
“Me and Ollie are kind of a package deal,” I say.
“I know,” he says with a smile.
“And that doesn’t scare you?” I ask.
“Not at all,” he says with that same confidence he seems to carry so naturally. I find it so incredibly attractive.
“So, if we’re going to be, as you say, seeing each other, ” we share a smile, “Ollie needs to be able to know and trust you, too.”
Brooks eyes me from across the table before reaching out to take my hand in his. He drags his thumb over my knuckles.
“I will do whatever is required to earn your trust,” he says, and my pulse flutters. “I broke it once, and I don’t plan on ever doing that again. We’ll take things as slow as you need. One Friday at a time.”
I’m breathless at the knowledge that Brooks is trying to win me over.
“Thank you for understanding,” I say. “I’ll take care of the plans for next Friday.”
Brooks grins. “Looking forward to it.”
Our food arrives a few minutes later, and we eat quickly, clearly both starving after our escapade at the skate rink. Our server drops off the check before we’ve even finished our meal.
“He’s super eager to get us out of here, isn’t he?” I say, reaching for the bill.
“I’ve got it,” Brooks says, swiping it away.
“You’ve already treated me tonight. I’m happy to buy you dinner.”
Brooks looks at me like I’ve just suggested something completely ridiculous. “Not happening, Nora. I told you I was going to take care of you tonight.”
I don’t put up too much of a fight because, honestly, I can’t really afford to eat out much and I appreciate being taken care of. Especially by Brooks. He’s been nothing but sweet to me tonight, and I’m a little high off the feeling of being cared for so thoughtfully. Part of me wants Brooks again, so badly that I want to defy all logic and make him mine right now before someone else does. But there’s still the reality of my situation, and the fact that we come from two very different worlds. While I’m used to pinching pennies and parenting, he’s accustomed to the lifestyle that comes with the paycheck of a professional athlete.
Brooks is the kind of guy who goes all in. I wish I was more like him, but getting my heart broken, first by him, then by Nate, has made me cautious. I appreciate his willingness to let me figure things out on my own time. It’s what I need, and it’s what’s best for Ollie.
On our way out of the pub, we sidle past the bar. I hear a rough voice call out, “Hey!” and turn to see a big, burly man wearing a Stormbreakers hoodie slide off his stool and lumber towards us.
“You’re that rookie kid, aren’t you?” he slurs. Brooks angles himself in front of me protectively. I peer around his shoulder. When Brooks doesn’t answer him, the man holds out a hand and lets out a wheezy laugh, swaying on his feet. “Just wanted to personally thank you for costing us the Wild Card this year.”
My heart sinks as I watch Brooks’ shoulders tense and his hands clench. For a second, I think he may slug the guy, but instead, he slowly takes the man’s hand and shakes it before letting go.
“We’ll get ‘em next year,” Brooks says flatly, masking any emotion he might be feeling. “Have a good night.”
The man returns to his buddies at the bar, launching into a detailed retelling of the play that’s haunted Brooks since that game last month. I reach for Brooks’ hand once we’re outside, holding onto him tightly as we walk back to the car.
Once we’re safely inside, I say, “Are you okay?” Brooks doesn’t respond. “I’m so sorry about that. That man was an a–” I catch myself. “A jerk. I can’t believe he said that to you.”
Brooks gives me a quick, forced smile as he starts the engine and pulls on his seatbelt. “He’s not the first.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Stormbreakers fans are very dedicated.”
“That’s ridiculous! Nobody should be able to talk to you like that.”
“They’re entitled to it,” he says with a smile. “They’re out on the field with us, batting and catching balls, right? They’re practically on the team. At least, that’s what they think.”
I study Brooks’ profile as he takes us out of downtown Port Angeles and back towards the freeway entrance. If I didn’t know his tells from the years we were together, I would think he’d already shrugged the snub from the drunk fan off and forgotten about it. But it’s there in the subtle clench of his jaw. The tense way he’s gripping the steering wheel. He’s going to stew on this one for weeks if I don’t try and help him nip it in the bud.
“Hey,” I say, leaning over the console. “Let’s not let that idiot ruin our night.”
Brooks shakes his head in awed disbelief. “There’s no way he could. This was the best night I’ve had in a long time.”
“Me, too. Thank you again, for the rollerblades and for dinner.”
“You’re welcome,” he says gently, glancing briefly in my direction.
I’ve got to keep him talking. Keep him distracted so he doesn’t drop into that endless swirling sinkhole of self-doubt and perfectionism that he’s trying so hard to get out of.
“So, I just remembered something else about you and me,” I say, ignoring the blaring red light in my brain telling me to keep my mouth shut. This is not the time for me to listen to fearful warnings ringing in my mind. Brooks needs reassurance. He needs my boldness.
“Really?” Brooks says, easily matching my flirtatious tone. “What is it?”
I place my elbow on the console between us and rest my chin on my hand. My nose is inches from his cheek, and the scent of his cologne further emboldens me.
“Do you remember,” I say in what I consider to be my sexiest voice, moving my lips closer to his ear. “The game we used to play at stoplights?”
Brooks doesn’t look at me, but I watch the subtle shift of the edges of his mouth, the tilt of his chin, the deepening of his gaze as he stares out at the road ahead. He’s silent for a beat, and I worry that I may have been a little too bold in bringing this part of our past up tonight.
I realize that the car is rolling to a stop before I can do anything about it, and within seconds, Brooks has taken one hand off the wheel and turned his face towards mine. We’re a breath away from each other, the glare of the stoplight casting the cab of the car in a red glow. I swallow, entirely losing my nerve as his gaze stops at my mouth, and his lips slant into a tilted, confident smile.
“You mean when I used to kiss you at stoplights like this one?” he says, his voice a gravelly rumble in the space between our bodies. He reaches up, and his fingertips graze over my cheekbone, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear.
I see the colors shift in his eyes as the light turns green, and Brooks reluctantly drags his gaze away from mine. I practically slam back into a forward position in my seat, heart pounding against my ribs.
“Yep,” Brooks says, and I don’t dare look over at him. “I remember.”