2. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Corner-Kicks, Collard Greens + Getting “Serious-Serious”
Aspen
Six months ago.
I’m not one of those women who rushes to share every detail of my life online.
I’ve never felt the urge to update my Facebook relationship status the second I start dating someone new, and I take no pleasure in broadcasting my daily meals to people who only pretend to know me.
I’ve always been a firm believer in the Black family tradition of keeping my business to myself.
So the fact that Croix and I are practically a “secret” couple wouldn't surprise anyone who actually knows me.
Fortunately, Croix is just as private as I am.
My phone rings just as I’m waiting for the elevator. It’s my mother.
“Hey, Mom! I’ve only got about five minutes before my next thing. What’s up?” I keep my voice casual as I mentally brace myself. If I mention that Croix is here, the interrogation will begin.
My mother doesn't just ask questions. She conducts a grand inquiry that inevitably leads to her asking God—at top volume and usually right in front of me—why her daughter is still single. Naturally, anything involving Croix is usually off-limits. Especially these days.
“You’re still at work? My baby just works so hard!”
“I am, Mom. Working. What did you need?”
“Your brother, Morris, is getting a promotion, and I wanted to plan him a party. What do you think?”
I stare at the phone as if she can see my disbelief. “Um...shouldn't you be asking his wife?”
My mother is a chronic helicopter parent.
She doesn't know any other way to exist. She’s the type who “means well” while meddling so aggressively, that anyone outside the family would have likely filed a restraining order by now.
She insists on being involved in every detail of our lives, whether we invited her in or not.
“She told me she would figure something out,” Mom huffs, “but I can’t be waiting around for that girl to buy him some store-bought cake at the last minute!”
“Mom, if that’s what Morris wants, why does it matter to you?”
“Because that is not how things are done! Not at our house, at least.”
“Are you forgetting that he owns his own home? He doesn’t have to abide by your house rules. Neither does Olivia. You know? His wife?”
“You know what I mean, Penny.”
“Okay, Mom. Remember when I said I only had five minutes?”
“What do you have going on anyway? Is that Croix still coming around? When can I meet him?”
“Bye, Mom! Talk soon, okay? Love you!”
I hang up before she can catch the sound of his Irish accent nearby. I love her. We’re actually best friends. But every time I let her in on the smallest detail about Croix, she acts as if I’m squandering some massive opportunity by not rushing to the altar.
Even though he is undeniably sexy, I don’t fall all over Croix the way other women do.
He has an Irish accent that somehow turns the most innocent sentence into foreplay, and a messy man bun—usually a dealbreaker for me—that actually works on him.
And Lord, the tattoos. He’s inked like a walking memoir of high heat and heartbreak, and I used to daydream about how long it would take to lick him to the end of the rainbow.
But ultimately, he’s just nice to look at and fun to be around. Perhaps I’ve never really considered him a boyfriend because he’s so much more than that. He’s one of my best friends.
In the six months since we began this, Croix and I have woven something understated yet profound—a connection built in the hushed spaces that made us inseparable once the cameras dimmed.
We’ve become each other’s retreat, a haven from the pressure of our public lives.
His filled with flashing lights and highlight reels, mine stacked with patient charts, press conferences and boardroom tension.
Our worlds may look different on the surface, but they also mirror each other in the ways that matter.
Despite our different backgrounds—him Irish, me Black—we’ve always understood one another with an effortless ease.
We’ve spent late nights dissecting the weight of coming from communities historically treated as less-than, and the grit it took to rise above it.
And even though we haven’t met each other’s families, we take pride in the beautiful mess of it all—and the fact that we believe families should never stop showing up for each other.
The food is a different story. I’m not exactly a fan of bacon and cabbage, but thanks to me, this man has developed a deep, soulful love for ribs.
He rarely eats pork, but one Sunday I brought home a plate of leftovers from my auntie’s—ribs, cornbread, and collard greens simmered with ham hocks—and talked him into a bite.
He damn near cried. The man swore he saw the face of God.
He’s been chasing that high ever since, asking at least once a week if I’ve got “any of those holy greens” stashed away. Lucky for him, my collard greens actually beat my aunt’s. Though I use smoked turkey instead.
We’ve binge-watched Living Single and SightUnseen over the phone while he’s away for matches. I taught him how to play Spades—poorly—and he taught me why Irish beer is apparently the only beer that matters. We laugh, we talk, and we hold each other down in ways few others understand.
So, as simple as it should be to walk away from something that doesn’t quite fit, how do I do that without losing someone who feels like they were planted in my life on purpose? Even if I don’t exactly understand what that purpose is yet.
As I walk toward the cafeteria, I spot Croix standing near the entrance with a takeout bag in hand—attempting, and epically failing, to do the Running Man.
The man is also a 12-year-old trapped in a six-foot-two tattooed body, and maybe that’s part of why I love him, too. He keeps me laughing. Especially on the days when things are a little too much.
“Why are you an idiot?” I call out, unable to keep a straight face.
He shrugs. “Pretty sure it has something to do with Mercury being in retrograde or something.”
I’m shaking my head and smiling at the idiot when someone behind us shouts, “Whoa! It’s Corner-Kick Croix!”
And because our relationship is a little weird, I still forget how famous he is half the time.
Corner-Kick Croix.
He earned the nickname for his freakish ability to bend direct free kicks from impossible angles. I only know this because it was written in an article once, and he recites that quote to me at least once a week. It’s his signature move.
I’ve never been into sports. Don’t do social media. And thanks to our bizarre little dating arrangement, where whatever this is, stays out of the public eye. I haven’t been to a match or met a single one of his teammates. According to him, that only happens when things are “serious-serious.”
And even though it’s been six months, I wouldn’t exactly call us serious. Seriously comfortable with each other in a way that would make actual couples squirm? Yes. But serious enough to meet each other’s family or friends—or even have sex?
Not even in the neighborhood.
We’ve hit every base except the base. We’ve made out like reckless teenagers in the front seat of his car after late-night dinners, but since he has roommates who are teammates, I’ve never been to his place.
And because I have some non-negotiable sexual boundaries, he’s never made it past the living room of mine.
I won’t even let him come into my office at work.
Not because I don’t want him there. It’s because he keeps joking about bending me over my desk for, “a proper midday meeting.” And, morals be damned, I’d let him.
Call me old-fashioned, or maybe just a hopeless romantic, but sex is sacred to me.
I’m not a prude. I know exactly what I like and I’m not afraid to ask for it.
I’ve just never been the type to indulge in the casual or the meaningless just because it feels good in the moment.
For me, intimacy is for the kind of love that hits like a lightning strike. Bone-deep.
And as much as I care about Croix—love him, even—we’re missing that spark.
Electric and undeniable.
Even still, Croix has been nothing but patient.
“How’s your day been?” he asks, leading me to a quiet table in the far corner of the cafeteria, tucked away from the main foot traffic.
Fortunately, this hospital sees enough high-profile patients that the staff is used to public figures, so people don’t bother us.
They generally give us our space while we eat.
But every now and then, a wide-eyed kid still manages to sneak over.
Just like the little redhead currently clutching a Sharpie and staring up at Croix as if he’s a superhero.
Croix bends down to his level, observing his blue cast on his left arm.
“You’ve got red hair just like me, lad,” he says, voice smooth with that lilting Irish accent.
It’s one that turns every woman in a ten-foot radius into instant mush.
Including the boy’s mom, who’s now blushing like she’s fifteen again.
“How’d you break that arm?” Croix asks.
“Kyle Flannigan tackled me during football practice last week!”
“Well that Kyle Flannigan’s a real a—”
“Ahem!” I caution him, reminding him that he should not be teaching the little lad how to say lewd things.
I shake my head and smile, walking to a corner booth.
This is what Croix does. He lights up every room. Every person. Every heart. Including mine. Even if I’m not sure what to do with it.
Once Croix wraps up with the little boy, signing his t-shirt and crouching down for a selfie, he heads back over to me, slipping into the seat across from mine. He pushes the pizza box toward me with a smirk.
He opens it and the smell is heavenly. “Crust & Commons. Pepperoni, sausage, mushrooms and olives.”
My favorite.
“You always know how to brighten up a girl’s day,” I say, grabbing a slice.
He leans back, arms crossed, watching me take the first bite. “That’s the goal, isn’t it?”
I smile, but something about the look in his eyes shifts.