2. Chapter Two #2
“Which you always manage to do without even trying. But why does your face look like you’re about to do the exact opposite?”
His expression changes again and he almost seems agitated. “So…I, uh…” He rubs the back of his neck. “I’ve gotta head out for a bit.”
I pause mid-chew of my pizza. “Head out where?”
“To Spain for a training camp.” His voice is light but a thread of tension runs beneath it. “You remember how I said I’ve been off my game? I need to reset before the season really ramps up.”
“Okay,” I say, slower now. “You mentioned last week that your season ramps up in August? It’s June almost now. How long will you be gone?”
He shrugs. “Few weeks. Maybe a couple of months. Depends.”
I nod, trying to keep my expression neutral. “I get it. I mean, I know how important this is for you. For your career. I just…” I pause, my pulse picking up its pace. “Why does this feel so…final?”
Is he breaking up with me?
He lets out a short, nervous giggle. And I swear, I’ve never heard this man giggle since I’ve known him. “I don’t mean for it to sound like that. Final. Maybe I’m—”
There’s sweat beading at his hairline.
“Croix?”
He drops to his knees, and for a split second, I scan the room to see if anyone else notices. If someone might rush over, concerned he’s having a medical emergency. But no. The cafeteria is a ghost town this time of night.
“Oh God. Croix? Are you okay?!”
His head is bowed, his hands on his thighs like he’s preparing to pray—or pass out—and I’m halfway to checking his pulse when I realize.
He’s not just on a knee.
He’s on the knee.
And then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a box that looks and smells suspiciously like Tiffany’s.
The redheaded kid and his mother reappear, noticing the commotion between us and both reach for their phones, aiming them straight at us. I instinctively turn away, shielding my face. This is not a moment either of us is going to want immortalized on the internet.
“Croix,” I hiss through clenched teeth. “What are you doing?”
His smile is wide and innocent. Hopeful in the most misguided way possible as he holds up the ring. “I’m making things serious-serious.”
I blink. Hard. “Croix. You’ve skipped several steps in the journey to serious, don’t you think?”
He frowns, visibly confused. “Like what?”
“Like...oh, I don’t know. Changing our Facebook relationship status? Meeting my father? You do realize he would absolutely lose his Black mind if he found out you were proposing without even asking him first?”
His eyes widen. “Black mind?”
I glance around and realize we’ve got a growing audience now. Someone’s humming Put a Ring On It.
“Croix,” I grit out, leaning closer, “get up.”
Finally, thank God, he rises, slipping the ring box back into his pocket. I grab his arm firmly and start walking toward my office, leaving the pizza box on the table.
I wasn’t prepared for any of this. Not the passive-aggressive emails from the Board demanding miracles on a skeleton budget held together by tape and prayers.
Not the creeping déjà vu that something is missing with the man I’ve been calling mine.
And definitely not a public proposal from that same man, in front of a redheaded stranger and a box of half-eaten pizza.
I swipe my badge and open the door to my office with a shaky hand. It’s the first time I’ve ever invited Croix inside, and it may very well be the last.
The door shuts behind us with a soft, final click.
I brace myself, palms flat against my desk as my heart sprints laps in my chest. I don't even want to look at him. But when I do…God. I swear I see tears in his eyes.
“Croix…” My voice comes out uncertain. “What were you thinking? Why would you think a proposal was the next step for us?”
“I thought it’s what you wanted!” he says, voice cracking. “We always talk about marriage and settling down and…and for crying out loud, Pen, we haven’t even had sex! I thought you were saving it for marriage!”
My chin drops. “So…wait. Because I didn’t let you into my pants, your next logical move was marriage?”
“Of course not! But. It’s been six months!”
“Croix. Six months. Not six years!”
“And we say we love each other all the time, and—”
“I know, but—” I cut myself off before I can complete the thought.
He catches it. Tilts his head with a mix of curiosity and offense. “But what, Pen?”
I swallow hard. The truth has been a slow boil for a while now, simmering just under the surface. We’ve both been too busy and perhaps too afraid to address it.
“Croix.”
“Say it,” he urges gently. “Say it out loud so we both know what we’ve been feeling isn’t just in our heads.”
I take a deep breath. “I love you. But…it’s not that kind of love. I’m sorry. You don’t know how badly I’ve wanted it to be. Hoped it could become more. Serious.”
He closes his eyes as if I’ve struck him. “For crying out loud,” he mutters. “All this time, Pen. You let me believe I was holding on for—”
“I’ve been saying it,” I interrupt. “In my own scared, roundabout, emotionally stunted way, I’ve been saying it. You’re my best friend. My person. But when I’m with you, that’s all it feels like. A friendship. A deep one, but that’s where it ends. No matter how much I try to force it.”
He’s quiet for a long beat before asking, his voice thin and shaky, “Is there someone else?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I would never.”
He lets out a slow breath, then cracks a crooked smile.
“You’re my best friend, too, Pen. You’re not like the guys on my team.
But if I’m being honest, you are closer to one of the guys than a girlfriend.
I guess I thought maybe a proposal would…
I don’t know. Move the ball further down the pitch for us. ”
I blink. “I’m sorry, what?”
He laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “Never mind. soccer metaphor.”
“Let’s stick to metaphors that don’t make me want to run headfirst into traffic.”
He grins. “Fair enough.”
Then he glances down at my hand—the one that nearly held an engagement ring—and runs his thumb slowly over the bare finger. The motion is quiet. Solemn.
When he looks back up at me, his voice is softer. “I get it, Pen. I hate that it took an embarrassing display for me to get it. But, if I’m honest. It makes sense.”
“And I’m sorry, too. I should have been a grown-up and faced what was glaring right at me.”
He squeezes my hand and I squeeze his back. “Friends?” He asks innocently.
“Best friends,” I say, stepping forward and kissing him gently on the cheek.
He exhales in relief. “Just promise me one thing?”
“What’s that?”
“Now that we know what this is, you’ll come see me play. As a friend.”
“Absolutely,” I say, nodding. “As soon as you’re back from training camp, I’ll be there. I’ll even wear a jersey.”
He gasps. “You’ll wear a jersey with my name on it?”
“I’ll think about it, Corner-Kick Croix.”
We both laugh. And there’s no sadness underneath it.
Just the strange, beautiful relief of letting something go with grace and still holding on to the part that matters most.
Best friends.