Chapter 18
CHAPTER 18
NOW
I hadn’t been to an HBU game since our breakup. And now I didn’t know what to wear.
It used to be easy because Henry would jokingly tell me I wasn’t invited if I wasn’t wearing his jersey, and I’d obviously oblige. Fishing through my closet now, I found all my tops to be lacking… something.
Specifically, his name on the back.
Which was why I’d been in sweatpants and a baby tee when the doorbell rang. My eyes flicked to the clock above my desk, then down myself, and I cursed Henry for his over-punctuality. If he wouldn’t insist on showing up early everywhere, I’d still have some time not to look like I’d woken up ten minutes ago.
Rushing downstairs, I threw a glare at my cat on the couch that told her to behave. I mouthed the words at her. She blinked back at me like I’d lost it.
This time, when Henry stood on our porch as expected, he’d left a respectable distance between himself and the door. And he seemed proud of the fact. “Is this what you say they do?” he asked by way of greeting, gesturing at the gap between us.
“Wow,” I gushed ironically. “You pick things up fast.”
He pretended to bow as a thanks, and I added, “Let me just get my stuff and we can go. Come in.”
I closed the door behind him, then watched my ex-boyfriend take the place in like he’d never been here. His eyes flickered to the round, pink rug underneath the coffee table which had still been a plain white one the last time he’d been here. The vase that had always held his weekly flower deliveries was empty, probably a little dusty, and the photo wall no longer held any pictures of the two of us; we’d been replaced by other memories.
I wondered if he felt that same pang in his chest when he realized. I wondered if he noticed at all. The thought finally propelled me forward.
“One second,” I repeated, and rushed up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. A decision I’d immediately regretted, when my breath was heavy enough to assume I had just run a five-minute mile.
I snatched the tote bag from my bed—pre-packed and everything—and threw a last glance in the mirror. It felt stupid to change now, when he’d already seen me and would most definitely notice an outfit change.
Ex-girlfriend who didn’t at all still care, and actually kind of despised him. That’s the vibe I was still going for.
I tried to remember that when I forced myself back downstairs, expecting Henry to stand where I’d left him—by the door, appraising our house and the changes it had gone through since last year.
He was not.
My heart dropped into my stomach at the thought of him leaving—giving up because he’d found something he didn’t want to see, or I’d been too late for him to justify. Perhaps he never cared enough about whether I’d be with him or not.
It seemed unlike Henry, but how well did I really still know him?
“Paula?” It came hesitantly from the kitchen behind me. “A little help here?” A second later, I heard the intimidating hiss of my cat and realized she was no longer on the couch.
Instead, Pip was standing by Henry’s feet, hair raised and back arched, letting off another threatening sound.
And Henry, in all his muscled, six-foot-one—honest to God—looked scared to death. The way he pressed himself against the kitchen counter, the way Pip backed him further into it. The scene reminded me of all the times she’d tried to take his eyes out; he probably should be as scared as he was.
Her being a stray and all, we’d always been sure Pip must’ve had a bad history with men. She despised every single one. Even Dad, who’d been the one insisting to take her in—after she’d hissed and growled and scratched. Mom had agreed as long as I’d take the black cat with me once I went to college.
With a snicker, I lifted Pip into my arms. “Dios,” I sighed, shaking my head as I created some distance between the two. Henry let go of a relieved breath. “What is your problem?” I muttered to her in Spanish, gesturing for him to make his escape before I released the wild… eight-pound beast. I didn’t have to tell him twice.
With Henry on his way to the car, I silenced my cat with a glare, holding her at arm’s length in front of me. “That man has been nothing but kind to you,” I chided. Pip growled in annoyance, then started fussing in my grip. “Behave,” I warned before letting her go. She couldn’t get up the stairs fast enough, and I felt the same way about catching up with Henry.
“I’m sorry,” I groaned once he slid behind the wheel.
“Pip will make sure you end up alone, you know,” Henry shook himself off with an amused snicker before he turned the key in the ignition. “What have I ever done to that cat?”
“Exist,” I stated matter-of-factly. “It’s not personal. You’re just a man.”
Henry snorted a laugh. “I’ll apologize for that next time I see her. How dare I?”
“Next time?” My brows rose teasingly.
An exasperated look played on his face when he looked at me. “ Right .” He rolled his r , though just like when I’d tried to teach him some Spanish, he failed miserably at that. It sounded choppy and rough, and I still somehow adored it. “You let her know how sorry I am, then.”
“She will not accept it,” I informed him. “But I’ll try my best to change her mind.” Which was impossible. My cat was as stubborn as they came.
Henry hummed in humored agreement as he got the car rolling, and for a moment there was nothing but the radio that filled the air between us. “You look good, by the way.”
His words took me so off guard, there was nothing I could’ve done about my laugh. “It’s sweatpants and a shirt, Henry.”
His gaze swept across me once, very quickly but not very subtly. “I can see that.”
“So,” I stressed. “You can’t mean that.”
“I do.” His tone nonchalant, he went on. “Although I preferred my name and number on you.”
My eyes snapped to him, watching carefully, curiously. Honestly, a little confused. But I stayed quiet, just observing his focus on the road, like he hadn’t said anything at all.
Or like perhaps the thought was so normal to him, so common, he forgot it shouldn’t be.
Are you guys sure this isn’t… weird?” Sitting between exposed six-packs and developed calves, it kind of felt that way.
The energy was different in a locker room. The air thrummed with excitement; anticipation basically reverberated off the walls. The boys laughed at bad jokes, chugged another sixteen ounces of water, talked strategy; some huddled in a corner performing their pregame ritual.
Which was what I was here for. Henry’s pregame ritual.
“It’s not weird unless you make it,” Dylan snickered from the other corner, sending me a look that soundlessly added, and you are .
“McCarthy,” Henry barked from beside me. There never wasn’t annoyance in his tone when he spoke to him. Or about him. “No one asked you.”
“She quite literally did.”
Henry ignored him, turned to me instead. “It’s not weird,” he promised, sending another glare over his shoulder to make a point. His hand settled on mine in a gesture that was supposed to be reassuring.
It was, kind of.
Only that instead of the quiet calm supposed to flood through me, it ignited a fire that slowly made its way to my cheeks.
Mierda , Paula. He’s touching your neck, not kissing it.
Although it’s not like he hadn’t done that in here, too.
With his eyes settling on me again, I tried not to glance at his hand on my shoulder. Tried to act unbothered. Cool, calm and collected.
Ex-girlfriend who didn’t at all still care and actually kind of despised him.
But his gaze found its way to it, anyway. He lingered for another moment—one I enjoyed—then drew back like my skin was a hot stove he hadn’t noticed he was touching. “Ask literally anyone else,” he added quickly.
Those close enough to hear gave wild nods, hummed or shouted in agreement. Which was enough to soothe the awkward feeling low in my belly.
“Alright.” I cleared my throat, still trying to shake off the aftermath of Henry’s very… appropriate touch. “So… you just do what you usually do. Pretend I’m not even here.”
“Got it, boss.” With a little salute, he walked back to his gym bag on the other end of the bench.
I was unprepared for what followed. I should’ve been. But somehow, I didn’t put it into the equation, and I realized I should’ve just asked about his ritual, instead of wanting to be there to see it.
In one smooth motion, Henry grabbed the back of his black polo and pulled it over his head, leaving his upper body for all the world to see. Primarily: me. Nobody else was even glancing in his direction. Why would they?
They hadn’t had the pleasure of their fingers trailing down his pecks, watching, memorizing when and where he tensed the further they wandered south. Their tongues hadn’t traced along the toned crevices of his stomach. Hadn’t elicited low sounds out of him by doing so. So they didn’t miss it.
I did.
The realization hit me like a bolt of lightning might, scattered the thoughts of his groans, the images of us, into oblivion.
My eyes snapped away from his chest just as he pulled his jersey on, and in my hurry to look away, my gaze crossed Dylan’s. Who must’ve witnessed the whole thing.
His lips pulled upward with another knowing smirk, and as if it wasn’t enough, he winked before going to tie his shoes.
He’d been right. I was making this weird.
Focus, damn it.
So, in the least creepy way, I observed the team, their dynamics and quirks, and wrote it all into my Henry document. Down to Dylan counting to four out loud, and how often Henry’s eyes flicked toward me.
Twenty-three times.
With ten minutes to spare, the HBU soccer team dispersed from their huddle with hollers and shouts, and I noted that, if I ever needed a motivational speech, Coach Hepburn was just the guy for it.
Albeit this was merely a friendly because the season was basically over, the guys were ready to behead by the end of it. In the most rule-abiding way, of course.
“So, was this as insightful and exciting as you thought it would be?” Henry planted himself next to me while most of his teammates were making their way onto the pitch. He retied his shoes.
“Glorious,” I agreed. “Even though when Dylan started counting out loud, I thought he might’ve actually lost it for a second.”
“Well, he has,” Henry stated matter-of-factly. “But you should’ve noticed that way before he started counting.”
I snorted a laugh, but Henry just shrugged before he clarified. “It’s his thing, though. Counting to four.” He threw me a sheepish look, then moved on to tie his other shoe. Very slowly. “Not that losing it isn’t also his thing.” As curtly as he possibly could, he explained. “Four sisters. So he counts to four.”
I’d known about his sisters, not that he basically dedicated every single game to them.
I quivered my bottom lip, pouting as my head tilted. “That’s adorable.” I didn’t know what else to call it. It simply was.
I hadn’t detected any particular thing Henry did today, but if he had a ritual, it wouldn’t be half as cute. Probably more like solving related equations in his mind or calculating a win using the stats and numbers of his opponents.
“Do you have a thing?” I asked anyway, because at the end of the day, I was writing a profile on Henry Pressley, not Dylan McCarthy Williams.
Henry thought, making sure whatever answer he’d be giving was deliberate and calculated. Depending on the information you’d want to get out of him, this could be every journalist’s dream, or nightmare.
“On the record or off the record?” he asked. There was no phone recording our conversation, but his eyes flicked to my open laptop sitting beside me.
“On the record, of course.”
“I look at the opposing player’s way before the game, try to remember their strengths and weaknesses. A few minutes before kickoff, I usually let all that just blast through my brain until I feel I’m in their head instead of my own. It works, most of the time.”
My urge to shout, I knew it! (was this what Maeve felt like all the time?), wasn’t as pressing as the question burning on my tongue.
“And off the record?”
I didn’t know why I held my breath, but when his eyes batted open and their piercing green connected with mine, it almost knocked the wind out of me.
“You.”
The word seemed to echo through the room, and in that moment, my world became significantly smaller. Really, it felt like there was nothing else outside those doors. Like there was only him and me, and the dingy smell of a boys’ locker room.
The way it used to be.
Me? I wanted to ask, but it felt impossible to form even one-word answers.
“For a long time, it was you,” he went on. The past tense shouldn’t have stung. “And even after… everything.” He shrugged, unsure. “ You worked so well. With the draft coming up, I was kind of scared I’d mess up if I didn’t think of… well. Of you. So I continued, and just—” His eyes danced through the room like he’d rather be anywhere else, but the words still left his mouth. “Never stopped.”
There were a thousand things I wanted to say and do.
Kiss him, for one. Climb him like a tree, touch him until he’d make those agreeable sounds I’d been thinking about earlier. I wanted to tell him I appreciated his words, that I felt honored.
Honestly, that I was probably about two seconds away from falling in love with him if he kept this up. Again .
I didn’t do any of that.
The door swung open before I could react at all, and Coach Hepburn reminded me that we were, in fact, not the last two people on earth, and that Henry had a game to get to. “Pressley!” he shouted into our— my little bubble and burst it.
I tried to convey as much of what I’d wanted to say in the few seconds in which our gazes crossed, but it didn’t feel enough by a long shot.
At least they won that game.