19. Beckett
Beckett
She doesn’t look happy to see me.
Her brow sharpens, braid in those cute little bubbles swinging behind her when she crosses her arms.
I toss her a grin and hold the cup of coffee up. “Definitely not the warmest welcome I’ve received after sex.”
She widens her eyes, giving a pointed look around the hospital lobby, which feels a bit rich seeing as she let me go down on her in a hallway closet that didn’t lock.
I deflate a bit, palming my jaw with my free hand, while my post-sex coffee dangles uselessly in my fingers. “Did you not—was it not good for you?”
“Of course it was good.” Greer reaches forward, snatching the coffee from me.
“Then what’s the problem?” I lower my voice and lean down.
Her eyes narrow on me. She tips her head back in an exasperated sigh before grabbing my forearm and pulling me towards the hallway by the elevator bay.
She lets go of my arm—I wish she hadn’t, I think I want her touching some part of me for the rest of my life—and drops against the wall, holding the coffee to her chest. “The problem, Beckett, is that this is not the behaviour of a business acquaintance. This is not even friendly behaviour.”
“Bringing you a coffee?” I ask flatly.
“Precisely. Now that that’s sorted—”
I cut her off, taking a step forward and dropping one hand to the wall just beside her head. Her nostrils flare and I hear a tiny intake of breath. “Not sorted, Dr. Roberts. This is friendly behaviour actually. You let me into your home. Into your bed. Into you.”
Her shoulder blades hit the wall and she blinks up at me. “I don’t date.”
“I’m not interested in dating you. I’m interested in being kind to you.”
I would be interested in dating her, actually, and I’m certainly interested in more than just being kind to her. I’d actually like to do things to her that would definitely not be considered nice.
But she looks a bit like a scared deer—eyes wide, shaking her head ever so slightly. “This isn’t a joke or a game. This isn’t like the movies—I’m not going to wake up one morning and realize I’m this whole, healed person who actually just needed love the entire time. I gave a man a piece of my liver because I couldn’t set a fucking boundary. But I’m trying to set them now. I don’t date.”
I take a step back, holding my palms in the air. Her chin tips up, all of her resolute, but her fingers whiten against the cup of coffee and she’s blinking a bit too much.
If she realizes she gave something away, showed me something about whatever goes on in that big, beautiful brain when she referred to him as a man instead of her dad—that in her mind, something as selfless as that is considered an inability to set a boundary—she doesn’t let on.
“I don’t think your boundaries are a joke. I’m sorry I crossed one.” I angle my head down, lips tugging into a rueful smile. “It won’t happen again.”
She exhales, rolls her shoulders back, and takes a sip of coffee. She stands taller when she pushes off the wall, like the words lifted something weighing her down off her shoulders. “Great. Thank you.”
I grin at her. “We can be friends who’ve seen each other naked. It’ll be just like college.”
Greer rolls her eyes.
“I mean that. I’m not trying to date you. Don’t get me wrong, if you wanted to throw the occasional business meeting my way”—she gives me a flat look—“I wouldn’t complain. I’d be pretty fucking thrilled, actually. But I don’t want to stop being friends.”
I don’t tell her that the idea of her suddenly disappearing from my life—this person who sees me and doesn’t really care about anything other than what I have to say, what I’m actually thinking, who makes all those expectations I wear around feel like nothing—seems like a pretty bleak fate.
I’d probably drop to my knees and beg her to keep hanging out with me if it came to it.
But it turns out I don’t have to tell her. She cocks her head, tapping the lid of the coffee cup against her lips, hiding a quiet smile. “Would it help you sleep better at night? Staying friends with the one person in the city who doesn’t hate you?”
“It would.” I nod.
I don’t bother telling her that last night was the first night I’ve slept through since preseason ended. That the weight of everyone else’s expectations didn’t feel so heavy because I felt enough for her.
“Fine.” She rolls her eyes again like it’s this big inconvenience, but they look bright. “We can be friends. But I have to tell you, friends don’t bother friends at their place of work.”
She turns and starts walking down the hallway without waiting for me.
“You could bother me at mine,” I offer, giving her a sideways smile when I catch up to her. I like my legs when I’m around her. I don’t mind relying on them, because I know they’ll always get me to her. “First game of the season is on Sunday. It’d be nice to have a friendly face in the crowd. I could get you tickets, if you wanted. You could bring your friends. Or your dad and sister. Whatever.”
Greer stops when she reaches the lobby. Her nose wrinkles and she chews on the inside of her cheek. “I’m sure your tickets are all accounted for.”
“No.” I say it a bit too quickly, and I try to give a noncommittal jerk of my chin. I don’t want anyone else there. I’ve actively avoided the conversation with my parents, with Nathaniel and Sarah. But I like the idea of her there. “Unless you’re working?”
“I’m not,” she answers softly, and her voice cracks a bit. “I don’t—I don’t go to things like that. The noise is ... unpredictable.”
I swallow. Scrubbing my jaw, I start to shake my head. I fucking hate that—the fact that there’s this thing that hurts her and gives her pause about living her life. And I hate that I was selfish and stupid enough to forget it. “I wasn’t thinking. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. Forget it. I’m serious.” I toss her a grin. “We can still be friends.”
She starts to shake her head. “No—no, it’s okay. Uhm. Let me ask if Stella wants to go. I make no promises, but I’ll think about it.”
“Only if you’re sure. You can come, decide you hate the picture of me hanging in the concourse, and leave before you get to ticketing. You can leave whenever you want and I won’t be hurt.” I lower my voice. “Promise me you’ll only do what’s right for you?”
It’s a stupid gesture, and I’m not sure why I do it, but I hold up my pinky finger. Her head pulls back a tiny bit, she blinks, and it’s probably a trick of the light—but her eyes gloss over, the amber flecks come alive, and her smile splits my chest open when she raises her finger up to meet mine.
Coach Taylor hired a motivational speaker for our first team meeting of the regular season, and she’s staring at me a bit too intently for my liking.
And I don’t think it’s because she liked the stupid Beckett Davis grin I gave her when I sat down.
She’s been making thinly veiled references to there being no singular factor that goes into winning or losing—that it doesn’t come down to the successes or mistakes of one person.
The words you win as a team, you lose as a team , actually came out of her mouth.
It didn’t feel like that when you were, in fact, the person they all put their faith in to win for them. I’d smashed every other record in my way—what was a 67-yard field goal to win the first championship in franchise history for the only Canadian team?
I turned my hat forward at that point, crossed my arms and sunk down in my chair.
I would have waited there—silently—doing the exact opposite of what used to be expected of me. There was a not-so-distant past where I would have been socializing with everyone. The team’s publicist would have had me down there shaking the speaker’s hand, being Beckett Davis friendly. My teammates were—are—my friends. There isn’t a single person I don’t get along with in this room, people who I would have argued that, in another life, I was close with.
If it was last year, I would have spent a lot of my offseason hanging out with them. I only gave a cursory wave to Nowak, the team’s punter who I spent the majority of my time with, and reliable, likable Beckett Davis would have said was one of his best friend’s, and tipped my chin to Pat, who I definitely should have gone to say hello to, seeing as he just got here and didn’t know anyone but me, before I slunk down in my chair.
I’m still there, eyes on my phone like I’m having some sort of life-altering conversation, when really I’m wondering if Greer liked her coffee and debating the merits of only leaving my house for practice the closer and closer it gets to the game.
The people of the internet might have been onto something when they suggested I see a sports psychologist.
But there’s a knock on the table, and my eyes cut to the side.
“Beck. Hey, man.” Evan tips his chin before running a hand through close-shaven black hair.
Evan Chase, wide receiver and another best friend of reliable, likeable Beckett Davis.
The grin slips into place. “Evan. How are you?”
Eyes flash momentarily, and he studies me like he doesn’t quite recognize me. Maybe that stupid fucking smile finally looks like the mask it is.
“Alright. Looking forward to the start of the season?”
It takes me a minute to realize he’s asking a question, not making a statement, because I was too busy thinking about the fact that this entire room is an example of what happens when I fail.
At one point in time, it would have meant my parents’ perpetual disappointment before their shoulders caved in from the utter exhaustion of it all. That Nathaniel’s big, brilliant brain wasn’t nurtured enough. That if I wasn’t smiling, maybe Sarah wouldn’t be either.
In this case, it was the decimation of career aspirations and dreams and livelihoods.
“Beckett?” he prompts.
I blink, tossing him a lazy smile and taking my hat off to run my hands through my hair. “Sorry. Yeah. Definitely looking forward to the Beck Davis redemption arc of the season.”
Evan smiles back, but it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. I recoil a bit internally, but the longer I look, the more I realize the disappointment might not be for him.
He knocks on the table again and raises a hand in farewell.
I raise mine, turn back to my phone, and think about the fact that previous me would have been looking forward to the season. Because despite being reliable and likeable, I was competitive and I wanted to win. I wanted to smash records and win championships. But there was never really anyone I wanted watching when I did.
I stand. “Does Brooke still design all those custom clothes?”
“Oh.” He blinks, nodding. “Yeah—yeah, she does. Are you looking for something?”
“For a friend,” I answer. I don’t tell him that she’s a friend I’ll probably fantasize about for the rest of time. I roll my shoulders back and scrub my jaw, trying to think about anything but the way she makes me feel. “It’s probably not something she usually makes, but I don’t think it would take much time.”
“Send her a text, and if she’s got time, I’m sure she won’t mind getting it done before Sunday.”
“Thanks.” I clap his shoulder, and I’m about to turn back and drop in my seat until everyone leaves, but he keeps talking.
“You have a good summer? We didn’t talk much during preseason.” There’s that look in his eyes again.
I thought that was because no one wanted to talk to me, but I wonder how much of it has to do with the fact that I didn’t talk to anyone.
My lip curls up before I can stop it. But I jerk my chin and laugh like it’s something that just rolls off my back instead of locking manacles around all my limbs and keeping me chained to my failures. “Pretty hard being the most hated person in the city, man. But it could have been worse. What about you and Brooke? Were you back in Seattle?”
Evan nods. The lines around his eyes deepen, but he doesn’t smile. “Yeah, we were. Just came back right before preseason.”
“Glad you had a good summer.” I’m still smiling.
I sound like an idiot. Like I’m not the person responsible for the fact that he wasn’t celebrating all over the Amalfi Coast and was probably running routes in his backyard, watching game tape and chasing the one dream left outstanding.
“If you want to...” Evan rubs his chin. “If you want to grab dinner, have a drink, watch some tape, or even run around throwing shitty passes to each other before Sunday ... just don’t be a stranger.”
I say nothing, but I nod and clap his shoulder again.
I’m about to drop back into my chair when I see my phone screen light up.
Greer: Coffee was great.
Greer: But I mean it. Coffee only. Don’t go bringing me an iced latte.
Greer: That’s not friendly.
The corners of my lips tug up, and I don’t realize I’m doing it, but I take a deep breath. It doesn’t hurt, and my chest doesn’t feel like it’s going to crack open at any time, like it’s so heavy it’ll never feel right again.
It feels like maybe there are people out there who might like real Beckett, the way Greer sees him.
I pocket my phone and lope down the stairs to say hi to Pat and Nowak.