Nothing to Know

Chapter Thirteen Jamie #2

We're in bed, and I'm more possessive of him than I ever have been, however fair that is when he still doesn't belong to me. My arm is wrapped around his chest and one of my legs is hooked over his. My teeth find his bare shoulder without caring about the mark I could leave behind.

"What if he wants you?"

"It doesn't really matter if I don't want him back."

I bite him again, and safe like this, we both fall asleep quickly.

The rest of our time at Taylor's is more of the same—food and drinks and the lake and no small amount of giving me shit—but a few days of this group is probably all anyone can take.

I'd love a lifetime with Mateo, of course, but I have to take him back to the airport so he can return to his grandmother.

For a minute or two, I wonder if I could ask to go with him. He wishes I could meet her, after all. But then he's saying goodbye to me, and I'm saying goodbye to him. It becomes one more thing that will wait for another day.

Home again, I'm not sure where the summer has gone.

I've done a lot of what I wanted here. I've found my way around and dropped by tourist hotspots in New York City and asked the right questions to learn where the tourists aren't. I've met local fans and people who have no idea who I am.

I've stayed on top of the work that needs to be done for the team ahead of the new season.

I've made my rented house slightly more like a home because, as unreal as it still is, I live here for now.

Hopefully, Harper can stay with me again soon. Hopefully, Mateo can see it for the first time.

Regardless, the summer is as productive as I could've hoped it would be.

And now, while I never had a truly long break from work—like I'd told Mateo in the spring, there's always more to do—we're getting closer to training camp, and I'll be even busier soon.

Harper is already back in Washington, busting her ass ahead of another great year.

Mateo will be with his grandmother for another couple of weeks.

Then I assume he'll bust his ass too, his job far more important than mine.

All of us have responsibilities. I don't talk to any of the people I love as often as I'd like to. Weeks pass, and it's school and soccer and hockey and three different states and teammates and staff and life.

And death, apparently. Because it's the one thing that we can count on, even if I hadn't seen it coming. Weirdly, I'm grateful for the abrupt text I get shortly before a gentle phone call.

My grandmother died. Can't talk right now but I thought you should know.

I swallow hard. Mateo had wanted me to meet her. He'd only thought I should know she died. I can't decide how I feel about his choice of words, but they feel important. Then my phone vibrates in my hand.

"Hey, pixie."

"Hey, dad, this is—I'm on my way to class, but I just heard from someone back home that Mr. Z's grandma died? He bailed on practice and said he might not be back for their game tomorrow? And I don't know—you guys are still friends so maybe you'll want to call him?"

Her habit of making everything sound like a question would make me smile any other day, but now it makes me bleed. I take a deep breath and mumble something stupid. Or a few somethings stupid.

"He was with her most of the summer. We never met. I shouldn't have taken him away."

"Mr. Z?" Harper asks. "You took him away?"

I sigh and think this would be easier if I'd told her before. "He came with me to Taylor's for a few days. He'd been spending time with his grandmother—she wasn't doing well alone—but I invited him, and he came."

"It's almost December now. That was months ago? I'm not sure one has anything to do with the other."

"Maybe not."

I hear a burst of voices, and assume Harper's closer to class now, but she's got another question for me, quieter than the rest of them. "Is there a reason you would've met her?"

"They were really close. Maybe if she'd lived nearby—" I stop because I need to avoid an honest answer. Neither of us has time for a confession. "Listen, I've got a meeting coming up, and your class is about to start. Thank you for telling me. I'll call Mateo soon."

"Mmmm, well, please tell Mateo I'm sorry about his grandma."

Our goodbyes are brief, and I really do have a meeting to get to. I also need to respond to the text staring up at me from the phone still in my hand. Nothing I can cram into a message will matter the way it should, but I have to try.

I'll be here when you're ready to talk. I don't care if it's the middle of the night. I know she loved you so damn much and I'm sorry

Some of it's a lie, but he'll know that. I see no need to remind him I might not be here to talk if I'm still in my meeting. Or tomorrow, when there's a game. Or anytime between when Taylor needs me to take a call he doesn't want to take, or give an interview he doesn't want to give.

Whether it's intentional or not, his next text arrives between the first and second period of our next game.

I just wish you could be here for the funeral.

Between the second and third period, I duck away from the team long enough to text back.

I wish I could be there too

It's not until the morning, after our fourth straight win, that I realize I could be. Probably.

"I need a day off—maybe a day and a half. Personal reasons. Death in the family."

"Anyone I know?" Taylor asks, sympathy a thing he doesn't convey well.

"No, but I need to be at the funeral. In California," I tell him. "I don't know when it'll be yet, but I should be able to catch up with the team in Texas or Colorado."

"Will you draw any media attention?"

"At a funeral? You've gotta be fucking kidding me. The only rumors since I got here have been about me and your sister—none of which are true, by the way."

Taylor laughs, then sobers quickly. "Yeah, I know they're not true. But I also know people are still waiting for you to fuck up. Just don't do it while dealing with a 'personal matter,' okay?"

It would make sense for me to call Mateo then.

Ask him for the details about the visitation and Mass and burial.

Find out whether it’ll be the same as when his grandfather died three years ago.

But I'm just worried enough that something will keep me away at the last minute, and I stay silent for now.

I stay silent while I search online for the information I need.

I stay silent while I book a flight and update Taylor.

I stay silent the morning I put on a charcoal gray suit and slip into the back row of the same Catholic church that hosts a carnival I think I love and hate.

Someone hands me a funeral program, and I look at a picture of the woman who welcomed a scared and lonely little boy into her family without reservation.

I hadn't been close enough to notice on the day she buried her husband, but now I can see Mateo has her eyes.

I'm not sure that's how the nature versus nurture argument works, but I'm distracted by the deep brown kindness in them.

That kindness looked down at me once, at a crowded bar that might as well be home.

I'd love to believe Mateo’s grandmother is looking down upon me today.

Believing she's looking down upon her family is easy.

Mateo is a pallbearer, his hair pulled back into the tightest ponytail I've seen him wear, and his profile stunningly stoic as it passes me by.

He doesn't glance my way, nor did I expect him to.

I'm trying to keep my head down as much as possible because I've never wanted to be recognized less than I do now.

I haven’t attended Mass since the last time I was here.

From the corner of my eye, I admire the stained glass and statues surrounding me.

My parents certainly didn't make time in my schedule for religion—or anywhere I wouldn't have had the opportunity to shine—but former teammates and coaches have married and died, so the rituals aren't wholly foreign.

There are a lot of people here, evidence of a life well-lived, I suppose.

The Zavalas are far away, and I won't have to worry about being hugged by people who might love me before they find reasons not to.

I spot Sophie a couple of rows behind the family, but she hasn't seen me.

There's a single eulogy, delivered by Mateo and his sisters.

I don't fight the tears demanding to be shed.

The music has been beautiful all along, but "Amazing Grace" nearly ruins me.

I want to laugh at how many people would be surprised to see me like this, dressed up and weeping over a hymn.

I'm so far away from being Jameson Sinclair right now.

I'm just Jamie. I only want to be Jamie.

When Mass is over, I blend in with the crowd and read the back page of the program still in my hand.

She’ll be buried next to her husband, with a reception at someone's house following. I know how to get where I’m going without the help of the small map.

In my car—one I left behind when I moved across the country—I check my reflection in the rearview mirror and pretend I don't look fucking exhausted.

Things are better for me than for almost anyone I'll see today. I shake my head before I drive.

As soon as I'm parked again, another look in the mirror confirms nothing has changed.

A look toward the burial plot confirms far fewer people are expected here.

There are a few rows of folding chairs, some mourners settling there while others hover nearby, but all of it's too intimate for me.

I find a large oak tree some distance away and lean against the trunk.

Then I close my eyes when I can't quite make out any of what's being said.

I daydream or I grieve, but time passes quickly either way.

When I hear the crowd stir, a dozen conversations kept to a respectful buzz, I open my eyes and search for the Zavala family.

They've separated some, all greeting different guests with the expected smiles and tears.

It's no surprise that I only have eyes for Mateo, but when I watch him leave Sophie's side and wind past a handful of others to greet someone new, I'm close to looking away.

This man doesn't resemble the Zavalas enough for me to assume he's related to them.

With Sophie heading in a different direction, I doubt he's another coworker.

He could be anyone else—a former student or a college friend or someone at the apartment complex who doesn't slow dance in his living room—but the way they touch makes me feel hot and cold at once.

Mateo's fingertips are playing with this other man's tie. The other man's hand has slipped past Mateo's open suit jacket. They have a conversation with plenty of eye contact until they step further into each other and hug tightly. The other man presses a kiss to Mateo's temple.

I let my eyes fall shut again and daydream or grieve until I have a reason to stop, his footsteps muffled by the grass, but my goosebumps quick to warn me I’m no longer alone.

"You have a game tonight."

"They do," I say, slow to stare straight ahead while Mateo crowds my side. "I'm not sure I'll make it in time."

"Taylor's okay with that?"

"Okay enough."

"What did you tell him?"

I turn then, unwilling to spend too much time looking at people who might decide to look back. "Death in the family."

"You never even met her," Mateo says, and it sounds like an accusation no matter how softly it falls from his tongue.

"I'm sorry."

He nods. Whether it's an acceptance of my apology or not, I know he understands I'm referring to more than a single missed opportunity. We've sacrificed a lot more than that, mostly because I've silently demanded it or very loudly pleaded.

"Are you coming to the reception?"

"I don't think that would be a good idea," I huff, only adding to the list of things to be sorry for. Then I pick at the scab. "Who were you talking to?"

"When? Just before I came over here and found you with your eyes closed?"

"Obviously."

I half expect him to tease me for being jealous again. He sighs and hurts me instead. "Logan."

"Logan, as in the guy you slept with?"

"Logan, as in the guy I slept with," he confirms. "For what it's worth, he's here as my grandparents' longtime neighbor more than as a friend I once fucked."

"Once?"

"Once, general past event. Not once, specific event count."

"Neighbor?"

"He lives across the street."

I stop myself from growling. "So you saw him this past summer?"

"Saw him, yes. Spent time with him, yes. Only ended up in bed with you."

"Is he going to the reception?" I ask.

"Probably," Mateo says. "Does that change your plans?"

"No. I'm still Jameson Sinclair."

"That you are."

Rubbing my tired eyes makes nothing any clearer. "I know you said you wished I could be here, but I—should I have stayed with the team?"

"I always want you with me more than I want you with the team. Always," he hisses, dark eyes on fire under the cool December sky. "It just sucks that this is the one time you made it happen."

That's probably fair, and I drop my head back to stare at the sky. "I'll try to make it happen on a better day."

"Stop."

"Stop what?" I ask, staring at him again.

"Stop talking about a future that may not be ours to have."

My gaze wanders, taking in the peacefulness of the cemetery around us. It's then I realize how many people have already left for the reception, and how close to alone we are now. Mateo's grandmother is nearby. So is his grandfather. But they're gone and we're here, and I frown at him now.

"Is that some kind of mortality thing?"

Mateo shakes his head. "No, it's a you and me thing."

Laying us to rest here is poetic. Tragic too, but mostly beautifully poetic. The only better place to do it would be on the bench where it all began, but it's too late to ask him to join me there.

"This is it, then? It's all over?"

He shakes his head again, his gorgeous face twisting into a sad smile. "Oh, I'm not sure either of us is stupid enough to believe it'll be that easy."

"We wouldn't let ourselves say goodbye that first night."

"And I don't expect us to do it now."

"But we're not waiting anymore," I murmur.

"I just don't know what we're waiting for."