Chapter 23 #3
Quietly sipping at her cocktail, she looks my way.
“You’re a great motivational speaker.”
Her chuckle is low and satisfied. “So my man keeps telling me.”
“Well, listen to him. He knows of what he speaks.” My cheeks warm as I open myself up just a little bit more to the world. “You’re also a good friend.”
She looks at me thoughtfully. “I know how shy you are, and it’s difficult for you to open up. So what you say means that much more to me.”
God, my cheeks must be red. They burn hot, but I don’t lower my gaze. And she grins. “That’s the way. You’re a good friend too, Pen.”
“Well, then. Here’s to thinking smarter.”
“And while you’re doing that, consider giving your man a little break. I know he blunders in his zeal to fix things for you, but it’s obvious that boy is so in love with you he’s not thinking clearly.”
An unpleasant jolt hits my heart. He cares, but he doesn’t love me. The lies August and I are weaving tighten just a bit more. I want to brush them off like cobwebs, yet they’re too sticky. But this play between us isn’t forever. That doesn’t mean I can’t become more of who I want to be.
The last dregs of cocktail go down sticky sweet.
“I definitely want to see your house,” I tell Monica.
Likely she knows I’m desperate to change the subject away from August.
And she’s kind enough to let me. “Can you come over this weekend?”
“I can.”
Her smile is easy, and somehow just a little different than the ones I’ve seen her give in multiple performances. “You know, Pen, I just bought a beach house in Santa Barbara that’s in desperate need of some personality.”
Nice work if you can get it.
Setting my glass securely in the tray, I take off my sunglasses and sit forward. “Maybe we should go there too.”
“Oh, we will.”
With a grin, I slide off the lounger and slip into the cool clear water, letting it rise over my head.
August
Win, that’s what she told me. That’s what I do.
One step at a time. Every game is a new opportunity.
Every play is another push forward to the ultimate goal.
It ain’t easy, but nothing worth having ever is.
I swear I heard that line in a movie—most likely one of Penelope’s picks.
She always chooses the ones that have lines to remember.
Winning at pro football, I’m beginning to learn, is more than a mind-fuck.
I’m not in control of every player’s performance.
Not possible. Defense has to deliver, and there’s shit-all I can do about them.
But my men? The offensive line, the backfield, and the receiving core.
Eleven of us are united in one main objective: forward momentum, score. It’s that simple. And that difficult.
On any given play, we can fuck up, including me.
The trick is to mitigate those errors. First by playing without fear, hesitation, or flaw.
And if I do fuck up? Pull it back together, and show my team that it’s all good, we still got this.
My job is part actor faking out the defense, part director leading my guys downfield, and part performer getting that ball into the right hands by brilliant handoffs or perfectly timed and aimed throws.
We’re in a sweet spot now, a smoothly running machine. It’s a heady sensation. A drug-free high. Defense picks up on it as well, shutting down teams and dominating with vigor. We’re now the ones to beat. Which means everyone is gunning for us.
Though I’m well protected, when I do get hit, I fucking feel it. God, do I feel it.
My body thrums like one big bruise as I gingerly get onto my hotel bed and rest against the pillows. I’ve done my postgame ice soak, been stretched and rubbed down by my excellent PT. And I’ve been fed, a nice dinner of chicken, rice, and veggies. Everything a growing QB needs.
I miss Penelope’s food. She claims she’s no chef, but whatever she makes me is delicious. Maybe because it’s her cooking.
I miss seeing her eyes light up when I get her to smile. It feels like a gift every time. I collect mental snapshots of her smiles, hoarding them like a dragon would gold coins.
Alone in my darkened hotel room with The Hobbit: The Desolation of Smaug playing quietly in the background, I feel something I haven’t in years—lonely.
I’ve tried to put a bit of distance from Pen when we weren’t making a public appearance. I can’t go on interacting with her as I have with this agreement hanging between us as it is. It isn’t fair to either of us. Maintaining distance, however, has proven more difficult than expected.
“Fuck it.” I pull up Pen’s number.
She answers on the third ring. “You won!”
Pleasure and pride mix in a cocktail of warmth, and I smile. “You saw that?”
“I did. Monica and I watched it at her house. She has a theater room. An actual one with a concession stand.”
“I have one of those too,” I tell her, adjusting to ease an ache in my lower back. “When I get home, you should come over and we’ll watch one of your old Hollywood flicks. Casablanca, Notorious, or something.”
“Those are both Ingrid Bergman movies,” Pen points out, clearly pleased I even know of them. Of course I do. She loves classic movies. So I watch them when I can.
“She’s hot.”
In truth, however, I empathize with the heroes who had to sit back and stoically watch the women they love drift farther and farther out of their reach while they pretend it isn’t destroying their soul.
Clearing my throat, I pull a light tone. “So you’re hanging out with Monica?”
The girls have gone back home, and from what I can tell Pen doesn’t have any other friends here.
“She’s great. I don’t know what I expected at first, but she’s fun and just . . . normal.”
Having met my fair share of famous people at this point, they usually fall into two categories: assholes or awesome. I’m happy that Monica is the latter, both for my teammate Jelly and for my girl.
Though she might not see it that way, Pen is my girl. I can’t think of her any other way.
“I’m glad you two clicked,” I tell her. Pen has always been a bit of a loner, but before college, she had my sisters. I don’t like the thought of her all alone.
She hesitates, and I can feel a push of tension through the line. But before I can ask why, she’s talking again. “It looks like you’re clicking with your team as well.”
I don’t think that’s what she was initially going to say, but her pleased tone distracts me. “That I am.”
“You took a few hard hits.”
I rub a hand along my flat belly. There’s a bruise blooming along the side. Ugly fucker. But what can you do? “I got up. That’s always a plus.”
“Yes,” she agrees dryly. “There’s that.” She pauses, then says with clear hesitation, “It’s hard to watch, sometimes.”
“It probably looks worse than it feels.” Probably. “I’m well padded.”
“That one guy who slammed into you after the play? I wanted to punch his dick.”
A shocked laugh bursts free, and though my body does not approve of the sudden jostle, my mood lifts.
The fuck-face defensive tackle’s late hit was most definitely personal.
He didn’t like our winning streak very much.
I made sure to point out the scoreboard to him with a one finger salute at the end of the game. Fucko.
“I would have loved to see that,” I tell Pen, still grinning.
“He wouldn’t have seen it coming. I’m small but speedy. And I got good aim. I’ve been practicing my Bruce Lee one-inch punch.”
Another chuckle escapes. “Oh, you have? Remind me not to piss you off.”
God. I miss her.
“August,” she sounds reproachful. “I would never hit you.”
“No?”
“No, my violence is reserved for bullies.” She pauses a beat, and her voice turns sly. “And we both know you’re far too sweet.”
This girl. She’s pure endorphins to my system. Before now, only football accomplished that. And yet, this high I feel with her is different. At the end of the day, football is only a game. One day I won’t be able to play. But Penelope?
I need her.
“Now, Penelope,” I chide, loving our game, “I thought we discussed this whole ‘calling me sweet’ thing.”
Only then does it occur to me that last time we “discussed” this topic, it ended up with Pen on her back and me being seconds away from claiming her soft mouth. And she’d balked.
Hell.
I can’t do this anymore. Not with Pen. Eventually, she’ll pick up on my duplicity. I might lose her. Either way I flip it, I might lose her. The thought has my blood running cold.
This is where I tell her the truth: that I’d like to renegotiate. That I want her. Just her. No game day kisses, unless they’re real. I want the real.
“Pen—” In the background comes the sound of a woman laughing. I pause, recognizing the voice. “You’re still with Monica?”
“We’re going to get dinner. It’s early here.”
Which means I can’t talk to her about this now.
“West Coast. Right. I can’t remember where I am half the time.”
Sympathy laces her voice. “Get some sleep.”
Not likely.