Chapter 30
Chiara cutsme off of the prescription painkillers, and I make do with over-the-counter pills. I’m still stiff and sore, and in my worst moments, I wonder if I’ll ever play football again. It seems unlikely when I’m still coming back from the university aching and spending whole evenings on the couch.
Vincente and I are not talking.
Bell came by to check on me last night, declared me “mopey,” and cooked me dinner.
Tonight, though, I grit my teeth and climb the stairs. It still hurts, but Chiara says it’ll get better if I keep moving.
When I reach the top of the stairs, my eye catches on Emma. She’s sitting outside her door, on the floor, back propped up against the wall.
She’s already blushing. I stop at her feet and look down at her.
“Are you okay?”
“I, uh…locked myself out. Probably.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Probably?”
“Well, I can’t find my keys, and I’m assuming they are inside the door. It’s also possible I dropped them somewhere. Or that they are, in fact, in my bag but I can’t find them. Which has, unfortunately, happened before. Don’t worry, I’ve called the landlord.”
“I see.”
I should invite her to my place to wait, but I am grouchy and miserable, and I worry I’ll snap at her, and then I’ll have to apologize again.
But I’m still tempted. I think part of me just wants to spend more time with Emma, and honestly, that side of me can fuck right off. It’s hard enough to see her in passing at university and to hear about her, even off-handedly, from the rest of the faculty and to have moments like this one, where we’re essentially at home, and she’s still invading my thoughts.
“Good luck,” I say, perhaps with a bit more curtness than she deserves. Whether Emma notices or not, she gives me a chipper, “Thanks. Have a good night,” and I retreat to my apartment.
Zola greets me at the door with a meow, waiting impatiently for me to put my things down so I can properly greet her. Because of my back, though, I don’t bend down to pick her up, and after a few minutes, she storms off in a huff to her loft.
I change clothes and pour a glass of wine. There’s a football game on tonight, Roma versus Atalanta, that I plan to watch.
Mario, the landlord, won’t take long to get here with a set of keys, right? Emma’s in the hallway, not stuck outside where unscrupulous men might make her uncomfortable.
I recline on the couch, cushions supporting my lower back with my phone in one hand, glass of wine in the other, planning to catch up on emails and whatnot. Eventually, Zola joins me in her usual spot on my chest, and I ignore her, just how she likes it, and soon she’s purring and face planted.
About two sips into my wine and five emails down I give in. Sighing, I sit up, dislodging Zola, who makes her displeasure very well known. My back complains too, but tough shit.
I’ll just peek my head out. Maybe Emma’s not even there anymore.
Except I do, and she is. She looks up at me and gives me a tentative smile.
“Would you like to come in while you wait?” I ask.
She hesitates, and I feel less alone having debated the offer if she’s debating accepting. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Emma gathers her things, shoving most of it back into her bag but leaving two spiral notebooks on the floor—she’d unpacked quite a bit, perhaps in another attempt to find her keys. With an audible “oomph,” and her other hand pushing against the wall, she gets on her feet, wincing.
Her knees didn’t pop like mine do, but I know the feeling. She wiggles a bit, which does something quite nice to her breasts in her blouse, and when she catches me watching her, she blushes. “My butt fell asleep.”
I’m awash in guilt. By trying not to tempt myself, I’ve let her sit out for far too long. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t, I suppose.
Emma bends down to pick up the last of the notebooks and holds them while I lead her into my apartment. When I close it, our gazes catch, and we’re face-to-face in this small entryway.
Months ago, in another entryway, I was on my knees. More recently, she was here on my bed, crying out while I ate her pussy.
Emma might be thinking the same thing because her eyes widen and her lips part. I can nearly taste her again; it’s such a thick memory.
And then Zola jumps off the couch and runs through the main room up to her loft, breaking the moment. I step back. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Please,” says Emma. She sets her bag on the floor and the notebooks on my kitchen counter. I almost ask what kind she wants—I have two more open in the fridge—but refrain. It’s too much like that first night, comparing her to wines. I pour a glass of the same wine I’m drinking and turn back to Emma. She’s looking at a framed photograph on the wall, a picture of me and Bell at her university last year.
“How’s Bell?”
“Good. She was here last night.”
“That’s nice,” Emma remarks. “The worst part about coming here was seeing my kids less. They’re in college, and only one of them is in Austin, so it’s not like my ex-husband sees them more, but still. I no longer am the place for laundry and a hot meal.”
I give Emma the glass of wine and return to my spot on the couch. She doesn’t sit with me but wanders the room, looking at my things. I don’t think there’s anything terribly interesting—old textbooks on the table, more photos on the walls, and the view out the window.
“There’s a football match—our football, your soccer. Would you like to watch it with me?”
“The only thing I know about soccer is the red card and the ‘goooooooaaaaalllll,’” she says with a smile. “Is it the same here?”
I tilt my head back and forth. “More or less.” I turn the television on to the pre-match show and Emma joins me on the couch, finally.
After a few quiet moments of wine sipping and watching the TV, Emma speaks up. “I know you play. Is that how you got injured?”
“Yes.” I explain the strain and how I’m still recovering, but there’s not much to do but rest and let it heal. I don’t voice my concerns that I might not play again.
Emma frowns. “Soccer—I mean football—is a fast game. How do you keep up with other players? No offense,” she adds quickly, “but you are, um…”
Amused, I put her out of her misery. “I play on the over-fifty team,” I allow. “But it is still a tough sport.”
“Oh, right. That makes sense. Like how there’s age levels for kids. I can imagine it would be hard to compete with a twenty-year-old.” She pauses in thought. “I don’t work out much. Sara, my vegan friend?” I nod. “She teaches yoga, so I do her classes to keep somewhat healthy. Though you won’t catch me running.” She sips her wine as the players walk into the stadium, holding hands with young kids. “Do you play offense or defense?”
When I tell her I play winger, she looks at me blankly, so I explain the positions and by the time that’s done, the match has started, so then I teach her how football works. I’m sitting up, pointing out various moves and players on the screen, when Zola graces us with her presence. She winds around my shins while I’m explaining penalty kicks, and then she gets up on her hind legs, front paws on my knee, and meows at me.
I know what she wants, so I sit back on the couch and let her climb up onto my chest. I run an absent-minded hand over her back once she’s in place and purring.
“Huh, that explains it,” Emma says.
“Explains what?”
She gestures in a wide circle toward Zola. “Your white shirt had black hairs on it right at the center of your chest, and now I see why.”
I look at Zola, who’s put her face down already so I can only see the back of her head and her ears.
“What’s happening now?” Emma asks, and I return my attention to the match. Emma asks good questions, and seems to respect the game, for an American. She’s halfway through her glass of wine, and the smell of it and her is making me think about the night I met her.
Best to think about something else, especially with Zola in my lap.
We’re twenty-three minutes into the first half when there’s a slam next door and soft little yips come through the wall. Oliver is home. Zola lifts her head and her ears spin, contemplating whether or not she should complain about the noise.
Emma and I share a glance.
“Do you like dogs?”
Do I like dogs? Sure. Do I like Oliver? No. That little bastard barks every time I get my dick out, so no, I’m not a fan. I will not tell Emma that, though. That would cross a line.
“He scared you into pepper spraying me,” I say instead. The words are definitely bitter, but I suppose being pepper sprayed is enough to justify it, even if the little shit wasn’t the one pulling the trigger, and instead it was this bright, beautiful woman.
Emma chuckles. “True. I think it’s fair to hold a grudge, then. He barks a lot. Especially when…” She trails off, and then a flush spreads over her neck and cheeks.
“Especially when what?” I ask, though I already have a guess.