Chapter 2 Ben
The dogs were on me the second I stepped into the house, leaping, sniffing, and whining in such an excited frenzy that it was like there were five of them instead of two.
Suddenly I was back on the training field, only instead of blocking tackles, I was fending off a pair of aggressively friendly dogs.
Ella raised her voice over the racket they were making. “Sam, Fred, meet Ben. Ben, I’d advise you not to let them touch you with their tongues. You’d understand why if you saw what else they’ve licked today.”
I might have cracked a smile at that if I wasn’t so keyed up.
Where the hell is Jack?
Knowing my gruff neighbor, he was probably in the living room stacking more logs on the fire.
I’d made the mistake of telling him I was originally from Hawaii, and now he worried I would freeze to death if the house fell below 80 degrees, regardless of the fact that I also told him I’d lived in the Midwest for a while and was used to the cold.
He’d acted as though this was all brand-new information. Like he had no idea who I was.
I snuck a glance at Ella. She definitely knew who I was.
It was obvious from the deer-in-headlights look she gave me in the driveway, though she recovered quick enough.
Now I just needed to see what she’d do with this knowledge.
If she was good people, like Jack claimed, she’d respect my privacy.
But part of me, the part that had grown hard and bitter and disillusioned with humanity, was waiting for her to whip out her cellphone and upload my face and location to Twitter for all the world to see, ruining the peace and quiet I’d managed to find here.
I snuck several more glances at her in between dodging the probing noses of her dogs.
She moved to the coat rack, stepped out of her boots, and then shoved down her snow pants, revealing lilac-colored leggings with little white reindeer prancing across them in a horizontal pattern.
She was tall, maybe 5’9” or 5’10”, with narrow hips and the long, solid legs of a distance runner.
I peeled my gaze away from her and ruffled the fur of the dog trying to dart past my defenses with his plague-tongue.
I liked to think that I didn’t have a “type”, but if I was being honest with myself, that was bullshit.
Looking back over my years of dating revealed a definitive pattern of tall, athletic women.
Women who could help hold themselves up if we had sex in a shower or against a wall.
Women who could wrap their muscular legs around my torso and use their strength to pull me closer, or flex their toned thighs over and over as they rose and fell above me.
I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and looked up to see this tall, athletic woman pull off her coat.
Beneath it, she wore an olive-green long-sleeved running top.
I’d had just enough fashion lessons crammed down my throat over the past decade to recognize how spectacularly the outfit clashed.
It looked like she got dressed in the dark.
She glanced down and froze at the sight of herself, eyes wide, lips twitching open in horror. Her head started to turn toward me – likely to check if I’d noticed her fashion faux pas – and I shifted my gaze back to her dogs before she could catch me staring.
I risked another peek a minute later, just in time to watch her pull her shirt down a few inches and rest the hem of it against the fabric of her leggings to double-check that, yes, those colors were truly heinous together.
She let it go with a huff, then yanked off her knitted hat.
A rat’s nest of flame-colored, sweat-damp hair tumbled loose.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror, made a choking noise, and raked the mess into a ponytail. “Of all the frigging days,” she muttered.
The whole debacle was kind of endearing to witness, but I’d learned that people didn’t like to be laughed at when they were embarrassed, so I hid my amusement.
The Huskies had used my momentary distraction to press themselves closer, wiggling their butts so quickly that they almost blurred. One managed to sneak past my guard. A blast of hot, stinking breath hit my nose – the only warning I had before a slimy tongue slipped up the side of my neck.
“Jesus,” I said, straightening back to my full height, out of their reach. I loved dogs, but they could be gross sometimes.
“Beer,” Ella said, turning toward the fridge. “Only beer can help me now.”
In full agreement, I wiped the drool from my skin and followed her into the kitchen.
The light was better here, and I caught my first good look at her face as she passed.
She had a creamy complexion with olive undertones, strikingly pale blue eyes, and a smattering of freckles across her button nose.
She was pretty. Really pretty. Even with matted hair and cheeks a little blotchy from the cold.
She opened the door of the fridge and mostly disappeared behind it as she ducked down to inspect its contents.
Mostly being the operative word. Her festive butt was the only part of her still visible.
I was suddenly aware of just how long it had been since I’d been around an attractive woman.
If Jack walked in now, he’d catch me staring.
“Any oatmeal stout left?” I asked.
She made a pained noise in response, and, without straightening, handed me one over the top of the door.
I frowned and moved to take it.
Jack rejoined us then, stopping beside me to clap a hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t mind Ella. Her sense of humor takes a little while to get used to.
She likes to say things that are only funny if you were part of her conversation from twenty minutes before.
Or a week ago.” He gave me a long-suffering look and lowered his voice.
“I miss a lot of the ones I think I’m meant to get. ”
“Ah, gotcha,” I said. But I didn’t really.
Needing something to do to keep my gaze from being drawn back to Ella’s reindeer-covered ass, I uncapped my beer and took a healthy swig, savoring the beer’s depth and complexity. This was by far the best homebrew I’d ever had.
Jack leaned in and mock-whispered, “She called on the way over and asked about the oatmeal stout. I told her I’d save the last two for her.”
Her pained groan suddenly made sense.
“Oh, uh, sorry, Ella. I already took a sip,” I told her.
She closed the fridge, the last of the oatmeal stout in hand, and turned toward us, revealing the full glory of her outfit to Jack for the first time.
He spluttered and took an exaggerated step back, hand over his heart. “Holy Hannah! Were you suddenly struck colorblind?”
“I’ll have you know that this is the new style, Jack,” she said. “Matchy-matchy is out. Clashy-clashy is in.”
Jack looked to me, as if for help, and I just shrugged, starting to both understand and appreciate Ella’s particular brand of humor. It seemed like the kind that left other people feeling slightly off-kilter but stopped well short of being mean-spirited or turning them into the butt of her jokes.
She turned to me. “It’s okay about the beer, Ben. I can share like any other well-adjusted adult.”
Jack opened his mouth. I could tell by his expression that something smart-assed was about to come out of it.
So could Ella. “Shut it,” she told him.
He chuckled in response and wisely kept his unspoken comment to himself.
One of the dogs moved in then, to press against Ella’s leg and look up at her with large, inquisitive eyes.
She leaned down to pet him. “Ready to take a nap?”
The dog sighed heavily, looking past ready.
She turned and led us into the living room.
I liked Jack’s place. It was simple, straight forward, a lot like the man himself.
The kitchen was small and tidy. A center island with barstools tucked beneath it doubled as the dining area.
The living room was dominated by a fireplace made of river rock instead of the traditional brick, with rustic, comfortable armchairs and a couch spread out around it.
Down the hallway were a bedroom, a home office, and a bathroom.
Upstairs, two more bedrooms sat tucked under the rafters.
I doubted the man even owned a television.
My gaze strayed back to Ella, following the swish of her fiery ponytail as she walked.
I’d only known her for a few minutes, but I already felt something for her.
Sometimes, you meet people, and you just know that there’s potential there, be it for unforgettable sex, or intense, burning dislike and antagonization.
While Ella was attractive, my intuition told me I could be friends with her.
Good friends. That indefinable thing, that “click” was just… there.
I couldn’t remember the last friend I’d made outside of football-related circles.
As a kid, I’d hit it off with almost everyone I met.
I was a good read of people. I was easy-going, quick to trust, and even quicker to forgive.
Now I wasn’t good with strangers. It was the lack of trust I’d developed.
Or so I told myself. Because that’s what I hoped it was.
Deep down, I was afraid it was something else. I didn’t doubt that I had some level of brain injury, regardless of that “inconclusive” MRI I had after Zach died. I’d had concussions. I’d run head and shoulder first into dudes my size or bigger for nearly two decades, and had them hit me in return.
Just like my brother.
How extensive the damage to my brain was, I had no idea, because I hadn’t subjected myself to the more in-depth tests needed to search for signs of Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy.
Would that degenerative brain disease lead me to suffer a life-ending seizure, like Zach?
Or slip-slide my way into irrational, uncontrollable anger, paranoia, and violent outbursts, like some of the retired pros I’d met had?
Or would I be one of the lucky asymptomatic few?