CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Emery
I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor of Lucas’s apartment. I’m wrapped in another one of his T-shirts because putting the trench coat back on for clothing is rather ridiculous. I have a carton of lo mein balanced on my knee.
The room smells like sex and soy sauce. It’s oddly perfect and yet . . . it doesn’t quite go together, just like we don’t.
Lucas is leaning against the front of the couch, bare chest, a pair of gym shorts hung low on his waist, and chopsticks held loosely in his fingers like he forgot they were even there. His attention isn’t on food anyway. It’s been on me.
And it has been ever since we slid off the kitchen counter and stopped panting like we’d just finished a marathon.
“You’re staring,” I say, lifting my wineglass and taking a sip.
He shrugs, unapologetic. “Can’t help it.”
I twirl noodles around my chopsticks, pretending those three words don’t make my stomach flutter. “You could try.”
“Why would I do that?” His fingers reach for me, slow and lazy, catching a strand of my hair and sliding it through them. Just touching me in the simplest way.
And if I’m honest with myself, this is the part I’m not used to.
Not the hunger. Not the sex. This. The quiet absent-minded affection that doesn’t seem to want anything in return.
With Jared, a touch always meant he wanted sex. There was no touching just to touch. There was no kissing without an endgame in mind. But Lucas is tactile. It’s as though he touches me to reassure me of his attention.
It’s refreshing and new and definitely something to get used to.
It makes my chest ache in a way that feels dangerous. And exhilarating.
I take another sip of my wine simply to give myself something to do. “You’re going to spill your food if you keep doing too many things with your hands.”
His eyebrows quirk up as a devilish smile slides across his lips.
“That is not what I mean,” I say and swat at him.
“It would be worth it on so many levels though.”
I shake my head and smile. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet,” he says, brushing his thumb along my jaw, “here you are. Sitting on my floor. Thinking about what just happened. Drinking my wine.”
“I brought the wine.”
He smirks. “Still counts.”
Silence settles between us—not awkward, not heavy—just . . . there. Comfortable as the news plays on the television in front of us without sound on and neither of us paying much attention to it.
“So tell me things, Lucas Hale.”
“Things?” he asks, head tilting to the side.
“Yeah. Were you a heartbreaker in high school? What are your pet peeves? What is one bucket list item? What is your biggest fear?” I shrug. “Those kinds of things.”
“Wow, she gets counter sex and then hits with the hard questions.” He takes a bite of his kung pao chicken.
“They’re not hard questions. They’re get-to-know-you questions.”
He nods. “Only if you answer them too.”
“That’s fair,” I say.
“Which one first? Heartbreaker in high school?”
“That works.” I shift to lean back against the chair across from the couch so that we can face each other. It also puts me out of arm’s reach of him and, as if he inherently noticed that, he reaches out and rests his free hand on my calf where my legs are stretched out before him.
“Not a heartbreaker that I know of. I was too obsessed with football. Did I date my fair share of girls? Yeah. That comes with the star quarterback territory, but I wasn’t a player or anything like that.”
“So in this case, nice guys didn’t finish last?” I ask.
“Exactly. You?”
“I was a nerd. I preferred sitting in the biology lab at lunch versus socializing. I mean, I did socialize, but I preferred my own small set of friends versus huge crowds of people who would never understand why I preferred the harder classes so that I could get into med school someday.”
“Admirable.” He nods. “The next one . . . pet peeves, I think? I’m pretty easygoing to be honest. I don’t think I have any.”
“Everybody has a pet peeve.”
“Let me think.” He purses his lips. “How about people who are late for everything? It’s not that hard. You know when you have to be somewhere, so get there on time.”
“Noted. One of mine as well.” I click my tongue as I try and figure out another of mine. “Oh, I hate it when people don’t put things back where they belong. Drives me insane. You grab the milk from the fridge from spot A, you put it back in spot A.”
He barks out a laugh. “Don’t look now, your Type A is showing.”
I roll my eyes. “It shows a lot. I’m sorry for that. Um, bucket list was next, right?”
“You’re the one who asked the questions.
” His hands move to my feet and start massaging my arch.
I groan in appreciation, but when I open my eyes and meet his again, I can tell the groan made him think of earlier.
His eyes are dark, and I’m not even going to look and see if his dick is hardening—at least not until we’re finished eating.
“Bucket list. I’d like to work for Doctors Without Borders one summer. I get to help people every day—help athletes keep their careers—but I’d love to do something that unequivocally changes a person’s life. Fix a kid’s cleft palate. Work somewhere with limited resources where my skill is needed.”
“That’s awesome. What’s stopped you from doing it before now?”
“I’ve wanted to establish myself and build a solid reputation. Gain relevant experience. Then I can take a sabbatical and do something like that.”
The way he looks at me—admiration, pride, and astonishment . . . I don’t think Jared ever looked at me like that.
“Bucket list. I’d like to travel the world.
So much of my time is spent preparing for the season, playing in the season, and then recovering from the season, so I don’t get extended time to travel from one place to another.
I think learning about other cultures and places and getting to live them would be fulfilling. ”
“I love that. Biggest fear?”
Lucas leans his head back, eyes drifting to the ceiling. The playful edge fades as something that clearly weighs on his mind turns into words. “Not being able to play football again.”
I don’t answer right away, because the truth is, I expected that answer. I expected it especially from a man who has had a devastating shoulder injury and continues to fight like hell through it so he can keep playing. So many others would have walked away by now.
“Hard truth? That’s going to happen someday.” I rock my foot back and forth, so his hand moves and jogs him to meet my eyes. “One day you’re going to have to walk away from this game that you love and that has given you so much.”
His jaw tightens. Not angry. Just more wanting to deny it but doesn’t.
“And when it does, you’ll find out that there is so much more to you than this game.”
He looks at me then. Really looks. “You always talk like that,” he finally says.
“Like what?”
“Like you see something I don’t.”
I shrug. “I guess it’s an occupational hazard.”
He snorts, then studies me for a beat. “So why sports medicine?”
I set my noodles aside and shrug. “I like broken things.”
“People or bodies?”
“Yes.” He chuckles but waits, so I keep going. “I like fixing what everyone else assumes is done. I like proving there’s still value where people stop looking.”
His gaze doesn’t leave my face. “I guess I should feel lucky that you’re still looking at me, huh?”
Our eyes meet and hold. There’s both sadness and appreciation in his tone. And I get a sense that he’s going to fight the end of his career with a vengeance rather than acknowledge and accept it.
And that makes me sad.
Does he not see his worth outside of the grid? That he’s kindhearted and intelligent and funny? That he has more life left to live than he’s already lived?
Sure, it’s my job to fix his broken things from the game, but who will fix his broken things when he’s off the field?
The irony and unspoken fact, though, is that I hold some of those cards for him. My decisions on the status of his shoulder will not only affect him but affect whatever this is between us.
Not an easy truth to accept.
“What comes next for you, Lucas? What else do you want out of life? A family? What?”
“This seems to be the topic of conversation lately.” I can tell he’s not comfortable with the topic, but I push anyway.
“You have a reputation. Likable. Knowledgeable. Have you ever thought of becoming an analyst or a scout or . . . I don’t know.”
“Those jobs are few and far between—”
“But you’re not just any player . . .”
He shrugs and focuses on his food rather than meeting my eyes. “This isn’t how I want to go out.”
“No one said you are going out.”
“You clearly haven’t been reading the papers,” he jokes and laughs.
“I always told myself that I’d go out on top.
This—being a second-string QB with an injured shoulder—is not that.
So maybe I’m holding on too long. Maybe my dream isn’t realistic.
But then again, neither was wishing for the career I have and that happened so . . .”
“Point taken. I didn’t mean to push. I was just curious.”
He nods. “You and Brendan and Derrick and on and on.” He laughs. He twists his lips and then looks up and meets my eyes. “For the record, I don’t do this.”
“What’s that?”
“This part that we’re doing right now. The staying. The talking. The ordering food instead of pretending that what’s happening isn’t happening or that it’s nothing.”
I swallow as I stare at his hand on my foot, nodding. There is no rush or scrambling to explain his comment away, just a slow acceptance that there is actually something here. Just the understanding that we’re both standing in the same place, even if neither of us is ready to name it yet.
I smile and say, “There’s no one I’ve wanted to do this part now with. Not for a long time.”
“You’re taking risks for this. Please know that I appreciate that.”
I don’t know why those words, his acknowledgment means so much to me. Maybe because Jared was an everything for himself type of guy, and Lucas seems to be the polar opposite.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “I had a meeting with Grant today.” I need to change the subject before I say something reckless.
Lucas’s hand stills. “And?”
“I thought I was in trouble. Like heart-racing, stomach-in-my throat, I’d-been-fraternizing-with-a-player trouble.”
His brows knit. “What happened?”
“He noticed how much time I’ve been spending at the office. How late I clock out. Security footage of me leaving.”
“Shit—”
“It was fine,” I say quickly. “He said my dedication had been noticed. That it counts.”
Lucas exhales, relief edged in the tone. “Good. I was worried for a second.”
“You have no idea. It scared me though. How fast everything could change if . . .”
His thumb traces a slow circle on the top of my foot. “That’s fair.”
What’s next? The question floats through my mind. The reckless comment I wanted to make is still there when I look at him. I feel so much more than I should.
But for now, there’s lo mein going cold on the table, a half-finished glass of wine, and for the first time in a long time, I like where I am in my life.