Chapter Nineteen LIAM
Chapter Nineteen
L IAM
Something was fucking bugging me, and I couldn’t push the thought out of my mind. Not after the swim lesson, and not after I went to the facilities for a particularly brutal session with our conditioning coach.
It wasn’t anything Zoe had done or said. There wasn’t a specific action I could point to.
Maybe it had happened when I set up the girls’ night for her—shouldering responsibility for her well-being and something that didn’t involve Mira.
Maybe it had happened when Mira decimated the last of my reserves and I slept on that fucking couch all night, just so I wouldn’t have to move her.
I’d hardly noticed the slow crumbling until it was all too late.
Not long after my mum married Nigel, we went on holiday in Wales, the first time I’d ever been to the beach. For hours, I slid wet sand into a massive pile, cupping my hands and patting it down into place, crafting a structure that seemed, to my mind, indestructible.
It wasn’t one wave that knocked it over. Nothing that came in from the offing to bring all my progress down. It was gradual. Little laps of water at the base until the top started to slide out of place and the whole thing went sideways.
I still wasn’t sure if Zoe was the water or if the passing of our days had simply slowly destroyed something that I’d built over time.
Whatever it was, my mind couldn’t stop spinning around the question that I’d never really gotten an answer to.
Whatever it was ... I felt off-balance. Exposed.
“You okay?”
I glanced over at Richards, dipping my chin in a brief nod. “Fine.”
My brusque reply didn’t deter him, and I had to give him credit for that. Kid might’ve had a rocky start to his time here, especially with me, but he’d mellowed the last couple of months.
No tabloids. No strip joints. Just keeping his head down and working his ass off as we rounded the corner to training camp.
One of the veteran linemen gave Richards a friendly shove. “Don’t let him off that easy. We all know when he’s in a normal pissy mood and when he’s extra crispy.”
I rolled my eyes. “I’m not extra crispy, you twat.”
“You did almost rip Coach’s head off during the tackling drill.”
“You also set the Denver record for most curse words dropped in a thirty-second span when Richards knocked you over that one time.”
Richards grinned, holding his hand up for a fist bump, which I ignored. But he had planted his feet well and managed to knock me over, so I smacked him in the stomach instead.
“All of that usually adds up to an extra-bad mood for Liam Davies,” Richards continued. “I know the variations well enough by now.”
“Yeah? Tell me what this means.” I flipped him off and increased the length of my stride as we neared the locker room.
“Come on, Liam,” he said. “It’s never healthy to keep all that shit bottled up. My mom used to let me scream into a pillow whenever I got mad.”
He meant it to be funny, but I was too worked up and had too much energy still pulsing unchecked through my veins with nowhere to go. I gave him a look, and his smile faded.
To his credit, he squared his shoulders and didn’t drop my gaze. “Just trying to say that we’re here for you, if there’s anything you want to talk about.”
I held his stare for a few seconds longer. “There’s not.”
I kept my shower quick and cold, and when I finished rinsing off, I whipped a towel around my waist and marched back into the room.
“I’ll tell you what my fucking problem is,” I barked. They all turned toward me, not a lick of surprise on any of their asshole faces. “It’s going fine at home, yeah? We’re getting along, and I’d probably die for that little girl, and it feels like this weird little family unit that I don’t understand, and Zoe is ...” My chest heaved, and I was unable to follow the threads of that thought. She felt like home . One that I didn’t deserve. I didn’t deserve either of them. “We’ve got to take Mira to some fucking shrink tomorrow to talk, but what the bloody hell am I supposed to say? I still can’t fucking tell you why my best friend chose me for this and didn’t explain it to me. Didn’t ask if I wanted all this responsibility.” I could hardly breathe because the words were coming out so fast and furious. “He never asked. And it pisses me off.”
Trey looked around the room, then settled his steady fucking eyes on me. “Would you have said yes if he did?”
“Fuck no.”
“That’s probably why he didn’t ask,” Trey answered smoothly.
“Well, isn’t that fucking logical,” I snapped. “But he still didn’t explain it. I can’t ... I can’t wrap my head around any of it. Why it feels different now and why it seems easier, because it shouldn’t. I’m not good at any of this.”
Blood churned hot in my veins, and my heart was thudding in my ears, a rapid-fire drum that I couldn’t slow. My fist clenched, and I felt that urge.
Pick something up and throw it.
Smash a chair against a wall, just to have an outlet.
Trey saw it in my eyes too, because he didn’t look away. The asshole hardly blinked.
“Would it matter if he’d explained it? If he’d written a big heartfelt letter telling you all the reasons why you’d be perfect for her?” Trey’s eyes burned, and I wanted to look away, but I didn’t. “Would you have believed him?”
The denial stuck deep in my throat. I’d need a fucking crowbar to pry it loose, and it would likely make me bleed if I managed to get it out. Rip at an artery, something vital that I wouldn’t be able to fix.
No.
I wouldn’t have believed him. No matter what he would’ve said.
Trey nodded slowly, and I knew the answer was clear in my eyes.
Richards glanced between us. “Y’all talk about some deep shit in this locker room,” he said quietly. “My last team, all we talked about was football and women.”
A few guys laughed, and I managed to exhale some of my tension.
“What about the stuff in his locker?” Richards added.
My head snapped in his direction. “What do you mean?”
“Did you ever look through that stuff? You know, after you had that last temper tantrum where you shoved everything into a box and pretended like you were ready to move on.”
Someone whistled.
I took a step closer to Richards, chin lifted defiantly. “Pretended?” I asked, voice dangerous and low.
And that little fucker, he shrugged. “Just calling it for what it is. You’re clearly not over anything. That’s why you were asking for advice about the friend and why you’re asking this now. You keep all that shit locked down until there’s nowhere for it to go.”
His words haunted me the entire drive home, as did the telling silence coming from my teammates.
Probably because he was right.
I drove aimlessly, in no rush to get home, because I knew that I’d have to open that stupid box only to come up empty-handed. Only to wind up frustrated yet again.
The sun was starting to set when I finally pulled into the garage, and I took a moment with my head resting back against the seat before I went into the house.
I wondered when the thought of Zoe and Mira in there waiting for me would feel normal. When the sight of them together wouldn’t gut me the way it had that morning. The two of them cuddled in bed, her hair a bloody nightmare, so beautiful that my heart locked tight in my chest.
I didn’t want to feel anything like that when I saw her. Saw them together. I didn’t want to shoulder this overwhelming burden that would never go away.
Because somehow they both felt like mine.
Mine to take care of.
To protect.
And that also meant they were mine to hurt. Mine to ruin with all the shit that ran through my head.
My phone was heavy in my hand, and I stared at the screen, gripped with the sudden urge to call my mum. I’d been independent of my family for so long that it wasn’t an impulse I dealt with often.
Ruthlessly, I pushed that down because I knew what she’d say.
She’d never really understood why I was so firm in my resolve to stay alone, chalking it up to a child’s fears that would ease as I got older. Except they hadn’t.
That’s the thing about our fears. They don’t magically disappear unless you’re willing to face them, and this was the one thing in my life that I’d never been able to look squarely in the eye.
The house was quiet when I entered, and I had to wrestle past guilt over likely missing Mira’s bedtime. There were sounds coming from upstairs, and I decided not to interrupt, especially if Zoe was winding her down. Imagining Zoe’s annoyed expression if I got Mira ramped up right before bed took a corkscrew to my heart.
How was it possible to crave something so simple?
That’s how I should’ve known I was arse over tit for that woman. I wanted her ire. Her irritation. The fire she seemed to spit at me alone. It was a heat I’d never felt from anyone else, and with slow, steady tending—moments and days and months and years—an addiction to it had been born.
I found myself heading down the hallway and past the playroom, then slowly pushing open the door to the office. The room was dark, the walls covered with family snapshots in black frames next to candid shots of Chris’s career.
A masochistic part of me wanted to stand there in the dark and study them. Let the pain of the moment slice me open. Analyze my friend’s face from the pieces of his past.
But I didn’t.
The box sat on the corner of the desk, and I took a deep breath before ripping off the tape.
There was stupid shit from his locker: mouth guards and eye black and a sleeveless shirt left behind from his last day at the facilities.
My fist grasped on to that shirt so tightly that my fingers shook, and with slow, methodical breaths, I was finally able to set it down.
I’d underestimated the anger I still held inside over the senseless way they’d died, something carefully locked away where I refused to poke at it.
And I still refused. In that moment, I knew better. It snarled dangerously, like if I came too close, it would take off a limb.
After only a couple of minutes, I thought maybe I was on a fool’s errand. That a fruitless search for some piece of clarity would leave me frustrated, leave things worse than they were before.
I made it to the bottom of the box and found nothing.
My chest felt cold and empty, and my hands twitched restlessly. I tugged open the drawer closest to me, then riffled through pens and paper clips and loose cords.
I’d left this room alone since the day I moved in, and I couldn’t quite figure out why. Maybe because it was the place that most felt like his.
I pulled open another drawer and exhaled a short laugh when I saw a bottle of whiskey, the black-and-gold label of an expensive brand. Chris rarely drank, much like me. But when we did ... this was what we shared.
Turning the bottle in my hands, I studied the way the light from the hallway came through the rich amber liquid.
Down the hallway, I could hear Zoe moving through the kitchen. A drawer opening, soft music emanating from the little speaker she kept in the corner underneath the cabinets. If I concentrated hard enough, I could probably make out the sound of her humming along.
Longing hit me like a lightning bolt, clean through from head to toe. That particular feeling—the craving for something I didn’t have—was a strange beast, something I wasn’t sure I’d ever master.
I couldn’t mold it like a muscle, hone it with a machine or certain exercises, the way I’d done with my body, with my ability to play the game.
I couldn’t discipline it into submission, because it operated on its own whims. And I was a bloody idiot for not considering how it would rule my days once I was sharing space with her.
What a fool I was.
Slowly, I uncapped the bottle, allowing the smell to hit me first. Letting the glass touch my lips, I tipped it back until the smoky warmth hit my tongue in a smooth burst.
I swallowed, keeping my eyes closed while it settled warmly into my belly.
I opened one more drawer and shifted things aside, but there was no envelope with my name on it. No scribbled handwriting, no magical explanation that would allow me to lay down all my questions.
“Fucking Chris,” I whispered into the dark room. Made these big plans for his friends but hadn’t seen fit to bring us into them beforehand.
Months earlier, I’d talked to Burke—the friend from college who’d gotten their wreck of a house in Michigan. He’d struggled with the why of all this just as badly as I had.
What had I said to Burke when we spoke? They were directing our lives from the bloody grave. That’s what it felt like. Chris and Amie were privy to some big universal plan, something I couldn’t see. And I wanted to know what that vision looked like to them.
After another drink, I dug through a small plastic container holding a few keys. Each was marked with a number that didn’t give away any information about what it went to.
Then I refilled the box, tossing all his useless shit back inside until nothing was left but the picture of the three of them. I carefully set it against the wall next to a small black picture frame holding a shot of the day Mira was born.
Amie, propped up in the hospital bed, was holding Mira, and Zoe was crouched next to her, holding that bloody duck, smiling that big, happy smile—the one that always twisted my lungs a bit tighter.
I shouldn’t have, but I took another swig of whiskey, allowing the pleasant burn that pooled in my stomach to loosen my muscles, soften all the hard-edged thoughts in my brain.
With the bottle in hand, I left the office, closing the door behind me with a quiet click.
Zoe was still in the kitchen, her hand rubbing at her neck, her hair slowly falling out of whatever useless configuration she’d tried in order to contain the mess.
It hadn’t worked. And I desperately wanted to push my fingers through those golden strands, anchor my hands somewhere within her curls and memorize the way they felt.
Her eyes met mine, and my head reared back at what I saw there.
“Why do you look like you want to rip my head off right now?” I asked.
She swallowed. “You didn’t come home at your normal time,” she said. After a pause, her chin rose a notch. “I was worried.” Then she eyed the bottle dangling from my hand. “Maybe I still should be.”
I approached the island and set the bottle down. “Nah. Found it in Chris’s desk and had a couple sips for old times’ sake.” I arched an eyebrow. “Want one?”
Zoe studied me for a second, exhaling an incredulous laugh. “You want to drink with me?”
Among other things.
Maybe pour it down her chest and see what it tasted like off her nipples.
My hands curled into fists. Thoughts like those were kept locked in the same place as the worst of my anger. Only when I wanted to punish myself did I let them see the light of day.
I didn’t answer her question, merely held her gaze to see what she’d do next.
“How many have you had?” she asked quietly.
“Enough to know that I probably shouldn’t drink with you,” I answered. Too easily. “I never do it, so it always loosens my tongue a bit when I have a couple shots. I’m not pissed, though. Don’t worry.”
“I don’t really like whiskey,” she admitted. She came closer, pulling the bottle toward her as she took a seat on one of the stools where she could still face me. “I don’t think I ever saw Chris drink this.”
“He didn’t much. We’d break it out every once in a while, have a couple shots and talk about all the bullshit in life we couldn’t figure out.”
She smiled, and fuck—it was so soft and sweet. If she were a drug, I’d take every little smile like that, crush it and snort it to see if all those pieces of her somehow made me feel better once they hit my bloodstream and made it sing.
“You trying to figure something out tonight?” she asked.
“Maybe.”
Zoe held my gaze, looking away only when the tension stretched so tight that I worried something might break. Something might shatter into a million pieces, and I’d never be able to pick them up, never be able to set them back to rights.
She uncapped the bottle, wrinkling her nose when she smelled the whiskey. Before she touched it to her lips, she paused. “Do I get a chaser?”
“Fuck no. I didn’t.” I hitched my chin in a dare. “Woman up, Valentine. Show me what you’ve got.”
Her eyebrow arched. “One drink.”
I studied the graceful line of her neck when she took a pull from the bottle, and I tried not to think about the fact that she’d put her lips in the same place I’d put mine.
When she swallowed, I fought a laugh at the wrinkled expression on her face.
But I did smile. I couldn’t help it.
She coughed. “Holy shit, that’s terrible.”
I grunted, motioning for the bottle. “Speak for yourself. That’s some damn good whiskey.” I wasn’t drunk. Wasn’t even really buzzed. But there was a pleasant, fuzzy warmth coating my thoughts, loosening my muscles.
“What were you looking for in there?” she asked. Then she shuddered, still feeling the bite of the drink.
“Clarity,” I answered.
Her eyes were big in her face, her cheeks a sweet shade of pink. “Did you find it?”
I sighed, then shook my head slowly.
Zoe nodded, bringing her hand up to rub at her neck, the same spot she was always fussing with.
“Now what?” I asked gruffly.
“I was reading while Mira watched a movie.” She blushed. “Rosa gave me a new book, and whenever I stare down at my Kindle too long, my neck starts hurting again.”
“I told you that you need a massage or some shit.”
She stretched her neck, wincing when she pulled it too far. “I know.” Then she snapped her head up. “Don’t make an appointment for me; I can handle it.”
I notched my fingers to my temple in a mock salute. “Noted.”
Zoe grinned, pushing her middle and pointer fingers into the curve of her shoulder again.
Because I couldn’t fucking help it, I watched.
I always watched what she did. Had for years. And for some reason, that night, with my inhibitions lowered just the right amount, watching wasn’t enough. “You’re doing it wrong.”
At the gruff sound of my voice, her fingers stilled. Her eyes searched mine.
I jerked my chin at all her bloody hair. “Pull that out of the way. I’ll show you.”
Don’t.
Don’t.
Don’t fucking do it.
The voice was so loud in my head. Fucker was screaming at me, because every part of me knew that it was a horrible idea to touch her, even just this tiny bit.
And like the idiot I was ... I ignored it.