Chapter 21
Twenty-One
Chess
The Whett gala is being held at a mansion in the Garden District. Set back from the street and surrounded by iron gates, the
neoclassical mansion is surrounded by sprawling lawns and gardens. Inside, the scale of the place is immense, soaring ceilings,
grand hallways, an enormous curved stairway built in the days when women wore hooped skirts that gently swayed when they descended
those stairs like queens.
I won’t glorify the past, but I can appreciate the hell out of the architecture.
With a warm hand on the small of my back, Finn leads me past throngs of guests and down the main hall.
“One day, I want a place like this,” I tell him as we pass under a chandelier glittering twenty feet above.
Finn’s brows quirk as he glances at me. “Really? I thought you’d want something a little less massive.”
I tuck myself closer to him as the crowd gets thicker. “Well, not this big. I’d get lost in here. But something with history
like this. A house that’s graceful and grand in its proportions. And I’ve always wanted to live in the Garden District.”
We enter a reception room done in shades of cream and gold, where they’ve set up a bar. Finn takes in the space, as if really looking at it for the first time. His hair is adorably mussed, the satin lapels of his suit jacket snagged and rumpled, having been crushed under my grip.
I probably look equally disheveled. Though we’d tried to tidy up, short of a shower and starting from scratch, there was no
hiding the fact that we’d been messing around.
A warm hum of satisfaction moves through me. Messing around is a weak term for what we’d done. It had been the best sex of my life. Transcendent. Altering.
Finn’s gaze clashes with mine now, and there’s a subtle gleam in his eyes. He knows me too well. Thankfully, he has better
restraint than I do at the moment. He keeps his voice light, his touch on my back gentle. “We could get one, you know? A nice-sized
place with a pool and a guesthouse. Fill it up with . . .”
He trails off, going pale under his tan.
I don’t know if I hurt for him or me. Either way, the sensation isn’t pleasant. I step away from his touch, my gaze drifting
over the room filled with smiling faces.
“Chess,” he says, low and rough. “I meant friends and family.”
No, he didn’t. He shouldn’t have to lie.
I give him a tight smile. “It’s not quite the same, is it?”
The clean sweep of his jaw bunches. “It doesn’t mean anything. We were just talking.”
“About the future?” I shake my head. “We agreed we shouldn’t be doing that, anyway.”
Finn touches my elbow, leaning in to meet my eyes. “They were just words off the cuff.”
“I know that.” I tuck a lock of his hair back from his brow. “Let’s just do as we promised. Let’s just be. I’m okay with that.”
“You taking me so literally wasn’t what I had in mind,” he mutters with a frown.
Annoyance skitters up my back. “If you get to pick and choose what we focus on, then expect the same from me.”
The space between us tightens as we lock gazes. But then he relents with a grunt and walks off to the bar. As soon as he’s gone, my shoulders sag with remorse. I can’t snipe at him whenever he accidentally touches a nerve. It isn’t fair to either of us.
He returns with two glasses and a wary expression. “Here.”
“Thank you.” I take the glass. It’s filled with something pale green and bubbly. “What is it?”
“Tears of Regret.” His mouth quirks. “I hear it tastes a lot like champagne cocktail.”
My hand trembles as I take a quick sip. “I’m sorry, too.”
He doesn’t say anything but kisses the top of my head.
“I got offered a job in New York.”
Finn pauses, his glass halfway to his mouth, then takes a long, audible swallow of his drink. “It must be good,” he says after
catching his breath, “to put that look in your eyes.”
I study the rim of my glass before taking another sip of my cocktail.
“Tell me about the job, Chess.”
He listens as I fill him in on the details, both of us strolling toward the French doors that lead to a terrace. Outside,
we find a dark corner, and Finn leans against the wall of the house.
“Sounds like a great opportunity,” he says, giving nothing away. “How long would you be away?”
I grip the narrow bowl of my glass. “One to two months, if all goes well.”
He nods, glancing down at his shoes. When he looks up, his eyes glint in the moonlight. “Is this something you really want?”
Such careful control in his voice. It closes in on me like a vise.
“When James first told me, the answer was yes. But . . .” I lift my hands in a helpless gesture. “I don’t want to leave you.”
Finn gives me a small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’m not going anywhere.”
But I would. And it feels wrong leaving him right now. As if it will kill the momentum of us, when we’ve only just started.
“When would you leave?” he asks.
“In the next two weeks.”
A grimace mars his features, though he clearly tries to hide it. “I won’t be able to visit you,” he says. “These last two
games of the season are going to be intense. If we win, I’ll have to concentrate on the playoffs.”
He sounds so apologetic, as if it’s his fault I’m leaving. Sadness and a strange sense of panic roll around in my chest, rising
up to clog my throat. From the second I’d thought of taking the job, I knew he wouldn’t be able to follow. Something in his
eyes tells me that he understands this as well.
“You’ll make the playoffs,” I tell him. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
His smile is tilted and wry and fades fast. “I’m proud of you, Chester.”
I don’t feel anything but a need to cling, a weakness I don’t want or like.
Our conversation comes to an abrupt halt when Jake strolls into our quiet spot.
“Manny. Copperpot. Why are you two hiding back here?” He glances between us, noting the distance. “I’d approve if someone
had a hand in someone else’s clothes, but no way am I letting you guys get away with trying to escape the stuffed shirts.”
“Did you just call me Copperpot?”
Jake is all innocence. “What? Me? No. Who?” He hooks my arm over his elbow. “Now, come with me. The guys want an official
ruling on whose dick is the biggest.”
I laugh as Finn pushes himself off from the wall and glares. “I will kick your ass, Ryder.”
“You’ll have to catch me first, and we both know I’m way faster.”
Jake leads me away, with Finn following. I don’t protest. It’s a relief walking into the crowded, noisy party where I don’t
have to think.
Just be. Just be. I can do that. I have to.
Finn
“I don’t know about you guys, but I look fucking sharp in this suit.” Woodson runs a hand down the front of his tux. “I’m
getting laid tonight.”
You gotta love Woodson’s corn-fed, Iowa boy brand of optimism and childlike honesty. I laugh as he waggles his brows with
hopeful glee.
“You’re married, aren’t you?” North asks him with a look that clearly states he’s skeptical of Woodson getting any play.
“Cynicism is a bitter taste that rests on the tongue and destroys the appetite,” Woodson intones.
North snorts. “You read that in a fortune cookie.”
“Did not.” Woodson grins. “I saw it on the side of a bus.”
“No way.”
“Believe what you will, bitter boy. I, on the other hand, am going to hunt down my wife. Convince her to get an early start.”
North and I groan.
“Those who talk too much do too little,” I tell Woodson.
“Let me guess,” he says. “Fortune cookie?”
“No, a simple Finn Mannus truth.”
Woodson scoffs and then goes in search of his woman. He trudges over the grass toward the house, leaving North and me sitting
on a low stone wall that edges the pool area. In the distance, I catch a glimpse of Chess’s dress. She’s talking to Meghan,
our PR director.
“Ten bucks says she’ll have a headache,” North says.
I flinch, thinking he’s talking about Chess, but then I realize he means Woodson’s wife. “You really are a cynic.”
“I prefer realist.” North turns my way. “So how about you, Manny? You ready to buckle down and finish out this season with
some wins?”
It’s my turn to snort. “Is this some sort of pep talk?”
“Yeah, I guess it is.” North rests an elbow on his knee and gives me a look. For a bizarre second I have the image of The Thinker coming to life to give me a lecture.
Weirdly, that image doesn’t die when North speaks again. “We win these last two games, and we’re in the playoffs.”
“I know this well.” I dream about it. Have nightmares about it. Who the fuck on our team doesn’t know this?
“You seem distracted, is all.”
I stare at North. He stares back.
“I heard you talking to your girl earlier.”
I rub a hand over my face. “Fucking hell.”
He merely shrugs. “Don’t talk in public places if you don’t want to be overheard.”
I think about who else might have heard. The prospects aren’t pleasant. “You’re a nosy fucker, you know that?”
“I like you, kid.”
“Kid? You’re only five years older than me.”
His smile is thin. “It’s not the years. It’s the mileage.”
“Jesus, don’t quote Indiana Jones. I beg you.”
North laughs. And for one shining moment, I think I’m clear. But he quickly sobers. “Look, these are the years that define
your career.”
“Oh, hell . . .”
“If you don’t make your mark now, give it your all, then you’re done. The next college hotshot is just around the corner,
waiting to take your place.” North points a long, bony finger at me. “Don’t fuck this chance up by dividing your attention
between football and a woman. Love is great, and you think it means forever, but it’s not worth risking everything you’ve
worked for.”
“I’m not trying to fuck it up. I’m trying to have it all.”
“Impossible. Something has to give. You want a woman? Find one who wants to be a player’s wife. The kind of girl who will
give you babies, put you first, and never complain when you’re gone. The kind who will be there when you come home.
“Otherwise, it’s going to fuck with your head. Put that shit aside and focus on your career for now. Once you’re established and have a few rings on your fingers then worry about women.”