Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
JENSEN
I throw my arms up in frustration and glance over at Matt.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he mutters, gripping his hair with one hand. “How did he miss that pass?”
“Who fucking knows. He can’t catch a ball tonight to save his life.”
It’s Monday Night Football—something Matt and I have done for as long as I can remember. It’s one of my favorite pastimes.
Matt stands. “I’m grabbing a beer. You want another one of those?” he asks, gesturing to my sparkling water like I’m dying to have another one.
“Nah, I’m good.”
We’re at his place, where the fridge is always stocked with beer and the liquor cabinet makes what I had look like child’s play.
But I’m fine. Surprisingly fine. It’s been easier than I expected, just shooting the shit and watching football, completely sober.
It almost feels like old times. Only now, it’s not quite the same.
We’re missing someone—a beautiful blonde in my jersey, curled up and cheering beside me.
I reach for my water, wincing as my inner arm brushes the side of my ribs. It’s still tender—heat trapped beneath the wrap, reminding me of the slow drag of the needle. The dull burn. The permanence of what I chose to mark into my skin.
The tattoo looks damn good so far. We got most of the outline done, and even started shading a few parts of the forearm. It was a long session, seven hours straight before we both tapped out.
He told me I could take some Tylenol for the pain, but I’m not going down that rabbit hole again. It’s just Tylenol, I know. But that’s how this whole thing started. No drugs. Not even pain relievers. Not for a couple of years, at least.
Matt plops down on the couch a few cushions over. “When do you talk to your parents?”
“Tomorrow. I want to get it over with before Christmas Eve. My mom’s already losing her mind over not seeing me yet.” I chuckle. “She’s gonna lose her shit when she sees this tat.”
Matt grins. “Yeah. Remember when I got my first one? She’s not even my mom, and she flipped.” He takes a swig of his beer. “But hey, maybe I’ve softened the blow.”
“Yeah, right,” I snort. “She took it personally when Megan got that tiny one on her foot. Didn’t talk to her for weeks. This?” I glance down at my arm. “This’ll push her over the edge.”
“Your dad will think it’s cool.”
“Yeah. Dad’s always been more open minded when it comes to this sort of thing.”
“How does Alley feel about them?” Then, almost instantly, he grimaces. “Shit. Sorry. That just came out.”
I shrug. “It’s fine. Honestly? I’m not sure. We never really talked about it, but she’s never said anything about not liking them.”
He shifts in his seat. “Have you heard from her at all since… you know…” He makes a vague gesture with his beer. “The papers?”
“Yeah. She texted me back.” I pause. “Middle of the night on Saturday.”
Matt raises an eyebrow. “And?”
I exhale, the words catching like barbed wire in my throat.
“She said no. That the lawyers can handle it.” My gaze drops down to my wedding ring.
I twist it, the familiar metal smooth against my skin.
“Like it’s no big deal. Just sign the papers and move on.
” I lean forward and grab my phone from the coffee table.
“But she also said something I can’t stop thinking about.
” I pull up the message and hand it to him. “Here. Read it.”
His brows scrunch together as he reads. “She doesn’t trust herself to see you? That’s basically her saying she knows she’d end up in your bed.”
“Right?”
He scrolls down, snorting. “Thanks for reaching out? What the f—” He trails off, eyes still scanning.
“And then you responded with, ‘I understand. I’ll respect whatever you need. Just know I meant every word—and nothing you say or don’t say will change how I feel about you.
’” He looks up. “What the hell is that? Sounds like something you’d send your grandmother. ”
He tosses the phone back. I catch it and reread the message, already second-guessing myself.
“Shit. I don’t know, man. I’m trying to be respectful.
I just want her to know that no matter what she says, I’ll stay clean.
I’ll keep loving her. No pressure. No drama.
Just… patience.” I drag my hands down my face with a groan.
“It’s just so fucking hard to do from here. ”
“Yeah, and while you’re at it, maybe send her a cardigan and a prayer candle.” He leans forward. “Come on. Make her want you. Remind her what she’s missing. Hit her with something that says, I still get hard just thinking about you.”
I stare at him. “That’s what you’d text someone in the middle of a divorce?”
“Okay, maybe not exactly that,” he says, shrugging. “But something that makes her feel it. Women want to be respected—but they also want to feel wanted. Give her both. She hasn’t had sex in months either—get her panties wet. Make her remember how good it was. How good you were.
I shake my head, a half-smile tugging at my lips. “So what do you think I should say?”
He takes a sip of his beer, eyes narrowing like he’s crafting the perfect speech.
“You say something like, ‘Alley, I miss you more than you could ever know. I think about you every second of the day. When I’m watching TV. When I’m at the gym—’” He glances up briefly.
“Gotta remind her you still look good. ‘Or when my hand’s wrapped around my cock, picturing your pretty lips—’” He pauses, then shakes his head.
“No, better make it about her. ‘When my face is buried in—’”
“Jesus,” I cut in. “I can’t say that.”
“Why not? She’s your wife. Remind her.”
“Because you don’t just text that after getting served divorce papers. That reads like Stockholm syndrome. I’m not trying to fuck some random chick. I’m trying to get my wife back.” I shake my head again, letting out a breath. “Christ… Is this why you’re single?”
He chuckles. “Hey, I do a lot of sexting. Don’t knock my methods.” He leans forward, grabbing a chip, then shoots me a look. “Hate to break it to you, but you’re about to be single too if you don’t let her know just how bad you still want her.”
Shit. I am about to be single. The thought alone makes me nauseous. And I hate to admit it, but… he’s not wrong. What do I even have to lose at this point? What’s the worst thing she could say? Let’s get divorced? Newsflash, Jensen. Already happening.
“Okay,” I say slowly. “Maybe you’re right. I’ll send her another message.” I glance at him. “Something thoughtful. Not sexual.”
The Bears score a touchdown, tying up the game. Two of my fantasy players are in, and I’m barely paying attention. My focus is completely on Alley now.
The room goes quiet when the game cuts to commercial. I look over at Matt—he’s sprawled on the couch, beer in one hand, the other draped along the back cushion.
His life looks so simple from the outside.
No one to let down. No expectations. Just work, friends, and the occasional hookup.
I used to envy that—how easy it seemed. But knowing what it feels like to be loved by Alley, to wake up next to her, to be the one making her laugh.
Losing her might break me. But not loving her at all would’ve been worse.
“I spoke to my lawyer the other day,” I say casually.
Matt mutes the TV, sitting up a little. “And?”
“He said I’ve got thirty days to respond. If I don’t agree with the terms, I can file a response and request mediation. Then I’d at least get the chance to see her.” I toss a hand in the air. “You know, without showing up on her doorstep uninvited.”
Part of me wants to just get on a damn plane and go to Chicago. But what would that prove? That I can’t respect her boundaries? I don’t know what the right move is. I just know I don’t want to lose her.
“So are you going to?” He takes another sip of his beer. “Push for mediation?”
I nod. “Yeah. It’s already in motion.”
“What reason did you give?”
I scoff, shaking my head. “You should see the terms of the divorce. She only asked for twenty-five percent of everything.” I still can’t believe it.
“It’s so Alley—never taking more than she needs.
She made twenty-five percent of the income, so I guess she thinks that’s all she’s entitled to from our life together. ”
My stomach knots thinking about it. Cutting everything in half. Cutting us in half. “And she only listed a few things from the apartment, mostly stuff that was hers to begin with.”
I press the glass bottle of water to my lips and take a swallow. Everything tastes bitter—the words, the thoughts, the water, reality. Bitter and fucking rancid.
“Guess she doesn’t want anything that reminds her of me.” I rake a hand through my hair. “Of us.”
He’s shaking his head. The game’s back on, but he doesn’t unmute the TV. “Don’t say that. She’s just hurt. You’ve both been through a lot.” He gives me a half-smile. “So, what’s the plan then?”
I run my tongue along my teeth, thinking. “I thought about sending her something.” My brows pull together. “Something small but meaningful. Maybe bagels?”
“Bagels?”
A short laugh puffs out of me. “Yeah. I know it sounds lame, but… it’s kind of an inside joke.
” I toy with my ring again, the memory of our wedding day slipping in—her sliding it onto my finger.
She laced our hands together and brought them to her lips, smiling like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
“I don’t know. Maybe it’ll just piss her off. ”
I let out a sigh. “I don’t want to make things harder for her.
But if she thinks I’m just gonna walk away and not fight for her—then she’s out of her mind.
” I lean back, head falling against the cushion, gaze fixed on the ceiling.
My hands fold behind my head. “Nope. I’m not signing those papers until I see her.
Until she tells me to my face she doesn’t love me anymore. That this is really what she wants.”