Chapter 2
Chris and I live in what I fondly refer to as the seventh circle of hell—oddly enough, that’s located in Denver.
We are both native Denverites; we met in high school, and somehow, Chris lucked out by being drafted by the Mustangs and never being traded. In the NFL, getting to play at all is odds defying. And staying on the same team for more than five seasons is a damn miracle.
With Chris’s awesome income, the money I get from my freelance design jobs, and no kids, we should be living the high life. Denver is the coolest city with the most eclectic, vibrant mix of people. But we don’t live in an industrial condo downtown or a historical bungalow in Washington Park.
No, no, no. Chris and I—just the two of us—live in eight thousand square feet of obnoxious marble and crystal covered extravagance in the gated community of all gated communities with all the other Mustang starters in #TheLandWhereHighSchoolNeverEnds.
I grew up middle class. Chris grew up loaded.
His dad is still the most sought after plastic surgeon in Colorado—a common topic between the other wives and I.
And to this day, I still have no idea who the hell Chris is trying to impress.
I guess showing your daddy you’re a big boy includes ugly chandeliers and gold leafed wallpaper.
After hearing about Gavin’s arrival, I knew Chris was going to be upset.
And because I’m such a wonderful girlfriend, I made him my world famous red velvet cake to help ease the pain.
I absolutely did not make it in an effort to eat my own feelings.
And the extra bowl of cream cheese frosting hidden in the back of the fridge isn’t for that either. Sweet decadent denial.
“Fuck Coach Jacobs!” Chris’s entrances tend to have a flair for theatrics, but he has outdone himself this time.
His deep voice echoes off the gallery art–lined walls.
His heavy feet against the white marble causes them to rattle.
But the crowning glory on this manly display of fury is the way he launches his workout bag across the kitchen the moment he sees me.
Almost as if in slow motion, I watch his Nike bag soar over the island into my favorite teal cake stand holding my beautiful, iced to perfection, world famous red velvet cake.
Both fall to the floor with a frosting-padded thud.
“What the hell, Chris?” I walk over and start picking out cream cheese–covered ceramic. I’m contemplating whether or not to still eat the parts of the cake that didn’t directly touch the floor when Chris starts yelling again.
“Are you really more worried about a fucking cake than me right now?”
Well…yes.
“Of course not. It’s just a mess, and I don’t want either of us to cut our feet.” Lies.
Bye, cake. I’ll miss you.
I stand up to look at him and when I do, I realize leaving the cake for later is for the best. Chris’s normally mocha complexion has a cherry hue to it, and his full lips are pulled into a thin, straight line. If I didn’t know him better, I’d think he’s about to cry. “Holy shit. Are you okay?”
“No, I’m not fucking okay! That piece of shit Jacobs brought in another quarterback. Fucking Gavin Pope. Even the guy’s fuckin’ name is pretentious.” His eyes are focused on the coffered ceiling and his hands never stop roaming his not-quite-bald head.
In all my time knowing him, I’ve never seen him so worked up over football.
“Kevin and I were solid. I was his receiver. With him throwing me the ball, this was going to be my biggest contract year yet. And that rat, son of a bitch, knew it. He doesn’t want to fuckin’ pay me, and he thought bringing in some pretty boy was going to stop me.
Fuck that. He’s got another thing coming. ”
“I thought Pope was supposed to be good?” Not like I’d know, or that I’ve looked up his stats once a week, every week for the last four years or anything.
“It’s not about him being fucking good, Marlee!” His attention snaps toward me. It seems he didn’t appreciate that little tidbit. “Do you listen when I talk to you?”
“First of all, yes, I do listen. Second, check yourself. I get you’re pissed and taking it out on Nike bags and innocent, baked-with-love cakes, but you will not take it out on me.
I’m not Jacobs, I didn’t make this trade.
I want to help you, but not if you’re acting like I’m the enemy here. ” #99ProblemsButChrisAintOne
“Fuck. I’m sorry,” Chris says. He looks properly chastised, and resisting the urge to dust the dirt off my shoulder is almost too much for me to handle.
“This was going to be our year, baby. I was going to be the number one receiver in the league; we were going to fly to Hawaii so I could play in the all-star game. I was going to get the franchise tag and the contract we’ve always dreamed of so we could start our family the right way—on top. Now Jacobs is putting it all at risk.”
I hate the way the dormant butterflies always take flight the second Chris mentions starting a family.
If he was waiting for money, he could have proposed six years ago.
But instead, every year passed without an engagement and another item added to his pre-marriage bucket list. But at last, Chris is nearing the end of his list. Plus, a few weeks ago, one of my rings went missing, and when I asked him about it, he got all jittery and nervous.
I’ve wanted to be Mrs. Chris Alexander since I was sixteen and now, nearly eleven years later, the time is almost here.
“What can I do? There has to be something we can do to keep you in your number one spot.” Stepping over the long-forgotten mess on the floor, I make my way around the kitchen island (or, more accurately, the kitchen continent) to Chris and wrap my arms around him.
I’ve always loved how when I hug him, my head rests right above his heart.
“There is something you could do. I invited the wide receivers over next Tuesday. It’d be great if you make dinner.”
“Of course. Should I make Nonna’s lasagna? Is TK coming? He loved it last time.” Between the circles he’s drawing on my back and the rhythmic thumping of his heart beneath my ear, I’m at a serious risk of falling asleep in this kitchen.
“Sure, but make double because I invited Kevin and Gavin too.”
I pull back from Chris so quickly, you would’ve thought he told me Jeffery Dahmer was coming for dinner. Even though…Gavin has eaten me before.
Dammit.
Don’t go there now, Marlee!
“Gavin? Why would you invite him? Weren’t you just complaining because he’s on the team?” I try to cover my reaction with confusion. The last thing I need is for Chris to catch a whiff of what Gavin’s name does to me.
“I don’t want him on the team, but he’s here and the best thing I can do now is try to butter him up. Feed him some food, play some poker, try to bond with the guy. I need him to want to throw to me. So can you do it?”
I can’t.
I cannot cook dinner for Gavin Pope in the home I share with Chris. Granted, my one night with him happened during the break Chris wanted…okay, he’d pretty much dumped me, but still. Aren’t there rules about this kind of thing?
“I have a few projects, but their deadlines aren’t for a couple of weeks. I’d love to do this for you. I gotta do my part to support Team Alexander.”
“That’s why I love you—you always put the team first.” His lips crash into mine and when he pulls away, the anger he walked in with is nowhere to be found. Chris’s smile is so bright, the contrast between his brown skin and freakishly white teeth nearly causes me to squint.
“You know me—they don’t call me Marlee ‘Team Player’ Harper for no reason.” And if they knew what Gavin and I did, they’d be calling me that for a whole lot of other reasons. “Speaking of, I gotta feed my man. Do you want me to make you a plate?”
“No thanks, babe. I’m gonna head back to the facility. I left early because I was pissed about Pope, but since you calmed me down, I’m gonna finish watching film. First regular season game’s this weekend. I have to be ready now more than ever. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Nope. Go do your superstar prep. I’ll clean up here and knock out some work.” I roll onto my tippy toes and kiss his chin at the same time my palm stings from slapping his ass.
“I’m not sure how long this will take, so don’t wait up.”
Fine with me. I have an entire Tupperware filled with cream cheese frosting, an unopened bottle of wine, and unwelcome feelings to avoid.
“Okay, but try not to burn yourself out too early in the week,” I call to his back as he’s walking out of the kitchen.
“Always looking out for me. Bye, babe!” I barely hear the words before the rattling of the art alerts me he’s gone, and the only sounds left are the alarms bells in my head.
Holy shit.
I’m going to see Gavin Pope again.