Chapter 39
Max
“Can you believe she asked me that?” Annalise asks, holding a spoon of her favorite chocolate gelato in one hand and the carton in the other. I’ve taken to keeping it in my freezer along with some homemade brigadeiros.
We’ve moved from my bed to my living room. Regretfully, Annalise is dressed in one of my button-down tops and a pair of my sweatpants while I’ve thrown on a different pair of sweats and a T-shirt.
I’d much prefer her naked, but I wouldn’t be able to keep my hands off of her if she were nude in front of me.
And I did want to find out how her dinner with her friend went.
If for nothing else, it’ll keep my mind off of the weird feeling that passed through me when she reminded me that she has an IUD.
I shouldn’t have felt the lancet of regret that scissored through my chest when she said it. But I did.
For less than a second there’d been a hope that maybe we’d made a baby that would tie us together forever. A completely ludicrous notion that had no place in my mind, but it was there all the same.
“I can believe it,” I finally say in response to her question. Then I open my mouth wide.
Annalise narrows her eyes, and I’m not sure if it’s because she doesn’t want to share her gelato or if it’s a response to what I’ve just said.
Maybe both reasons.
We’re discussing the proposal Jen made about Annalise crossing over from assistant to sports agent.
An issue I had a feeling she would bring up tonight.
When I’d met Jen earlier today, I got the feeling that she wanted to nudge Annalise in the direction of becoming a sports agent just from the way she talked about the job and kept mentioning the advantages and opportunity for career growth.
Annalise feeds me a spoonful of the gelato.
“That’s ridiculous. I’m not—”
“Not what? Smart enough? That’s bullshit. Capable enough? You’re more capable than ninety percent of the so-called agents in the industry today. You have the connections. I’m certain with one phone call you could end up on the staff at one of the greatest agencies in the business.”
“That’s not true.”
I shrug.
“Because you wouldn’t want to work for one of the big agencies,” I point out. “You’re the type of person who would like to be more hands on, more direct with your clients. Also,” I pause, “you have a thing for underdogs. The ones agencies typically overlook.”
She lifts a brow.
We had this conversation before and she avoided it then. Now, I’m not going to let her get out of it so easily.
“At first, I thought you became Travis’ assistant out of boredom or nothing else better to do. Mostly, as a means to …” I stop because I don’t want to say the callous bullshit that used to run through my head.
“Be a groupie?” she finishes for me, smirking.
I hate to admit it, but yes. That is what I thought. “It worked for my mother.” I cringe, hating to bring up that woman right now. Or at any time. “She was friends with the woman who worked as my dad’s assistant early on in his career,” I add. “A former model.”
She nods.
“And you thought I became his assistant to meet hot racers in hopes that I’d marry one some day?”
You are going to marry me one day.
I clear my throat and peel my gaze away from the key pendant around her neck, noting the way it glistens even in the low lighting of my living room.
“We both know that’s not the case,” I answer.
“Even before this began,” I wave a hand between the two of us, “before we began, I saw how serious you were during race weekends. How tightly you kept Travis on schedule and how well you networked among sponsors and Amato staff. It wasn’t difficult to pick up how serious you were about the job. ”
She pauses, the tip of her spoon in the gelato while she stares at me.
“It’s also wasn’t difficult to see that you’re destined for something else.”
That shakes her out of her little stupor.
Annalise shakes her head. “Being serious about my job doesn’t mean I’m meant for something else.”
“Like hell it doesn’t.” I’d tried to keep the underlying impatience that bordered on anger out of my tone, but by the way she cocks her head to the side, I suspect I failed.
I’m fine with that since I’ve had an urge to get this off of my chest for some time now.
“You don’t want to be an assistant. You’re good at it because you’re good at everything you do. You want more, but for reasons you won’t admit to yourself you’re frightened of going after what you really want.”
She sits up, which pretty much tells me I’ve managed to piss her off.
“And what is it that you think I want?”
“To be an agent.”
“How would you know—”
“You rattle off racing stats better than any commentator out there. You analyze racing strategy almost as well as me or your brother, and you scan news articles reading about the latest deal an athlete has signed like it’s your job.”
“Being an agent takes more than that and you know it.” She places the gelato, spoon still sticking up in it, on the coffee table, and begins pacing the hardwood floors.
“I can’t snap my fingers and have what it takes to be an agent.
There are credentials that are needed, and probably stronger connections than I have. ”
I snort, which makes her glare at me.
“You’re the sister of the reigning world champion,” I say, flatly.
And the soon-to-be wife of the next one.
I keep that last part to myself.
“You have the connections, Annalise. And I know damn well you could pass any certification test in your sleep.”
“So what? You’re saying I lack ambition? That I don’t want more for myself? Or maybe I am more like your mother? A princess that wants to be on the arm of the driver than to stand on her own two feet?”
“I never said that.”
“You implied it,” she throws back at me.
“Perhaps ambition should be made of sterner stuff.” The comment crosses my lips before I can stop it. In the time it takes for me to close my eyes to silently curse myself and then open them again, Annalise is across the room and at the door.
I have just enough time to slap my palm against it, sealing the door shut.
“Where are you going?”
“Home,” she says, not looking at me.
“No.” I shake my head. There’s no way in hell I’m about to let her walk away.
“Move,” she seethes.
“No. You’re not leaving.”
“You just insulted me.”
“I did no such thing, and you know damn well I didn’t.”
“I could break your damn arm,” she threatens.
“Do it.”
Her gaze tracks from my face to my arm, which is still firmly pressed against the door. In the span of the silence that surrounds us, I become fully aware that she’s seriously considering breaking my arm. I don’t budge.
“I’m not a coward,” she finally says.
“I never said you were. Nor did I mean to imply it,” I add when it looks like she’s going to protest. “But something is holding you back from going after what you truly want.”
I hesitate, deciding if I want to tempt fate or the strength of my humerus bone.
“I never should’ve let you watch my Julius Ceasar DVD.”
And her precious ‘1953 Marlon Brando’, I mock in my head before coming back to the present.
“Is it because of your OCD?”
Her eyes widen as if it’s a question she’d never considered before.
“It’s not …” Her wobbly voice trails off, her eyes falling to the floor.
I hate the way her shoulders slump almost in defeat. She needs time with this.
I wrap an arm around her back and the other behind her knees, scooping her up into my embrace and carrying her to the bedroom. I don’t know if her lack of resistance is due to tiredness or that her mind still races in trying to answer my question. Either way, I hold onto her.
In my embrace, I do my best to convey that I’ll be the strength for her the way she has been for me since the start of this season. Her presence, her words, her faith in me is what has propelled me to the best season I’ve had in a long time.
Her words filled gaps in my belief that I hadn’t realized existed or wasn’t ready to confront. The worn-down tatters of my self-belief, withered away by constant comparisons to the legendary ghost of my father and the emotional abuse of my mother, were caulked by the balm of her faith in me.
“You don’t have to answer tonight,” I tell her as I lay us down in my bed.
“I should go home,” she mutters, but there’s no heat or determination behind her words. Her body further betrays her statement when she curls deeper into my hold.
“Eventually,” I say, knowing if I have it my way, eventually will never come.