Chapter 13
ZONE DEFENSE: DEFENDERS COVER AREAS OF THE FIELD, NOT PLAYERS.
Over the last several months, every click of the shutter has given me a new perspective but none so much as the photos I took this morning of Troy.
I’ve captured humanity in all its forms throughout my entire career—people in all walks of life experiencing everything from the mundane to the magnificent.
Some knew I was there; some never knew I existed.
But capturing the pictures of Troy felt different.
He knew I had a lens trained in his general direction.
Yet, he didn’t pose, nor did he conceal himself.
Standing in the courtyard with the midday sun catching the highlights in his hair, jaw shadowed, his expression revealed simple emotions I’ve never been on the other side of before.
I’m not surprised I caught sight of the man who defended me through my viewfinder—his strength and quiet determination.
But what shocked me was the hint of vulnerability in his eyes.
I wonder what put it there. Then I remind myself that any story Troy wants to share is up to him to offer.
Still, when I lowered the lens, I realized I was really seeing him.
It made me want to dig deep to understand him more.
And that’s the most dangerous kind of photo for me to take because it makes me forget my most recent heartache.
I received a note from Troy to just meet him in the kitchen for dinner that evening.
Donning a pair of camel-colored slacks, a matching oversized shirt, with a contrasting belt and sandals, I head directly into the kitchen to find Troy, himself, at the stove.
The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them. “You’re cooking?”
He twists around and flashes me a grin. “I’m reheating.” With a jerk of his chin, he motions to the decanter of red wine near a charcuterie board. “Help yourself. I’m at a critical stage.”
I do, pouring a generous glass of the ruby-red liquid into the stemless glass. After a small sip, I hum in delight. “What is this?”
“Our 2022 Barbera. Fantastic, isn’t it?”
I swirl the wine in my glass, keeping my eyes on him as he expertly flips grilled meat. Lightly, I banter, “If dinner is half as good as this wine, I may never leave.” Because I’m watching him so closely, I note how his frame stiffens before he forces it to relax.
His chuckle is a bit strangled. “Of course, you’re welcome to spend as much time here as you’d like, Maya.”
“Thank you.” Two simple words, but does Troy fully understand what I’m thanking him for? Not just his hospitality but for actively defending me.
For being an honorable man.
For not standing back and passively agreeing with how the women affected by the Oklahoma Lightning were treated.
Still with his back to me, he casually asks, “Would you mind bringing me a drink?”
“My pleasure.” I turn back and pour him a glass. As I approach, I ask, “What are we having for dinner?”
“Grilled pork chops, polenta, and garlic-roasted mushrooms.” He wipes the sweat from his brow on the apron I realize he’s wearing.
“I really wish I had my camera. I’d make bank capturing former-NFL kicker Troy Walsh in an apron.” I hand over his drink, even as he rolls his remarkable eyes. “Granted, it wouldn’t be worth as much as Brendan Blake in one.”
“Do you like his music? I wouldn’t have pegged you for a country fan.”
“Not going to lie—I'm more of a Beckett Miller fan.”
“Really?” Troy’s eyes hold mine as he takes a drink.
“Hmm. Yes.” My voice takes on a dreamy note.
“Now this sounds interesting.”
“I used to plaster Beckett Miller posters in my dorm room. My best friend, Amy—”
“From the party?”
“The same. She grew up in Oklahoma. We used to get into enormous battles about who was better—Brendan or Beckett. Then when they released ‘Bloodlines,’ it was this massive ceasefire.”
Troy smirks. “I was Team Beckett until I was at the concert in Dallas when they played ‘Bloodlines’ for the first time. Now, I’m just as big of a Brendan Blake fan.
“I’m not jealous at all,” I pout.
“Well, we can’t have that. How about some dinner music?” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out his cell. Using it, he changes the music from classical to the song in question—a ballad about finding your personal strength and conquering the world by being the person you are.
I put my wine down, pick up a wooden spoon and belt out part of the refrain, “Yeah, the fire I carry, the storm I survived. Ain’t just history—it’s my bloodlines.”
Troy murmurs, “Now I really wonder.”
I pause in my kitchen karaoke to ask, “About?”
“What drives you? Who or what else you love?”
I lay the spoon down as he drizzles a glaze on top of the pork. “Anything else?”
He picks up both plates. “Mind grabbing the wine?”
“Of course.” We make our way to the counter. After setting my plate down, I hand Troy his wine.
He waits until I’m seated before point blank asking me, “I want to know what made you decide to stay when last night I was certain you were going to go.”
Waiting for him to join me, I lay my napkin across my lap. Once he’s settled, I lift my glass to offer a toast.
Troy does the same.
“You stood up for me when you didn’t have to. You didn’t make a show of it—you just…did it. Without being asked.”
“I was so busy trying to figure out how I could have missed all the flags he must have been throwing, I didn’t give thought to the people who were guarding me.”
I lift my glass closer to his. “You asked why I stayed? I came here with a goal in mind—to take some well-deserved time off. To get to do so with someone who has shown the world he’s loyal to those he cares about, dependable and makes me excited.”
Troy grumbles, “You make me sound like a Labrador.”
“If the kick fits. I hear they do that in their sleep.”
Troy’s voice drops just before our glasses touch with a soft chime. “I’ve never had complaints about that before.”
The flush heating my skin only intensifies when I take a sip of the rich red. But despite that, I can’t look away from this complex man who I’m uncertain I ever really saw before I decided I needed to get far away to outrun a series of shameful plays.