12. Kate
“You think they’ll notice?” Tessa whispers to Claire.
“Yes, they will notice if you steal the entire plate of cheese,” Malcolm growls under his breath.
Everyone has been overly excited about all the amenities included in camp—specifically, the fancy snacks. I can see it chipping away at Malcolm’s reserve bit by bit. They’re like children in a candy store—touching everything, smelling everything, gasping and pointing like they just saw a unicorn. I glance around at the things drawing the kids’ attention and have to bite the inside of my cheek to resist having the same reaction. They have a watermelon carved into a volleyball at the drink station, for crying out loud! Jess lets out a quiet squeal when a waiter walks by with an onion ring tower they have shaped into a palm tree.
“Can you guys please keep it together, at least until tomorrow? We’ve been here one day.” He rubs the back of his neck and waves the waitress over.
She has long blonde hair and her skintight blouse doesn’t leave much to the imagination as she leans in insanely close to his face. Whoa there, Nelly. He whispers something in her ear, and she lets out a literal hyena laugh in response. It might have shattered glass if it went on too long. I can’t fight the eye roll that overtakes me at their exchange and turn my body away so I don’t get caught. Giggles and whispers continue behind me for what feels like an eternity. Doesn’t she have other tables to attend to?
“Thank you,” he whispers.
The waitress leaves the table but not without glancing back over her shoulder and giving Malcolm a bat of her eyelashes.
I really don’t have a problem with women flirting with Malcolm, or with Malcolm flirting with other women, even though I’ve never actually seen him flirt with a woman—at least, not when I’m around. But after our conversation this afternoon, I’ve felt myself drawn to fleshing that out more.
Just the simple fact of him bringing up Brennan was enough to floor me. I can count on one hand the number of times he’s brought his friend up in conversation. But then to add those words…those shell-shocking, orbit-disrupting words at the end…a woman like you.
I’m baffled.
It feels like a part of him has talked to Brennan about me, which I do believe is possible, talking to the people we’ve lost. I talk to my grandpa all the time—sometimes about things I don’t have the guts to share with anyone else yet. Maybe Malcolm does that with Brennan, and the sheer fact that he alluded to it has me feeling more connected to him, like he’s tied an invisible string around my heart and is holding the other end, tugging me to him.
“Dude, when do we eat?” Travis groans from the opposite end of our team table. He seems to have forgotten he can help himself to the hors d”oeuvres by the drink station.
The conference room is abuzz with athletes and coaches from across the country, each sitting in their respective groups. Oval-shaped tables draped with shiny white satin tablecloths, and small, colorful island plant arrangements sit in the center. Green with splashes of pink and yellow. Small ocean-blue name plates with gold foil lettering sit atop a beach-themed cloth napkin, indicating our assigned seats. The wait staff, donned in crisp white button-down tops and black ties, black aprons tied across their waists, are a striking contrast to our group’s sweaty athletic wear. Glendale sticks out like a sore thumb.
We are far from extravagant as a group, I’m aware. But this seems a tad excessive for a college scouting camp, in my opinion.
As if right on cue, a group of coaches—luckily also in athletic wear—walk to center stage and stand at the microphone.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. I’m Coach Dawson with MU.” He smiles and nods as scattered claps come from across the conference hall. He stands a solid two inches taller than the others at his side, and by the looks of Devon, Garrett, and Travis sitting at attention at the mention of his name, this is the guy to impress.
Devon was given a full-ride to MU, with Garrett waitlisted, pending his recovery. Travis, on the other hand, was deferred. But according to Malcolm, he could have a chance to prove himself here at camp—if he can stay out of trouble.
Coach Dawson introduces the other college coaches on the stage with him, each representing a different sport, then proceeds to introduce each team. A surge of panic courses through my veins like acid at the thought of standing to acknowledge his introduction of us. Embarrassing, clumsy memories flood my mind. Like when I tripped over Johnnie Larson’s broken leg while attempting to present the flag during our President’s Day assembly in the third grade, humiliating and forever indoctrinating me into the stage-fright category.
Luckily, after three tables stay comfortably seated during their introductions, a rush of relief washes over me at the chance to avoid the spotlight altogether.
The rush comes to an abrupt halt when he reaches our table.
“And bringing the largest group of qualified athletes this year, Glendale High School.” He gestures a hand toward our table, the crowd cheers, and our table roars with pride.
And then, because I’m certain the universe is out to get me…Malcolm stands.
He stands and waves at the room, running his other hand down his chest and torso like some stately regency man. He may as well be smoothing out his buttoned tailcoat and adjusting his top hat right now. All eyes are on us as this man, whose broad shoulders and thick chest make him look more intimidating than most of the college coaches standing on stage. He waves kindly, pivots, and waves again. And then, he holds his hand out for me… To what? Take? Please no.
The clapping gets louder. Expectant.
Claire elbows me in the ribs. “Stand up already,” she whispers through the corner of her mouth, eyes wide as she motions for me with a head tilt.
Malcolm leans down and whispers in my ear, “Please don’t make me stand up here alone.” The scent of his soap and oaky beard oil are both soothing and unsettling, if that’s even possible. His posture is calm, but his eyes are filled with dread as I stay seated.
Claire kicks my shin.
I grab Malcolm’s big hand, letting it enclose entirely around mine, and stand with him. Our team whistles, hoots, and hollers, adding more attention to this already dreadful moment. Malcolm’s hand finds its way to my lower back, and I lose all the air in my lungs. Sheer coincidence, I’m sure. The suffocating feeling is surely from the hundreds of eyes on us and not the graze of his thumb against the divot of my spine.
We wave and nod until the clapping slows. “I’m going to kill you,” I whisper to Malcolm as we finally take our seats.
He smiles behind his water glass. “I’m sorry. But we brought the best team this year. We have to at least act like it’s a big deal—for their sake.” He nods toward our team, who are clapping and watching the following team coaches stand and wave. We’ve started a chain reaction. He’s right, our kids are impressive, and I should flaunt it. It’s been almost fifteen years since Glendale has brought more than five students to this camp, and the fact that half of the team are female athletes is something I should revel in.
My girls are amazing.
“I can’t believe Tanner High didn’t bring a single football player,” Garrett whispers to the table. The boys begin murmuring over this information as Tanner’s head baseball coach sits down.
“Heard half their defensive end was caught at an underage party,” Birdie mumbles behind the screen of her phone, which has not left her hands since we walked into this lush conference room. Not gonna lie, I at least thought the boys from other teams would be enough to draw her attention away from her little device, but no such luck.
“You’ll have to lose the phone sometime this week, Ms. Whitmore.” Ignoring Malcolm’s statement, Birdie doesn’t miss a beat of her thumbs as she continues texting.
He gives me an I tried sentiment before shrugging his shoulders, like he could sense my feelings about her and the phone situation before I acknowledged them out loud. I don’t know how he does it, but Malcolm is always so in tune with everyone around him. It could be his years in the military, analyzing and assessing dangerous situations. You probably need a sixth sense to be effective. He doesn’t brag about this ability, though, and he definitely doesn’t let anyone be in tune with him for very long either.
A familiar ding comes from my pocket.
“Is that another match, I hear?” he teases. “Let me see.”
My voice comes out in a whispered shriek, “No way!”
“Why not?” Malcolm gives me his embarrassing attempt at a puppy-dog face that somehow always gets his way. Something about this strong, burly man looking soft around his eyes and lips has me losing all my willpower in an instant.
“Because this isn’t the place,” I whisper through gritted teeth.
“Come on, they won’t even notice.” He waves at the table. Our impressive athletes are now fully immersed in their phones or the food that has now made its way to the table, oblivious to the outside world.
“I don’t want to look.” I stab a lettuce leaf and shovel it in my mouth. “Plus, why are you so interested?” With the food in my mouth, it comes out whyyeryewsewntrusted, and Malcolm chokes out a laugh.
“I just think…” He pauses and takes a deep breath, pondering his next words. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt again, Kate. I can’t see it.” His face goes serious as he turns away from me. I see his Adam”s apple bob with a heavy swallow as his hand finds my knee, giving me a double squeeze.
“Thank you.” I smile down at the hand encircling my thigh. I can’t explain the sensation that surges up my leg at his touch…in public. I stare at his large hand covering most of my leg and feel his thumb trembling slightly. The urge to intertwine our fingers together is almost overpowering. I’ve held his hand before. It’s not like it’s new territory for us. But this moment feels different. Significant.
I fight it and elbow his arm. “Later.”
The night continues with different speakers, camp goals, changes to the schedule, and the final scrimmage at the end of the week. Since football athletes make up over fifty percent of the camp’s attendance, they go all out with a players vs coaches scrimmage as the final hoorah of the week.
Last year, a coach broke their arm, and two players were out for the season. You would think it would be frowned upon for coaches and students to go against each other. It’s one of the most intense and stressful parts of camp. I stopped questioning it three years ago. It’s a tradition. And you don’t mess with tradition.
“We will see you all bright and early.” Dawson wraps up the evening and gives the room a wave. “Rest up.”
You would think, after a long day of travel and conference talk, the kids would be exhausted and ready for bed. You would think. We make our way up to our rooms, and they are anything but, giggling and whispering about their late-night plans to go to the beach. As the adult, I could remind them they’re supposed to be ready for their first workout at 6 a.m. I could. Instead, I wander into our hotel room, assuming Malcolm will most likely handle it anyway.
Collapsing onto the bed, I roll myself up into the expensive, luxurious comforter and form a cloud cocoon around my body, melting into the coziness.
Physical and emotional exhaustion hit me at once, weighing down my eyelids. I could fall asleep right here, right now.
The muffled sounds of the door opening and closing remind me that I, indeed, cannot fall asleep right now. I probably won’t fall asleep at all tonight, actually.
After a few moments, I peek out of my blanket cocoon and see Malcolm’s uncovered back in front of the bed.
I hold my breath and watch as the muscles in his shoulders flex and twist as he bends forward, sending a rippling effect down the curve of his back. Heat ignites deep in my belly at the sight. He glances over his shoulder, and I know I’m caught.
“Are you watching me, Ms. Stanley?” His laugh is rough and gravelly, adding to the flame burning inside me. The expanse of his shoulders stretch and widen as he pulls a shirt over his head. My gut hollows out as the heated episode that was building there starts to fizzle.
Am I disappointed?
Alright, these episodes have got to stop. This is getting ridiculous.
“I just didn’t want to disturb you.” I climb out of the cocoon and sit up straight, smoothing out my hair, “Give you space and all.” My cheeks feel warm as he tilts his head to the side and smiles at me.
“Are we getting wild tonight?”
“Wha—what?” I choke.
“Are you a wild sleeper?” His eyes travel all over me and the bed and the mess I’ve already made of the comforter.
“Oh.” I laugh, mostly at the absurdity of where my mind landed at the word wild coming from his lips. “No. I am a very still sleeper. You have nothing to worry about.” I will my voice steady and smooth the comforter out in front of me.
“Good.” He leaps onto the bed next to me, the force of his landing bouncing me into the air, before settling into the pillows and stretching his arms above his head. “We can’t both be wild.” The blue in his eyes sparkles with a playful mischief I haven’t seen from him as he smiles up at me.
The warmth in my cheeks travels down my neck and into my chest, settling there. A comforting yet confusing-as-heck feeling. An all-too-real description of everything going on in my head lately.
In a matter of days, my feelings for Malcolm have gone from comforting to confusing. What happened under the mistletoe set off alarms in my head that trigger anytime he does anything remotely enticing or attractive. It’s not like I’ve never seen the man without a shirt, or that he’s never touched me before, but for some reason, every piece of me is aware that it’s Malcolm doing these things. It’s Malcolm touching my thigh or my back. It’s Malcolm whispering in my ear. It’s freaking Malcolm in my bed. And for some unexplained reason, I keep looking for these moments to happen again.
We stare at each other for a long moment, the reality of the bed situation thickening the air around us. I don’t know about Malcolm, but I am freaking out. He’s always been very calm in high-stress situations—not like this even holds a candle to a war zone or anything—but I feel myself watching him, looking for signs of stress. His eyes flicker as they move all over my face. Can he sense my stress? He doesn’t say anything if he can. I see his hand twitch and his jaw tick before he forces his gaze on the ceiling.
“So…” He stretches, filling out the entire length of the bed. “Let’s take a look at this match.”
“Ugh.” I crumble into the pillows. “Can we not?”
“Oh, come on. Someone needs to point out all the bad things about these guys. Keep things realistic.”
“You look, then.” I toss my phone at him.
“Gladly.” His eyes sparkle as he sits up, opening the app and proceeding to the unopened matches I’ve received today. “Let’s see here.” He scrolls, and I resist the urge to peek over his shoulder. A mixture of emotions moves across his face—surprise, amusement, and annoyance. He judges each match carefully before he says, “None of these will work.”
“What? Why?” I snatch the phone from his hand and skim through the options. A veterinarian, a personal trainer, and a coffee shop owner grace my screen. My eyebrows pinch as I read each profile. One is my height, one hunts for a hobby, and the other hates sports. “They aren’t that bad,” I say, trying to convince myself more than him.
“Maybe not, but you deserve better.”
“Debatable.” The woman whose own mother doesn’t have time for her. Or the woman that was left for a job promotion after a three-year-long relationship. Clearly, there is something wrong with me that the people I try to love can’t seem to love me back for very long. “Maybe it’s me.” My voice is a whisper as the scary truth floats in the air like a black cloud.
“It’s not. You are never the issue.” His words are serious and sharp, a finality to them.
“Right,” I try to agree, but my words lack confidence. I can’t help but question my ability to attract someone, anyone, let alone just by a few words and photos. I’ve been out of the dating scene for so long I have no idea what I’m even doing anymore. It’s far from riding a bike, like Emma suggested.
And the thought of opening myself up to another person after Eric makes my insides rumble. What if they see the real me and run?
“I’m serious. Any man who doesn’t see your worth has no idea what they’re missing.” He sits up, wrapping his arm around my shoulders and pulling me into his chest. “You are everything a man could hope for,” he whispers into my hair, letting out a heavy sigh into the wild heap on top of my head.
I reach my arms around his waist and squeeze, feeling the tension in his back relax under my arms. He always knows how to make me feel better, even when I don’t know what I need. Physical touch has always been a point of contention for Malcolm, resisting hugs or pats from anyone and everyone he can. But over the last five years, we’ve found ourselves like this often, leaning on each other, entangled in a hug that feels so warm and safe that I never want to leave it.
We lie there in silence, listening to the waves lap against the shore and ocean air whip around the palm trees outside of our window. After a few minutes, his breathing slows, and I know he’s asleep.
The awkwardness I was dreading tonight disappears as I settle into his arms and let my eyes drift closed.
See, Kate, everything is fine.
Sweat trickles down my chest as I lie on the beach, my olive skin getting dark and toasty.
The sun is so bright, distorting my view, when I notice the outline of a tall figure approaching. It gets closer, and I see the swelling outline of bulging shoulders and biceps, holding a fruity drink in one hand and a book in the other. It’s a blur at first, but the vision comes into focus as well-defined abs lengthen and flex with each step closer. Drops of salty ocean water travel down ridges of muscle. The figure has a beard and is wearing sleek sunglasses. He makes his way to me and hovers at my feet, eclipsing the light from the sun as he leans down to crawl toward me. The heat that was baking my chest turns to ice, sending a trail of goosebumps up and down my body as he inches closer. A familiar minty scent hits my lips as he lets out a breath inches from my face. The bright rays start to dissipate, making his face clearer as the distance between us closes.
My dream is interrupted by a whimpering moan. My eyes flutter open as the scene around me refocuses. My head is nestled into the crook of Malcolm’s arm.
He’s asleep, but his face is pinched in pain, mumbling words as he dreams.
“No, stop,” he whispers, shaking his head side to side. His arm is tense under my body, his other hand clenched in a fist at his chest. “Run,” he whispers again. His legs bend and shake atop the comforter, his body like an oven.
“Malcolm,” I whisper, placing my hand on his chest, and I feel his heart pounding. He thrashes his arms and legs, clenching his fists and hitting the mattress. Holding his breath, his cheeks go red. “Malcolm,” I say urgently.
He doesn’t wake up. “Malcolm, wake up,” I speak calmly as I bring my hands to the sides of his face, trailing my thumbs over the dampness on his cheeks. “Please wake up.”
A jarring gasp leaves him as his eyes snap open. “Kate?” Shock and confusion move across his face as he squeezes my hands at his cheeks. He trembles as he frantically asks, “What happened? Did I hurt you?”
“No, no. You just had a nightmare.” I don’t let go of his face. I can’t.
“I’m so sorry.” His voice is tender and embarrassed. The side of Malcolm I rarely ever see. The vulnerable side that makes me want to weep.
“Don’t,” I whisper. The sound of our thumping heartbeats fills the room. He’s okay. He’s okay. I recite it to myself as I stroke his cheeks and smooth out his hair. Misty blue eyes stare at me, searching my face for reassurance. I wipe at the corner of his eye and smile. I’m right here. In an instant, he pulls me across him and wraps me in his arms, a quivering sigh leaving him as he deflates at our touch.
We lie there, holding each other tighter this time. His breathing doesn’t slow like it did earlier, like he’s fighting sleep. My heart breaks the tiniest bit at the cracks he tries so hard to keep hidden.
I feel useless. There’s nothing I can do to shut off the memories in his brain.
So, I just lie with him, hoping it’s the tiniest bit comforting.