Chapter 18
brYCE
A fter tossing and turning for a while, I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling. Miles turned off the light ten minutes ago, but I don’t even hear him breathing next to me.
“You okay over there?” he asks, his voice sounding way too close.
“I’m just a little wired, I think.”
“Want to count sheep?”
I chuckle. “No, Miles, I don’t.”
“When I was younger, I had a hard time calming my brain down at bedtime. I’d get out of bed and go downstairs to my parents… my mom tried everything. She had me count sheep, drink warm milk, and try meditation.”
“Did it work?”
“No.”
“What did?” I ask.
“Reading. Although not if I’m really into the book. Sometimes I read nonfiction at night because of that.”
I smile, thankful he can’t see me, because the vision in my head of a young Miles falling asleep with a book on his chest is endearing .
“I’ve read the comments, you know.” There’s something in his tone I can’t pick out, and given the sudden change of subject, I’m not even sure what he’s talking about.
“What do you mean?” I turn on my side and tuck my hands under the pillow, staring at his profile in the dark.
“Reading isn’t very macho for a football player. I’m supposed to have this whole alpha persona where I bang on my chest and pound beers.”
A laugh bubbles up out of me. “Why on Earth do you think that?”
“Because that’s what women say. On those pictures people snap of me at the park with a book, they’ll say I should be running with my shirt off or lifting weights, picking up women.
Don’t get me wrong, there are those who say they love it, but it doesn’t go with the image of a football player most people have. Like Damon.”
“Do you want to be like Damon?”
“Hell no.”
My laughter bounces off the walls of the quiet room from how emphatic he is. The bed shifts, and I watch his outline move with ease to the same position I am, facing me.
“In all seriousness, though, I love the guy. He’s a loyal friend. Sucks at being a boyfriend, but…”
“One day I think he’ll grow up.”
“I don’t know, he might be Peter Pan.”
“And The Den is Neverland?”
“Pretty much.”
We both laugh. Our humor lifts the oppressive cloud that’s been over us most of the night—or ever since we slept together, to be more accurate.
“Can I ask you a question, and you don’t have to tell me?” I ask.
“On or off the record?”
“Off.”
“Okay.” There’s still a hint of trepidation in his voice, but I decide to go ahead and ask anyway, crossing my fingers that I’m not ruining the moment.
“Why the chip on your shoulder?”
“Ahhh…” He grows quiet, but I hear his breathing now. “Are you sure you want to know? It might make you sympathetic and change what you write about me.”
“Not a chance. I’m a professional.”
Another deep inhale and release of breath. My hands itch to reach over the blankets between our bodies and hold his hand like he did mine on the airplane. This is something big he’s trusting me with, I can tell. Especially since I’m a reporter.
“I was the small kid growing up. Didn’t hit puberty until my sophomore year of high school maybe.
So I already felt like I had something to prove.
Junior year, I became the quarterback. A lot of us in the pros played quarterback in high school.
But when I got to Michigan, they moved me to wide receiver. ”
“A great position.”
“I loved it. But when I got drafted, I was moved to safety. My first defensive position, and it took me a while to adjust.”
I’ve done my research on him, so I know most of this.
“Most guys are just happy to be drafted, to have the opportunity to go pro,” he adds.
“Yeah, I suppose they are. A lot of guys get moved to different positions. Julian Edelman was a quarterback in college but moved to wide receiver when he hit the pros.”
“True, but to me, I felt I was never good enough. Maybe because I lack the typical football player mentality. I don’t party, I rarely drink, I enjoy reading, clean eating, and working out.”
“You do know that football players aren’t just manufactured in a plant where they pop out all the same, right? Cooper isn’t like Damon. And look at Chase back in San Francisco, so quiet and reserved, while Brady is outgoing and sometimes boisterous. Lee is subdued. Do I need to continue?”
“You make me feel like it’s okay to be different, but in the locker room, different isn’t always appreciated or well-liked.
In high school mostly. What is it about high school that can just fuck you up in the head?
I mean, here I am in the pros, and I’m still messed in the head about some bully my freshman year who made fun of how small I was. ”
My chest pinches when I think of a younger Miles being harassed by some asshole.
“I think the coaches were able to switch your positions because you’re versatile.
I wouldn’t think of it as a bad thing at all.
And as far as who you were in high school, no one was the best version of themselves back then. ”
He nods. “I know. I’ve just always felt different. But I own it now. I have that chip on my shoulder to remind myself to prove to everyone that I’m where I deserve to be. Now I’m afraid if I lose the chip on my shoulder, I’ll grow complacent and fail.”
I huff. “It’s a lot of pressure you’re under.”
It’s not that I didn’t already know that, but these conversations with Miles help me really understand what that pressure means for them day-to-day. It’s not just while they’re on the football field in a televised game. It’s something they carry with them everywhere, always.
“We’re judged under a microscope every week,” he says.
And it’s the truth. There are times I feel bad writing articles about them when they might be at their lowest, knowing I’m likely causing the wound to fester, not heal.
“But at the same time,” he continues, “we’re paid to perform, just like any other job. If you don’t, you get fired.”
“Most people aren’t being tackled or having to tackle people to keep their job.”
“We picked it, and we’re paid well for it too. Here I am bitching, and that’s why I hate telling people about all that shit because, how can I complain? I’m exactly where I dreamed I’d be when I was ten.”
I touch him to let him know I hear him loud and clear, but he grabs my hand and interlocks our fingers.
“Miles,” I whisper.
“Now you tell me,” he whispers back, continuing to hold my hand.
“What?”
“Your parents. Why are you so hard on your dad? Don’t most divorced kids dream of their parents reuniting?”
Heat flows up my arm like warm lava down a volcano as he caresses my hand. “It’s a long story and you need your sleep.” I try to slide my hand out of his, but he grips it harder.
“I’m wide awake now. Plus, it’s just a game, right?”
I giggle. “Now it’s just a game?”
“Yeah.”
Like him, I take my time, because putting words to my feelings about my parents is hard. Not everyone understands.
“Like he said, I was four when they divorced. I have vague memories of how broken my mom was, but over time, she smiled more, played with me more, and just spent more time with me. My dad got me every other weekend and Wednesday, the typical divorced dad schedule back then.”
“Was it hard?” He squeezes my hand, running his thumb over my pointer finger in lazy circles. “I have no idea what that must have been like.”
“It sucked. My mom got visibly depressed and angry the closer we got to his weekends. She wouldn’t talk to him for the first couple of years.
She’d pack my stuff, and when his car pulled up, she would open the front door, hug me, and tell me to walk out to him.
She never referred to him by name, just him . ”
“And did you even understand it, being so young?”
I’m glad he’s asking questions. It’s easier than just telling the story from start to finish .
“All I knew is that Daddy didn’t love Mommy anymore.
I heard her tell my grandma that right after he left.
‘He just doesn’t love me anymore,’ is what she told my grandma.
But then when I turned seven, she met someone, Crew.
He’d been divorced and had his kids on the weekend I was home with my mom, so I went from weekends with my mom to weekends with her, Crew, and his two kids.
They never spent the night, but we did everything with them.
Crew always wanted his kids to have more fun with him than they did with their mom, so we did a lot of things like bowling, amusement parks, and stuff.
And when my dad found out that was happening, he decided he’d start taking me to football games every one of his weekends. ”
“I’m sorry.” His voice is soothing and full of sympathy.
“Does it sound that bad?”
“Sounds like a ‘who can be a more fun parent’ competition.”
He’s right in a way.
“I guess. The football games were great. My dad would get great seats, we’d pig out on the concession food, and we’d always stay in a hotel. He really is the reason I love the game. Always took the time to explain plays to me.”
“Did he play?”
I shake my head although he can’t see me well.
“One year in college is as far as he got. Dropped out after that. As I got older, we’d go to steak dinners after every game where he’d drink, and I’d get a kiddie cocktail that I thought was the coolest thing ever.
I felt so special every time we’d go. But then…
” I choke up and push back the emotions clogging my throat.
You can get through this. Stop overthinking it, it was so long ago.
“At thirteen, he told me I could rent a movie in the hotel room, and he left me earlier than he usually did.”
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want,” Miles says in a calm voice that makes me want to push away the blankets between us and have him hold me.
“The movie sucked, and I got bored, so I went downstairs to the lobby where he said he was going to be, but he wasn’t there.
I walked by the bar, and he was with a woman in a corner booth.
They were side by side, drinking, and he had his arm around her shoulders.
She was tucked into his side. I didn’t know what to do.
I froze at first but then scrambled back to the bank of elevators.
He didn’t return until three in the morning, and his shirt was unbuttoned.
I pretended to be asleep. We woke up, and I never told him.
He wasn’t cheating on my mom. They were divorced, but…
in some weird way, it felt like he was cheating on me.
Cheating me out of what little time I had with him.
Did he just take me on these outings so he could pick them up at the hotel at night?
All of it only further reinforced why my parents split and the type of man he was. ”
“Your mom was with Crew at the time?”
“No, they didn’t make it past two years. The problem was, it was like that from the time I was thirteen to eighteen. After that, when we went to games, it was usually just the local games by my college. It was always different women and…”
“It took away your belief in love?”
I sit up in bed and wipe the tears teetering on the edges of my eyelids. “No. I just don’t want to be in a relationship.”
He follows suit, sitting up, and I take the opportunity to pull my hand away. “It’s okay, Bryce. Everyone has hang-ups.”
“He didn’t cheat.”
“But he was kind of a womanizer.”
I look at him. “He was a good father.”
“I think seeing your mom upset and that he couldn’t settle in with anyone, preferred random hookups… that’s got to change your perspective on relationships. ”
The more he’s trying to help, the more upset I feel. “Don’t try to psychoanalyze me.”
He huffs, and now that my eyes are adjusted to the darkness, I see his shoulders have slumped. “I’m just trying to talk to you. Help you.”
“Why though? Why are you always trying to help me? Plenty of women out there would kill to be in my position.” I can’t look away from him, even though I want to out of self-preservation.
“I only want you,” he whispers. “I’m sorry if that upsets you, but it’s the truth.
I haven’t gotten you out of my head for two years.
I get it, I do. We’d be putting your job in jeopardy, our friendships with other people could suffer if we don’t make it, but none of that seems to matter when I’m around you.
I only want to help make your troubles disappear. I just want to make you happy.”
My tears threaten to spill over, and I close my eyes to compose myself.
“Can I ask you one last question?” he asks.
I want to say no. I want to beg him to stop. I want to run out of this room onto the streets and scream for mercy. “What?”
“Two years ago, after we hooked up, did you walk out on me because you were afraid or because it really meant nothing to you?”
I don’t answer for a beat, but I admit weakly, “Because I was afraid.”
He nods as though he knew all along, but how could he? “How long do you plan on running from this?”
I throw the blankets off me and stand, feeling restless and unmoored, like a rabid animal backed into a corner. “I’m not running. You already mentioned everything that’s against us.”
I walk over to my suitcase. I’ll bang down Cooper’s door at this point. Miles tosses off his blankets and rounds the edge of the bed to face me. All I smell is him, and it causes the space between my legs to ache.
He puts his hand over mine where it’s holding the handle of my suitcase.
“At some point, those reasons won’t hold up.
I’m done being on the sidelines, Bryce. I want to play the game, whether I win or lose.
I just want to play.” I look up at him, meeting his gaze, and he steps closer. “Put me in, Coach.”
I shake my head, desperate and afraid. “We’re playing with matches.”
“I’ll take the risk.” He wraps his arms around me, pulling me to his bare chest.
I press my palms on his pecs and look up at him. “Miles, I’m afraid.”
“Just say when,” he says softly.
“What?”
“When I can kiss you.”
He searches my eyes for an answer while my fingers glide down along the ridges of his abs. I want to play. I’m done denying myself and living in fear.
“When.” It’s barely audible, but he hears me.
He bends his head, and his lips land on mine, beginning a brand-new game of “who wants the other one more.”