Declan
"Hard to sit here and be close to you,
and not kiss you."
~ F. Scott Fitzgerald, Tender Is the Night
This.
I never thought I wanted this.
But it turns out, having the right woman curled up in a chair next to you while you watch a game … Well, it’s the kind of nice that makes me think about houses and futures and a shared life.
An unfamiliar warmth spreads over me picturing Winona sitting in the stands at games wearing my name on the back of a jersey, not because she wants to see me win, just because she wants to see me.
Not that I’m proposing. Obviously not.
Winona hasn’t shown any romantic interest in me—yet. But I’m a tight end. I know how to wait for my play. Other guys are ball-hungry. They get more targets. I only have one target. And I’ll be patient. When my route is clear, I’ll be ready.
I tip my glass up to my lips. Empty. Ice cubes fall toward me and resettle when I tip the glass away. My plate of home-cooked comfort food sits almost finished on the coffee table.
Winona shouts at a play and my irrepressible grin spreads. I keep my eyes on the TV so she doesn’t see it. We gain five yards, but it’s not enough for a down. The Chiefs take the field and we go to a commercial break—a scene with a group of friends at a bar.
I grab my crutches and stand.
“Want anything?”
I’m pinching the rim of my glass while gripping my crutch, determined to serve myself instead of asking Winona to do one more thing for me.
“Oh, is there beverage service now?” she asks, laughing and looking up at me.
She’s got the lightest smear of au gratin on her cheek right next to her lips.
I don’t think. Propping my crutch under my free arm, I reach over and swipe it off.
She stills, staring up at me with wide, unblinking eyes.
Did I go too far?
All this talk with Delaney and Linc. That imagined kiss.
I don’t know how to do this with a woman like her. She means something.
The last thing I want to do is mess this up before I even have a real shot with her.
Her smile blooms slowly, overtaking her face. “You know, in romance novels the guy always does that.”
“Does what?” I ask.
“Reaches over, like this.” She reaches up and touches my face. “And then he slowly drags his finger down her face.” She drags her finger down the skin next to my mouth and I’m relatively certain I stop breathing. I’m frozen, but the trail of her touch sparks to life, humming with electricity.
“And then …” she continues, as if she can’t tell how she’s affecting me. “... if it’s really a scene that makes you kick your feet, he does this.”
She takes her finger and puts it in her mouth and pulls it back out, pretending to lick off whatever invisible food she just swiped off my face.
My breath definitely stalls. I could swallow my tongue.
She mentioned romance novels. If I was looking for an opening, this is it.
Did she mean to bring up romance? Or is she being Winona? Delightfully present, saying whatever comes to mind, blissfully unaware of the reactions she elicits from people around her.
She takes another bite of potatoes. The commercial switches to a fast-food sandwich restaurant.
“Hey! That’s Delaney!” Winona shouts, looking past me at the TV.
“It is.”
“Shhhh.” She shushes me, eyes fixed on the screen. “There’s Keller!”
“Yep.”
“Why aren’t you on this?” she asks, sounding offended on my behalf.
“I do other commercials.”
She glances up at me. “Like what?”
“Pepsi. Gatorade. McDonald’s … Nike. Under Armor … I did a few for State Farm last year.”
“Oh yeah,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Blah blah blah Nike. Just another day in the life.” She laughs lightly—mocking me, but with a familiarity that makes me ache for her in yet another way.
Her tone grows more serious. “You’re an actor, Declan.” She flops back against her chair, eyes wide, an amused grin on her face. “I need to see these commercials.”
I laugh at her reaction. It’s not like any other. She’s not in awe of me. And yet she is impressed.
“We might be able to find them on YouTube,” I tell her.
The game comes back on. The announcer says something about the Chiefs having possession of the ball.
“We’ll look for your commercials after the game,” Winona says. She raises her pointer finger and squints at me. “Don’t think you’re going to distract me from remembering, either. I need to see you in a commercial.”
I laugh again. “Fine. We’ll find them.”
And then she stands up. “Give me that glass.”
“I was getting a refill.”
“Watch the game,” she offers, gesturing to my spot on the couch with a tip of her chin. “I’ll miss the next play to get you another drink. You shouldn’t miss any of it.”
I do as I’m told, returning to the couch. And she’s right. I shouldn’t miss a second of game play. Which is why it makes no sense that my gaze follows her out of the room.
Winona returns with two full glasses.
When she settles back into her chair, she goes quiet, her attention as focused on the screen as mine.
The game is a close one. By halftime, I’m antsy.
“You look like you’re about to climb out of your own skin,” she observes.
“Yeah. I’m itching to be on the field,” I admit.
She studies me, nodding with a seriousness that’s filled with compassion. Then in a tone that’s girded with certainty, she says, “You will be. Keep doing what you’re doing and you’ll be back there before you know it.”
I hope she’s right. Even though my recovery has been smooth, there’s no promise as to when or even if I’ll be back.
I turn to her, smile and say, “Thanks.”
Then, for some reason, I wink. It feels like the most awkward wink in the history of winks. Winona’s forehead scrunches up and she studies me. Then she lifts her glass and takes a sip of her drink, watching me over the rim.
Did I break something besides my ankle?
“Are you okay, Declan?” Winona asks me, setting her glass down but not taking her eyes off mine.
“Yeah. Just …” I swipe at my eye. “Dust or something.”
Dust? Seriously?
The fact that my teammates aren’t here to witness my utter bumbling fills me with a rush of relief. They’d make fun of me for months—no. Years.
Just tell her how you feel. A voice in my head that sounds a lot like Lincoln Walker nudges me.
I’ve never had to work to show a woman what I felt for her before.
And, since my last disaster of a relationship, I haven’t even considered getting to the point where I’d need to tell a woman how I felt.
Even to my own mind, that sounds pompous, but it’s a fact.
I’m a star athlete from a wealthy family.
My skills and status carried me through high school.
Then I was drafted right out of college.
I’ve always been on the receiving end of female attention—whether I solicited it or not.
On the screen, Treyvon Harris makes a nearly impossible catch, jumping into the air and grasping the ball with one hand, then tucking it into his side before being tackled practically mid-jump for a first down.
Winona leaps out of her chair, pumping her fist in the air. “That’s what I’m talking about! First down! Go Thunder!” She adds an excited squeal.
I was mid-whoop when she started out-cheering me.
I glance over at her, cheeks flushed, hair bouncing, eyes alight with happiness. I want to be the man on the field eliciting that reaction from her. But I love that it’s my team she’s rooting for—and that I was the one to help her understand the game.
She catches me watching her and a soft pink blush rises up her neck and face.
“It was a good play, right?”
“The best,” I say, still staring at her.
She drops her head slightly, averting her eyes.
And then she returns her attention to the game, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear.
I force myself to turn back to the TV, but I can’t shake the thought that she might be feeling something for me.
I run her reaction through my mind, only half-focused on the screen when Linc gets sacked by the Chief’s defense.
If I had been on the field, nothing could have ripped my attention from Linc.
The rest of the game, the heavy quiet in the room is only interrupted by commercials, during which Winona peppers me with clarifying questions. We break the silence with raucous cheering when the Thunder makes a play. We end up winning by a field goal.
“Whew, pressure on the kicker was intense,” Winona says, falling back into her chair. “He looked stressed, too.”
“Yeah. It’s stressful when it comes down to one play that will win or lose the game in the final two minutes.”
“But he did it.” She yawns, covering her mouth with the back of her hand.
“He did.”
She’s smiling past the yawn and I take her in. Rumpled hair, drowsy eyes, a softness to her that comes at the end of a day. “Tired?” I ask.
“Yes. Sorry.” She sighs, settling into her chair.
“Long day herding goats?” I tease.
She covers her face with both hands and peeks out through her fingers. “Sorry!”
“Don’t worry. It all worked out.” Her eyes droop.
“Are you good to drive?” I ask.
“I think so …” Her voice trails off and she stifles another yawn. “Maybe I could just close my eyes for like five minutes before driving. I don’t want to drive into a gate on my way out.”
Her laughter starts, softly at first, but then it grows—exhaustion loosening her until she’s giggling. And I can’t help but laugh along with her.
“It’s not that funny,” she says, still laughing and wiping at a tear coming out of the corner of her eye. “Those gates.” She laughs some more.
“Right?” I say. A sweet hum flows through me just looking at her. She’s so unguarded right now.
“The downstairs guest room is made up,” I say. “Want to rest for a few before you hit the road?”
“I don’t want to impose.” Her heavy-lidded gaze gives her face a sweet softness.
“You aren’t imposing. I offered.”
What I don’t say—can’t say—is that I want her here.
Every time she leaves, the silence gets louder.
“Okay,” she says, hesitantly. “But just a short power nap. Then I’ll be out of your hair.”
Her eyes linger on me while she stands from her chair and stretches.
My voice sounds slightly gruff with emotion when I say, “You’re not in my hair.”