Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
ELLIE
I can’t believe I did that. I can’t believe I mustered the courage to kiss him and now I’m flustered and embarrassed and?—
“Let’s go for a drink, Mike,” I blurt, turning away to hide my glowing face; hot and flushed.
I grab his hand to lead him away, but I come to an abrupt stop. My hand trapped in an anchored embrace.
“Kitch?” he says.
Oh, my goodness. I’m going to have to turn and look at him. I’m going to have to look him in the eye while he asks me what the hell I just did, and he’ll force me to come clean—tell him how I feel.
But I can’t. Because I’m already out of bravery today. I’ve depleted the well and all that’s left is the silt at the bottom.
“Hm?” I murmur, opting to go passive.
But he tugs on my arm, and I know I can’t leave it any longer. I have to look at him; I have to turn around and … I lock eyes with him and the concourse full of people, busy and frantic, floats away until there’s only us .
Oh, God.
He takes a step forward and tugs my hand, pulling me towards him, then he releases his grip, letting my arm drop to my side.
“Kitch—you’ve got to give me more than that,” he says, a teasing tone in his voice.
“I—” Whatever I was going to say catches in my throat when his left hand cups my cheek.
Heat. Sizzling contact as his skin touches mine.
Then he dips his head, slow and sure, like he’s giving me a chance to step away.
But I don’t. My body does that thing again …
where it decides before my brain catches up.
And before I know it, I’m moving in and closing the gap.
“Betts!”
There’s someone shouting his name. But instead of backing away, his lips are on mine and the world around me fades again.
Oh, God.
I feel drunk. Like my head is fuzzy and there’s a current flowing through my veins.
And the feeling increases tenfold when he parts his lips and mine follow in sync.
Eager. Desperate, even. And my hands take on a life of their own, gripping his suit jacket—clinging onto him like I’ll collapse if I don’t.
His tongue brushes mine and I’ve lost it. I’ve folded into him and anyone could be watching—someone is watching.
“Betts!”
Mike pauses, cupping my chin with his hand as he pulls away, resting his forehead on mine for a beat—his eyes closed for a fraction of a second longer before he peels them open, locking eyes on mine. He smiles, intertwining my hand in his, before he turns towards the voice.
“Coach,” he says. “Sorry, I didn’t?—”
“Nah, I don’t suppose you did. And I guess I wouldn’t typically interrupt a public display like that. I wondered if I was mistaken at first, because I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
“I guess I could say the same thing about you, Coach. ”
“Just passing through,” Coach says. Then his eyes linger on me for a second, like he’s waiting for Mike to introduce us … why isn’t he introducing us?
Then it hits me. Coach. Mike’s Coach … and for the second time today, I act on impulse, letting my instinct take over. I hold my hand out and step forward to introduce myself.
“Hi, I’m Ellie—Mike’s wife. It’s so nice to meet you.”
He grins at me and Mike swivels his head in my direction, mouth open in a perfect ‘o’, a hint of my lipstick smeared on his lips.
“Well, I must admit, I’m glad to see you’ve settled down,” Coach says, flashing a grin towards Mike. “I never thought he’d have it in him.”
Okay, now I’m confused. I stare blankly at Mike.
“Uh—yeah,” he says, turning back towards Coach. “Ellie, this is Coach Sinclair. He used to coach me at junior level. I mean—how long’s it been, Coach?”
Oh, God.
I purse my lips, trying to suppress the horror. Because this is unbearable. Only I could blurt something out like that to someone who doesn’t actually give a crap.
“Oh, it’s got to be over ten years. I mean, what are you now? Twenty-six?”
“Yeah,” Mike nods.
But I’m dying of mortification. Fixed on the moment I introduced myself as Mike’s wife. I mean…
“Ellie?”
“I’m sorry, what?” I say, blinking away the memory.
“I hear congratulations are in order,” Coach says.
“I was just asking how you’re feeling about Betts here getting a Team GB spot.
I mean—I can’t take any of the credit, but I sure as hell did all I could before I moved on.
” He takes a breath. “I still can’t believe that replacement of mine didn’t think you were good enough for?—”
“Well, yeah. I think it’s worked out okay. I mean, I’ve got a terrific team, and I feel at home where I am.”
“I’m glad to hear it—listen, my connection is due any minute, but I saw you and couldn’t pass up the opportunity to commend you. And wish you luck for tomorrow. You were one of my favourites, and I want to see you do well. Get your name on that cup.”
There’s a flurry of goodbyes and he turns away, striding towards the platforms.
This is it. This is where I die of embarrassment. Here on the concourse.
But I don’t give Mike anytime to ask questions. I throw a question at him, hoping to cause a distraction.
“What’s tomorrow?” I ask.
“Challenge Cup Final,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “But oh no you don’t.” He turns back towards me. “You don’t get to throw out the wife card and pretend like you didn’t.”
There’s a smile the size of the sun on his face and all I want to do is kiss him again, but I bite my lip.
“You called him Coach so I?—”
“Yeah, sorry about it. Old habits die hard. It’s like ingrained. And he was a really good Coach, too—but c’mon, Kitch … you said…”
I look down at the polished concrete.
“I guess, I did.”
“Right,” he says.
I’m fixed on the shiny floor for a moment longer before I lift my head, meeting his eyes.
“I guess … I mean… I thought—” I swallow, trying to understand, but I can’t fully place it.
Why did I blurt it out? Why did it feel natural and easy?
Like it was on the tip of my tongue the whole time …
waiting for the right moment. Then it comes to me in the most obvious of reflections.
“I thought, why not? Why not? I can’t think of a reason why not anymore. ”
Mike nods. A slow movement of his head, like he’s thinking .
“Right,” he says again.
“I mean … why not, right?”
He stares at me for a beat longer before rubbing his hand over his stubble.
“Well, you don’t have to decide today. I mean—Coach Sinclair probably won’t see anyone to mention anything.”
“Mike—”
“Honestly, I’m sorry I put you on the spot like that. I didn’t even think—I guess that’s typical of me, right? I saw him and?—”
“Of course you’d call him Coach. It makes sense. I mean, it’s a respectful thing to do, right?” I settle a hand on his forearm.
“Yeah, but … I just don’t want to lock you into something. That’s not fair. I get that now.”
Maybe he’s right.
“Okay, how about this—we get a drink? Back to Plan ‘A’, yeah?”
“Of course,” he says, holding out his hand.
I slip my palm into his and we make our way towards the exit, joining the stream of people moving towards the street.
“So, why the clock?” I ask Mike as we head outside.
“Imagine when our kids ask us how we met. We can tell them about the clock and how romantic it was because when you think about it—it all comes down to time. Right place, right time.”
I roll my eyes with a smile. “But we didn’t actually meet for the first time under that clock. We met in Maths. Year seven, Mrs Jones’ room.”
Mike adjusts himself to look at me, eyebrows pulled together. “Nah, it wasn’t then,” he says. “It was before Maths. It was in registration. I remember thinking you were the most beautiful girl in the world.”
A grin cements itself on my face.
“Regardless, it wasn’t—wait … our kids?”
He chuckles. A deep rumble that warms my whole body.
“Don’t you want kids?” he asks, tilting his head to the side .
“This is … deep,” I say, unsure of myself.
“It’s just a general question,” he says. “Sorry I was?—”
“I’m—I’m not sure. I guess I haven’t really thought about it,” I say. “I hate the idea of having a favourite child if I were to have more than one. Because I think every parent has a favourite, even if they don’t admit it.”
“Well, you’re not wrong,” he says. “I’m definitely my mam’s favourite. My dad … not so much.”
“What make’s you say that?”
“Just a feeling I get, I guess,” he shrugs, but his eyes stick to mine, bright and full of wonder.
“But there’s no way you aren’t your folks’ favourite.
I mean … you or Kathryn.” He frees his hand and aligns it with the other, suspending them in the air, palms upward.
He moves them up and down, sizing us up—apparently.
The Ellie hand wins.
“Well, favourite or not … I’m definitely not Kathryn’s favourite sister. Something happened yesterday and I, uh…”
He takes my hand again, planting a kiss on the back.
“Wanna tell me about it? I mean, you don’t have to, but I’m here if you want to vent or whatever. I’ll warn you though … I’ll probably offer suggestions on how you should fix it.”
I let out a deflated laugh. “I think you’ve already done the fixing. Even though it wasn’t really your thing to fix.”
And as we walk, hand in hand, down the street, I tell Mike all about Kathryn and the phone call he made when we were eighteen.