Chapter 9 Grey
GREY
Mooning the new player for the Bruisers wasn’t my idea, but it had been my choice, which landed me in this opulent manor, which may as well be a classed-up detention hall.
I hate being confined and told what to do.
I’d rather be on the field or in a field on the little corner of Isle Royale that’s been in my family for almost a century.
But I have to go along with the commissioner and the coach’s punishment.
Marrying the woman across the table from me hadn’t been my idea either, but I’d agreed, and here I am.
My brother would just tell me to follow orders.
I sense the cold presence of Bran’s dog tags against my chest. During football games and practices, I’ve taken plenty of hits to the head, back, legs, and parts of my body I didn’t even realize could feel pain, but nothing is as bad as not feeling anything.
Everly sits across from me, waiting for me to reply again.
Am I ready?
Her brow is smooth, placid. Her green eyes are focused, but hidden behind them, what I glimpsed on our wedding day, is something else, something deeper, something I recognize by name only.
Pain and loss.
When I slid the ring on her finger, I had the silly thought that two hearts seek each other out to become one, not whole, which is something else, but to become something new together. I dismissed the idea then and again right now because there’s little more than a hard stone beating in my chest.
I’ve let my lack of being fully human ruin me appearance-wise.
Stopped shaving, cutting my hair, and doing anything to take care of myself other than working out.
Football is all I have. On the other hand, despite whatever Everly had gone through, she preserved her beauty with her feminine features, full lips, and shiny hair.
“You ready?” she repeats.
She’d also asked, Ready to change your life? Do I have a choice?
Bran would say, Buck up. Follow orders. Soldier on.
He was always the good son, brother, friend, and warrior. So was I, once upon a time. But I cannot fathom how I’ll ever wake up from this cold reality I inhabit.
At last, I grunt in response to Everly’s question.
It’s the best I can muster as I have a mini-battle inside between the dying version of myself and the fragments of the former me that continue to fight for self-preservation and connection.
“Wonderful,” she says brightly. “I’m going to teach you to offer everyone you come across the best version of yourself, teach you to rise to whatever occasions you encounter, and to be gracious even when you’re inclined to offer the opposite.”
“I’m pretty sure you memorized that from the contents of the file.”
“Face it ‘til you ace it,” she singsongs.
“Do you mean fake it ‘til you make it?”
“I meant to swap the letter K for C. No one likes fake, Mr. Adams.”
I’ve been faking my way through life for the last several months and am doing just fine.
Faking that I’m okay. Faking that I’ve moved on.
Faking that I dropped the ball when it came to my son’s care and well-being.
Faking that I’m not married. Granted, I haven’t so much as spoken to another woman who’s not my mother since marrying Everly, but I don’t think there’s much real about me left.
“Face the failure, the misfortune, the financial ruin. Face the pain.” Surprising strength backs Everly’s otherwise soft and sunny presence.
But I’m a storm cloud and reply, “How’s that working out for you?”
“Like a charm, sir.” As if she knows the exact game of obstinance I’m playing, she wears her sunny smile but twists the ring on her finger.
Face it ‘til you ace it is a trite cliché and couldn’t possibly penetrate the hurricane I’m in. Not that I’ve bothered trying, but none of that will change the outcome. Bran will still be gone.
I can think of plenty of instances when I gave people my worst, turned my back on opportunities, and received grace instead of offering it.
I’m not proud of that, but Everly is talking about thriving when I’m barely surviving.
I don’t think changing letters around in words will turn rock into muscle tissue and resume the ticking of my heart.
“Here at Blancbourg, we offer full-spectrum image improvement along with personal and professional relations makeovers. We’ll pinpoint the specific areas that you need to work on and go from there. Sound good?”
No, it sounds terrible, but I won’t rain on her positivity parade.
I grunt.
She takes out a pen and a notebook from her purse. “Please tell me a bit about yourself.”
Ironic that my wife knows nothing about me. Does she want a bio? Vitals? Height, weight? Football stats? I have no idea where to start or what to say.
At my silence, she makes a note on a page in her notebook.
I lean in, curious about what she wrote.
Like a seesaw, she leans back, taking her notebook with her. “It’s important for me to take stock of where you’re at so I know where to go. We’ll custom-tailor all of your lessons to highlight your strengths and transform your weaknesses, but I can’t help you if I don’t know anything about you.”
I grunt. It’s my usual response, even though she isn’t the usual speaker.
Something about Everly, or this peculiar situation, transfixes me.
The way her lips move. The way she touches the ends of her hair over her shoulder.
The way she holds the pen. A real husband would know all these fine details and what they mean. My brow furrows.
“You do realize that in order for me to give the headmistress here at Blancbourg, along with your commissioner and coach, a favorable review, indicating that you passed the program, you have to speak and interact. This isn’t a case where you can pull on your helmet and zone out.”
I’d rather be on the field. Anywhere but in this pressure cooker collision of my past and present. I grunt again because I’m afraid of what nastiness will spill out if I open my mouth—how unfair and stupid and unreasonable this is.
She sighs, steaming ahead. “It’s my understanding that we’ll begin our time here at the school, then I’ll shadow you for several weeks in your regular environment. After our time together, you’ll be tested and attend The First Annual Boston Bruisers Charity Ball.”
“The first thing you should know about me is that I don’t say much and prefer to be an observer. The second thing is I don’t suffer fools or take any nonsense.” My voice is like tires on gravel.
“But you’ll dish it out?” she challenges me and points at a moon-gate article clipping in her folder. The backsides of my teammates Declan, Wolf, Chase, and me blur but are still there for all the world to see.
I grunt.
“Is there a third thing?” she asks.
Probably, but I don’t answer.
“We’ll start simple. Full name, please.”
“It’s on the marriage license,” I blurt.
“Third rule of Marriage of Convenience Club—”
“I’m not going to fight you, Everly.”
She pauses at the sound of her name as if surprised I remembered it. “Aren’t you already?”
I scrub my hand over my face. “Greyson Harris Adams.”
She writes it down. “Date of birth?”
“June seventeenth,” I add the year as an afterthought.
“That means you’ll be turning forty soon,” she says cheerfully.
I don’t want to think about celebrating without Bran—birthdays were our thing. The only thing that keeps me from going into the shadows is the upturn of Everly’s lips as if cheered by the idea of a birthday.
“What about you?”
“What about me what?” she asks as though confused.
“Name, date of birth, all that.”
“This doesn’t work both ways, Mr. Adams,” she says, reminding me of her position as coach and me as the client.
“Is that a rule?”
Wearing a slim smile, instead of answering, she grunts as if mimicking me, then continues down the line of questions.
After the interview, Everly slides a sheet of paper across the table outlining an itinerary for the week.
“My phone number is on there if you have any questions or need me for any reason. We’ll be together most of the time, but if you’re in a situation that you’re not sure how to navigate, have to reply to an email and don’t know what to say, or need anything else, please don’t hesitate to reach out. ”
Need her? Not likely.
Want her? No comment.
But I can’t have her. Never. Not even if we’re married.
However, I can’t help but worry that our secret is tempted to sneak out of its hiding place.