Chapter 22 #2
She wraps her arms around me as I settle more fully on top of her again. “Nope. Not even close. For a while, I thought I was just addicted to your penis, but it’s more than that.”
“Yeah?’ I grin as I smooth her curls from her forehead.
“Yeah,” she confirms. “Though, make no mistake, I’m still addicted.” She heaves a dramatic sigh. “I don’t know how I’m going to make it all the way to Friday morning without Dean peen.”
“Should I set my alarm early for tomorrow morning?” I ask as I kiss her.
She hums against my lips. “You sure as hell should.”
I do, and after I’ve fucked the woman I love in the shower the next morning, I ask her to move in with me. Properly. In this house, in this bedroom, not in the apartment over the garage.
She says yes, and I’m so happy, I don’t even care that—thanks to being out of practice—I’m probably going to sit the bench most of the game tonight. Who has the energy to stress about time on the ice when the sexiest, coolest, best woman in the world is in love with him and addicted to his penis?
Not me. Not even close.
And yes, leaving Clover right now sucks, but coming back to her will be all the sweeter for how hard it is to say goodbye.
I’m sure of it.
So sure, that when I pick up my cell in the locker room after a 4 to 1 win in Philly two days later, I can’t believe what I see on my screen.
The words simply…refuse to process.
I have to read the texts three times before my heart finally starts to sink—
Clover: I’m so sorry, Dean, but I can’t do this anymore. Not watching the girls or moving in or living above your garage or anything. Not now. And maybe not for a long time.
I hope I’ll be able to explain all this someday soon, but for now, don’t call me. Or text. Or try to find me when you get home. I can’t see you or anyone else I care about right now.
But don’t worry. The girls are safe at Maybelline’s, and she’s free to watch them until you get home tomorrow morning. They’re all having a great time, and they have no idea that things are…complicated.
I’m so sorry. I hate to do this, and I wish I could explain more, but I can’t. So, please don’t ask. And DON’T try to find me when you get home. If you do, I’ll be pissed and hate you forever.
Again, really, really sorry. *broken heart emoji*
I sit down hard on the bench, my head spinning.
It literally feels like it’s rotating on my aching neck.
I took a hit in the second period in Tuesday night’s game, and has been aching ever since. Then, I took another hit tonight in the third.
I was looking forward to a long soak in the bathtub after the game, but now…
Now, I can’t imagine looking forward to anything again. Ever.
Aw, poor old man. You really thought that a woman eleven years younger than you was going to stick around for the long haul?
A cynical voice in my head pipes up. Good thing you didn’t say anything to Blue about being in love with his surrogate little sister, after all. Since she’s decided to bail and all.
I close my eyes and duck my chin to my chest, struggling to think straight past the roar of the locker room around me, fighting the urge to shout for my teammates to shut the fuck up.
They don’t need to shut up. They have every right to celebrate a blowout win. I’m the one who needs to shut down the inner voice and get the hell out of here. I need to find somewhere quiet and call Clover.
Fuck not texting or calling or trying to see her.
If she thinks I’m going to sit by and let her isolate herself from everyone she cares about, she has another thing coming. I have literally no fucking clue what’s going on with her, but I know this isn’t the answer, no matter what.
No matter what’s happened. No matter what she’s done.
I can’t imagine what she’s done, but there’s something in that text that makes me think she’s in trouble.
The kind of trouble a young person gets into when they haven’t thought far enough ahead before rushing into something.
It’s the same way I felt when I took out a mortgage for an apartment that cost more than I could actually afford as a rookie, even a rookie with a nice signing bonus.
The “oh shit, what have I done,” sank in pretty fast, though, as I began running out of money for groceries by the end of the month, and being forced to choose between paying the mortgage or the electric bill.
Thankfully, I was able to get a roommate to reduce costs, eventually refinance the property, and get full-time renters in the unit when I was traded to another team in a city halfway across the country.
That property now turns a nice monthly profit, but not all “impulsive twenty-four-year-old” stories have a happy ending, and I get that.
If Clover’s gotten herself into some sort of trouble, I want to help her, the same way she’s helped me.
I’m not going to judge her or push her away for making a mistake. That’s not the way love works.
I shower faster than I have in years and hurry out to the parking lot where the team bus waits to take us back to the hotel. I’m the first one out, so I should be able to speak freely. Even Coach is still inside.
Taking a deep breath, I compose what I hope is the right “you can trust me with your struggles” opening line and hit the call button.
But it doesn’t even ring. It goes straight to voicemail, and Clover saying, “Hi, you’ve reached Clover.
If you’re my dad, please text like a normal person.
I love you, but this voice message stuff has to stop.
If you’re someone else who really needs to leave a message, you know what to do, and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can. Thanks!”
I hang up without saying a word.
Straight to voicemail means she’s either turned on her do-not-disturb or…I’m blocked. But surely, she wouldn’t…
Not like this, with no real explanation. That text wasn’t an explanation; it was a confusing apology for something I don’t even understand.
I don’t get it.
I don’t understand how she could turn her back on this, on me, on the girls.
On us.
But maybe there is no us, maybe there never was, I think as I stand staring at my phone, wondering how I’m going to go back to living the way I did before. The thought of a house without Clover in it doesn’t feel like home anymore.
It feels like a piece of me has been ripped out, a vital organ cut away without anesthesia. It’s even worse than when Frederica told me she’s been having an affair.
I’m that in love. That stupidly, recklessly in love.
I try to call her again, then once more later, after I’m alone in my hotel room, but the answer—or lack thereof—is the same.
I lie awake most of the night staring at the ceiling fan, waiting for the sun to rise, too eager to get on that plane in the morning to sleep. I need to be back in New Orleans. Now.
Then, I’m going to find Clover, even if I have to steal Blue’s phone, and track her down with his “find your friends” app.
I’m going to find her, and we’re going to talk.
I refuse to let her go without seeing her face-to-face, at least one last time.