I don’t know why, since he all but pleaded with me to see the light and concentrate on my career. And since I really don’t want to fucking hear that again, I simply blot my face with a towel and speak past it. “We’re thinking things through while she’s on a job.”
Every man knows that when a woman has to think about things it isn’t good. North is no exception. “Sorry to hear that, man.”
“You?” An incredulous snort escapes me. “Seriously?”
He gives my thigh a slap before he stands. “If it’s responsible for that dull look in your eyes, then yeah.”
“Told you,” Jake says. “Dead eyes.”
North shakes his head as if he’s disappointed in me. “When did I ever say anything about being miserable? If she makes you happy, then work the rest out.” With that, North trots off.
I stand as well, wanting to pace. No, really, I want to chase after North and smack his head. But I don’t. I put my hands low on my hips and pretend I’m watching the clock count down. “That fucker lectures me about focus and now he’s sorry.”
Jake gets to his feet and mimics my pose, all smiles and “we’re fucking owning this game” on his face. Then he turns, his shoulder pads blocking out the rest of the room. Sweat and water bead on his face, his eye black is smeared. “Screw North. He doesn’t know you for shit. And you’re right; I don’t want to talk about this either. I’d rather be exchanging high-fucking-fives and or spewing a ‘Win one for the Gipper’ speech. Because we’re here. In the playoffs.”
He leans in, his voice low and intense. “The fucking playoffs.”
He doesn’t have to tell me what that means. Every football player understands where this road leads. I open my mouth to talk, but he doesn’t let me.
“You should be ecstatic. Instead, you’re a walking sack of misery.”
His words hit like a physical blow to my gut. I grin my teeth against the urge to yell. Not just yell but to scream and rail, because fuck it all. I’ve done everything I could to get to this moment. Including letting Chess go, and this is what he has for me?
Jake faces my rage without flinching. “I’m not trying to bust your balls.”
I glare, unable to keep my happy face. I don’t trust myself to speak.
“Call her,” he says. “Plead, beg, whatever the hell you have to do to get her back, so you can snap out of this funk from hell.”
My reply comes out so sharp, it’s almost a shout. “She thinks…” I take a breath, and lower my voice. “This isn’t on me, all right? She made everything complicated when it should have been easy.”
“Easy?” Jake makes it sound like a bad word.
“Yes, easy. She’s worried about the future. That we’ll eventually want different things. That one day I’ll resent her and want some model wife instead.” I throw up a hand. “As if I’d want anyone else but her.”
Jake’s brows lift. “Wife, huh?”
Heat flushes my neck. “When you know, you know.”
“Does she know you know?”
I blink back at him.
Jake huffs, glancing around to see if we have time, before zeroing in on me again. “Did you say, ‘I don’t give a rat’s dick about having anyone else.’”
“A rat’s dick?” I choke on a laugh.
He rolls his eyes. “Did you tell her you love her, you moron?”
Behind us, Coach yells for guys to huddle up.
The sad truth embeds itself like glass in my throat. “It might not be a matter of me loving her.”
I regret the words as soon as I let them out. It’s easier to pretend that I walked away. Admitting that I might not be the man Chess ultimately wants hurts so much I can’t breathe past it.
Jake stares me down. “They don’t call it risk because it’s safe. Tell her anyway.”
He gives me a slap on the shoulder pads and walks away.
I follow, my mind set. I’m going to lead my guys and win this game. I don’t need Chess to succeed at football. Whether she’s in my life or not, I am who I am on the field.
It’s off the field that I need her. And I’m going to find my girl and prove that to her too.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chess
* * *
James and Jamie take me to an Irish Pub in lower Manhattan. It’s cozy and wonderfully warm, especially after walking six blocks in the icy wind to get there.
“I can’t feel my fingers,” I say rubbing my hands together.
“We should have taken the subway.” Jamie’s nose is bright pink.
“The walk was bracing,” James insists. “And you two are wimps.”
Jamie takes off her fogging glasses and wipes them. “Pretty sure someone was whining about frozen balls in danger of falling off and shattering on the pavement.”
“That was a vivid description,” I add. “Maybe you should check your pants, James. Make sure everything is accounted for.”
“My balls have already checked in.” James unwraps his scarf and leads us through the crowd. “And they’re demanding a drink.”
“You talk to your balls?” I ask with a laugh.
“All guys do, Chess. Have I taught you nothing?”
“I thought they talked to their dicks.”
“They’re kind of a package deal, darling.”
We settle into a booth by an empty stage. James snuggles up next to Jamie, and I’m left by myself on the other side. Again comes the horrible, internal coldness running along my side. I don’t mind sitting alone. I’ve done it for years. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m not whole. I’m missing a part of myself. And it’s annoying. Another person can’t complete me. I do that for myself.
“So who has final say,” Jamie asks James. “Balls or dick?”
James settles back into the booth and rubs his beard in contemplation. “Hmm. Dick can definitely act alone. He’s been known to perk up and want to investigate a situation, while Balls are shriveling and shouting ‘run away, fool!’”
“That’s because balls have a sense of self-preservation,” I say, shrugging out of my coat. “Dick is basically a brainless knobhead.”
Jamie laughs.
“True,” James says. “But as to the ruler of my package?
“Let me guess,” I put in. “Mr. Hand?”