Chapter Twenty-Nine
MILLER
I lay in bed and imagined them watching movies like we used to. I let the memories of me and Em wash over me until I was sick with them. Because no matter how damn bad I wanted to be the guy sharing her present, I’d lost that opportunity the minute I walked away in her past.
Part of me wondered if I had given up too easily because I’d been hurt.
Because, deep down inside, I didn’t expect a girl that incredible to want to stay with me, and when I’d driven away from her, I’d had a sinking feeling it wouldn’t end well.
Not because I didn’t love her.
But because I wasn’t sure how to love her so far away, not with our relationship being so new. Not with my dad breathing down my neck about football and college scholarships.
It was as if the further away I drove from her the more issues popped up, making it impossible to even see her waving figure anymore.
I turned over on my back and stared up at the ceiling.
Football.
Winning games.
Focusing on the positive.
I needed to do all of those things and stop acting like such an emotional wreck over things I had no control over—like how she felt about Sanchez.
As if I needed another reason to slam my face into the pillow and hold my breath, I heard laughter next door and then his name.
Not Sanchez.
Grant.
She yelled Grant.
Pain sliced through my chest. I waited for it. The hurt. More pain.
And then the strangest thing happened: it kept beating, the world didn’t end, and everything continued on like I didn’t just hear what I thought I’d heard.
My mind toyed with me; it made me want to believe they were playing tag, when really I knew there were less clothes involved and a hell of a lot more tongue.
I groaned again and set my clock for an early wakeup call so I could go for a run.
“Wake up!” A loud male voice yelled, and then my mattress was moving. “Earthquake!”
“What the hell!” I roared. In a tangled mess of sheets, I fell to the ground and finally opened my eyes to see Sanchez towering over me with nothing but a grin on his face and gray Armani sweatpants.
“Morning sunshine.” His grin widened. “I was afraid you slept naked, which is why Emerson is hiding in the safety of my kitchen. Then again, she’s cooking so . . .”
“Cooking?” My stomach rumbled.
“Uh-huh. That’s what I thought.” Sanchez yawned. “Figured you’d want some food after yesterday’s win, and what better way to celebrate than with friends?”
Right. Friends.
“Kinsey’s coming over too, with Jax and Thomas.”
“Even better.” I stood.
Sanchez shook his head. “And to think she missed out on such a nice show. Put on some clothes before you scare someone.”
“I only care about scaring the dudes.” I yawned and shoved past him toward the bathroom. “Give me ten minutes.”
“Cool.” He walked off, and my front door slammed. Had I left it open? Did the psycho have a key or something?
I shook my head and quickly took a shower and got ready. The smell of bacon was already filling the hall by the time I knocked on Sanchez’s door and let myself in.
Jax and Kinsey were both drinking orange juice while Sanchez opened a bottle of champagne.
“Mimosas?” Em scrunched up her nose.
“Don’t worry. I’m giving you more champagne than juice. Less sugar.” He eyed Kinsey. “It’s in the manual.”
“Stop memorizing our shit.” Kinsey rolled her eyes.
“That’s what you do when you sleep with all the cheerleaders,” Thomas said out loud, like the dumbass he was, clearly not thinking Oh hey, Emerson’s a cheerleader, and she’s been with Sanchez for a few weeks now.
“Apologize.” Sanchez slammed his glass onto the granite, sending orange juice flying all over the pristine wood floor.
Thomas’s eyes flashed briefly before he shrugged at Em, nothing about his body language said apology. “Sorry, I wasn’t thinking, Emerson. I know it’s not like that with you guys. I mean if it is that’s cool—What I mean is that . . . he’s like that with other cheerleaders and—”
Jax smacked him on the back of the head. “Stop talking already.”
Thomas shut up but didn’t stop glaring at Sanchez, or Em for that matter.
“It’s fine.” Emerson’s smile was fake. “Should we all eat?”
“Food!” Jax shouted a little too energetically while Kinsey started grabbing plates.
Nobody noticed Emerson sneak off down the hall.
Except me and Sanchez.
I nodded to him.
Only to have Jax grab him by the arm. “I was thinking about that trick play and . . .”
“I got this,” I mouthed.
His relief was tangible as I quickly headed down a hall that mirrored my own and found her in his bedroom. And a part of me wondered if he actually trusted me alone with her—or just wanted her to be comforted no matter who did the comforting.
I expected to feel rage.
Jealousy beyond belief.
Instead, all I could conjure up was a hell of a lot of sadness at where we both were in our friendship, and disappointment that I didn’t know how to get it back. Because, before I kissed her six years ago, she’d been everything to me. My rock. My best friend. And I would kill to have that feeling back, that solidarity we used to share. Yes, I’d always been attracted to her. I’d always wanted her, loved her, but not as much as I needed her by my side. That would always win out, and I figured it was time I stopped moping and actually acted on that shit. She deserved at least that much—and more.
“Hey.” I knocked on the open door. “Sanchez was headed in, but Jax stopped him about some play, so today you get second string.”
“You’ve never been second string a day in your life.” She snorted.
“Until now,” I answered honestly. “Gotta say it’s not one of my favorite things, Em.”
She wiped her cheeks and flashed me a smile. “Second string is still important, you know.”
“Hah.” Damn it. Her tears were killing me. “Are you giving me a pep talk? Isn’t that why I came in here?”
“Say your quarterback gets hurt, the backup better be just as good, or the team’s chances of hitting the playoffs are slim to none.”
“True, true.” I nodded. “And the quarterback has to have balls of steel but still be able to calm the storm.”
“Right.” She folded her hands in her lap. “And I mean your position—the tight end—you need to be big, tall, fearless. You have the opportunity to score, but you also have to protect the quarterback. You can’t just be the best tight end in the league one day and a sucky one the next. Some may even argue that third string is important—they pay them like they are. Look at the Pilots. They’re on one of their third-string wide receivers right now!”
She was animated as she threw her hands in the air and huffed.
“You love football.” I grinned, sitting on the bed.
“I love football,” she agreed. “So, what do you think? About second string?”
I glanced around the room, the room that smelled like them, the room that she was currently staying in, if the clothes on the bed were any indication.
“I’d say it sucks balls, but I’m willing to take even that.”
“Why are you talking about sucking my balls, Miller?” Sanchez was leaning against the door, his bulky arms crossed.
I flipped him off.
“Ouch, and to think I thought we were going to be best friends.” His voice dripped with sarcasm.
I was completely out of my comfort zone, unsure if hugging her was wrong, if touching her hand in comfort was off-limits, so I scooted away.
Sanchez shook his head. “I’m not saying this because I’ve ever stunk so bad that I’ve been put on second string . . .” He took a seat on the other side of Emerson. “But I guess it’s all in how you look at it.”
“Yeah?” I stared straight ahead, voice cracking, showing my weakness. “And how’s that?”
“Well, at least you’re still in the game.”
I sucked in a breath.
And looked at him, like really looked at him.
And damn if that wasn’t a man I could respect.
“Isn’t that the most important thing?” he asked.
“Yeah.” My voice cleared. “It is.”
“Guys?” Emerson looked between us. “Are we still talking about a game or about what Thomas said?”
“Thomas is a jackass,” Sanchez growled. “I’m surprised he’s still on the team after all the shit he’s pulled in the past.”
I wasn’t sure how much Em knew about Thomas and Sanchez’s past, but it wasn’t my place to say anything. I was just as shocked that he was still playing for the Bucks, especially since they were known for their stance on drama between players. Guys had been kicked off the team for less, but Thomas was damn good at what he did. Part of me wondered if Sanchez’s reaction was the only reason Thomas was able to stay on the team. And again, my respect for the man grew especially since there was so much bad blood between them.
“An immature piece of shit that I’m going to forget to protect during practice tomorrow,” I added, as I gave a serious nod. Sanchez gave me a high five over Emerson’s head.
“You guys are like your own version of the mafia.”
“Football mafia.” I grinned. “Kind of has a ring to it.”
“I need you to do me a favor,” Sanchez said in perfect Godfather voice with his jaw jutting out.
“This? This is what we’re waiting on? You guys playing Godfather in the bedroom while poor Em has to wonder if she’s going to get forced to play the horse?” Kinsey appeared in the doorway.
“You are disrespecting the family,” I joined in, pointing at Kinsey.
“Yeah, I’m out.” Emerson laughed and then turned around. “Thanks guys. Both of you.”
They left us alone.
It was awkward as hell for a few minutes, and then it wasn’t.
“Regardless of what happened in the past or whose fault it was . . .” Sanchez stood. “You left.”
I licked my lips and swore. “Yeah. I know.”
“The difference between you and me.” His eyes flashed. “I never would.”
I hesitated, searching his eyes for any sort of bullshitting and found nothing but honesty, so with a shake of my head, I muttered out in disbelief, “The hardest part of all of this? I actually believe you.”
“Guys!” Kinsey yelled. “FOOD!”
“Better go before she burns your apartment down,” I muttered, walking past him, feeling like maybe the past was defining our future—just in a way neither of us could have imagined.
Or planned for.
Or prepared for.