CHAPTER 22

HOW MUCH REALITY

IS TOO MUCH?

POPPY

My phone wakes me, not because the alarm is going off, but because it’s ringing. I don’t get to it before it stops. I have enough time to note a million and one alerts lighting up my screen before it rings again.

It’s Lance.

My stomach flips. He’s coming home today. He’s sleeping over tonight. Well, he’s staying over; based on the messages we’ve exchanged the past few days, I don’t think much sleeping will be involved.

I answer the call. “Hi.” My voice is sleep raspy.

“Fuck. Thank fuck. Hey. Hi. I woke you, didn’t I?”

Something in his tone puts me on edge. I roll onto my back, willing my heart to stop slamming around in my chest. “I have to get up soon anyway. Is everything okay? You sound…agitated.”

Lance clears his throat. “Everything’s, uh, a little fucked up, to be honest.”

The anxiety I’ve been working so hard to curb via extra yoga sessions, cookies and tea with Mr. Goldberg, and nights out with April this week suddenly wraps its fingers around my throat and squeezes the air out of my lungs.

“I need you—” Noise in the background makes it hard to hear him for a few seconds. “—Please, Poppy.”

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.

“Poppy? You there?”

“Here. Sorry. I missed some of that.”

He exhales in a rush, the sound whooshing into my ear. It matches the blood pumping through my veins. “How much you miss?”

“All I got was that things are fucked up and the I need you part.”

“Look, Poppy, I’m gonna ask you to do something, and it’s gonna make you want to do the opposite.”

“This doesn’t sound good.”

“I know. Just hear me out, please?”

“Okaayyy.” I sit up in bed and pull Lance’s T-shirt over my knees. I’ve been sleeping in it the entire time he’s been gone. It smells like his aftershave and him, and a little like sex.

“So, I need you to avoid all your social media accounts until I’m back in Chicago.”

I can hear his fingers tapping on something. Maybe the phone. “That’s a very specific, suspect request, Lance.”

“I know, I know. And I can explain, but I need to be there with you to do it.”

I try to keep my voice even. “What’s on my social media that I shouldn’t see?”

Another heavy breath, a pained sound, and repetitive thumping follow. Long seconds pass before he speaks again, this time in a whisper. “Someone sent you a picture, and I don’t want you to see it—not without me there so I can explain.”

“Is this a joke? Like last time when you showed up at my work all freaked out? Because if it is, it’s not a very good one.”

“I wish it was a joke, but it’s not.”

The lump in my throat makes it hard to swallow. “This sounds really bad, Lance.”

“I know it does, and I know not explaining right now is probably making it way fucking worse, but I really need this from you. I’m getting on a plane soon. I’ll be home in a few hours. Can you please, please just give me until I’m with you?”

“Were you with someone else?”

“No, no. Absolutely not, Poppy. I fucking promise. No.”

My heart seems to dislodge from my throat a bit. “Then I don’t understand what’s so dire about this situation that I need to avoid all my social media.”

“You remember the dick on Miller’s forehead, and how nothing really happened but it looked like something happened?”

My heart is right back up in my throat again. “Yes.”

“It’s kinda like that.”

“I see.”

“So I’d really appreciate it if you could wait for me. So I can explain before you decide you never want to see me again, ’cause I don’t wanna be that guy who sits outside your house waiting until you come home so I can talk to you.”

“You’re making it seem bad again.”

“Shit. Sorry. I’m not trying to. I just need a chance to explain before you make any kind of decision.”

He makes it sound so final, like whatever I’m going to see will end this. Us.

“You do realize how much more this makes me want to look, right?”

“I get that, but I’m banking on you being the good, rule-abiding girl you usually are and waiting for me. Will you do that? Wait for me?”

I think about the conversation we had before he left and how so many people in his life seem to have abandoned him when he needed them most.

“I’ll wait for you.”

“Promise?”

I sigh. “Promise.”

“Thank you, precious. I gotta get on the plane. I’ll see you soon.”

And then he’s gone, and I’m left staring at my phone, wondering exactly what could’ve happened to make him react like that. I can look right now and find out. But Lance is right about me—I’m a rule follower. I made a promise, and I won’t break it.

I’m so glad I have back-to-back appointments all day. Otherwise I would crack and check all my social media feeds, like I promised I wouldn’t. Lunch was a challenge.

I haven’t said anything to April, partly because I haven’t had more than four seconds alone with her, and also because she is not a rule follower and will persuade me to check. The anxiety is killing me. I feel like I’ve had a thousand cups of coffee when I’ve only had two.

I’m in the middle of changing the sheets when the door to my room bursts open, and Lance comes barreling in. He slams the door shut. His eyes are wide, his jaw is tight, and his hair is a burned field in a windstorm. He looks incredible, and like his anxiety rivals mine.

He crosses the room in two long strides and takes my face in his hands.

“Just in case,” he mutters, then crushes his mouth to mine.

He smells like plane and faintly of aftershave. I try to protest, because seriously, what the hell is going on—but his tongue slips in and stops any words. He groans, despondent and low as his hand slides around to cup the back of my head. The other finds my waist, pulling me tight against him.

It feels so, so good. Five days of brief conversations and heated messages, five days of waiting for him to come home, and here he is. But there’s weight in his return, and bad things are coming. I can feel it in his desperation.

I put my hands on his chest and push. He makes a tormented sound, and his tongue sweeps my mouth once, twice more before he pulls away. But he doesn’t let me go. He searches my face and caresses my cheek with gentle fingers.

“You didn’t look.”

“I said I wouldn’t.”

“I was still worried. How much longer are you here? Can I wait? Can I take you home when you’re done?”

“I have my car here, and I still have three more appointments.” I push on his chest again until he finally lets me go.

“So you’re here until, like, five?” He rakes a hand through his hair.

“About that, yes.”

“I guess I should’ve asked that when I had you on the phone earlier, aye? Can I still wait?”

“I have a few minutes between clients now.” I don’t know that I can take three more hours of this kind of torture.

“I don’t wanna do this here.”

“None of this is reassuring, Lance. You showing up like this, the call this morning, the secrecy. You get that, right?”

“I do. I get it. I know I’m stressing you out. I just want enough time to explain.”

His anxiety is enough to make me concede. “You can meet me at my house, if you want.”

“Can I take your phone?”

I raise a brow, and he closes his eyes for a moment. “Okay. Sorry. That was a stupid thing to ask. Should I wait outside or—” He bites his lip.

Against my better judgment, I relent. “Let me get my keys for you.”

I grab them from my purse. When I turn back, his hands are jammed into his pockets. I dangle the keys from my finger.

He takes my hand and the keys and brings my knuckle to his lips. “I missed you.”

I stare up at him, trying to decide if I’m an idiot for doing as he asks. I missed him too, but telling him that now doesn’t seem like an option.

“I’ll be waiting for you. Will you still wait for me?”

“Yes. I’ll wait for you.”

When he leans in to kiss me, I give him my cheek. His lips linger there anyway.

I arrive home at 5:09. Lance is sitting on the front steps. He’s showered and changed since I saw him earlier. He’s wearing a long-sleeved gray shirt that makes his pale eyes look even paler, and a bouquet of flowers and bag of Jelly Babies sit on the stoop beside him. He stands, running his hands down his denim-covered thighs. He reaches down and grabs the gifts.

“Did the key not work?”

“It did. I wanted to be out here when you got home.” He holds out the flowers.

“Is this to soften the blow?” I try to make it come out light, but it doesn’t. The waver in my voice is far too telling.

Lance winces as if my words cause him physical pain. I realize maybe they do, because his reality as a child was exactly that.

I take the flowers and start to move past him to open the door, but he gets there first, twisting the knob, then stepping out of the way. He follows me through to the kitchen where I set the flowers on the counter.

“Would you like something to drink?”

“Just water, please.” His fingers move to his mouth. He stops himself and jams them back in his pockets.

Neither of us speaks as I fill two glasses with ice and water, pushing one toward Lance. Leaving the flowers on the counter, I dig around in my purse until I find my phone.

“Do you want to have a seat?” I motion to the living room.

My stomach is a churning mess. I haven’t eaten a thing today. My mouth is dry, and I want to get this over with so I can handle whatever is coming at me.

“Do you want to change first or anything? I know you’ve had a long day.”

“I just want to have this conversation.”

“Right. Aye. Okay.” Lance sits in the middle of the couch, forcing me into close proximity.

I angle my shoulders toward him, but keep my knees far away from his. I take a sip of water, but my stomach revolts even against that, so I set it down on the table and grip my phone with both hands.

Lance takes a huge gulp of water before he sets the glass down and turns to me, his expression reflecting my fear. “So you know that woman I was involved with a while back?”

My body feels like it’s going numb and hyper-activating at the same time. “The complicated one.”

“Yeah. It was. It is.”

“Is? As in still?” The conversation I overheard the night before he left, which has been plaguing me the entire time he’s been gone, plays through my head. I hate that I didn’t confront him about it then.

He nods. His palms smooth up and down his thighs again. I want to put my hand over his to stop the action, because it makes me even more nervous.

“She lives in LA.”

A chill runs down my spine. “Where you played last night.”

“Aye.”

“And she was there?”

“I told her I didn’t want to see her, but she’s not so good at listening, and she used to work with the team, so she always comes by when we’re in town.”

“She worked with the team?” I don’t understand how he could’ve been involved with someone he worked with.

“We trained with her.”

“Isn’t that not allowed?”

“Yeah.” His head drops. “That’s part of the reason it was so complicated. Anyway, I went right up to my room after the game. I didn’t stop at the bar, ’cause I worried she’d be there.”

I try not to fidget with my phone. “But you ended up seeing her anyway?”

“She plays head games, Poppy. She pulls this shit all the time. She’s got issues. Worse than me.”

I want to tell him he doesn’t have issues, but that’s not true.

“So what happened?”

“By the time Rookie came up, I was already asleep. I tried to call you before I went to bed, but it was late here.” He reaches out like he wants to touch me, but when I jerk away; he retracts his hand, nodding like he understands my reluctance. “Anyway, he wasn’t alone when he came up.”

“He brought a girl with him?” I don’t ask any of the questions that spring to mind, like what was he planning to do, have sex in the bed next to Lance’s?

“He brought two.”

“Was he planning to share?” I bite out.

Lance shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe? Every time he brings a girl up, I take the couch in Miller and Randy’s room. And I’m gonna ask Coach if we can switch it up with the roommate situation before the next trip.”

“He brings girls up to the room while you’re there?”

He licks his lips and looks at his lap. It makes my heart ache like it’s being squeezed. “Sometimes the bunnies have their own rooms in the hotel, in case of hook ups.”

“Sometimes but not always.” It’s a statement, not a question. And I know the answer is going to hurt.

“Aye.”

“So your roommate brought up two girls.”

“Aye.”

“And what happened?”

“One of them was Tash, the woman I was involved with. He didn’t know who she was. He hasn’t met her before.”

“I see.”

“Nothing happened with her. Not with me. Not with Rookie. But there’s a picture that makes it look like something did. She wanted it that way.”

“When was the last time you were with her?”

“I saw her the night before I first came to see you at the clinic. But whatever we had was over a long time before that.”

I close my eyes and try not to react to that information. I try not to envision him with her the way he’s been with me, in my bed. “And you slept with her then?”

He shakes his head. “No. She wanted me to, but I wouldn’t. She tricked me.”

“Tricked you?”

“She brought someone with her.”

“Another woman.”

“Aye.”

His fingers go to his mouth and then drop to his thighs. His eyes dart around and shame makes it impossible for him to look at me.

I don’t want him to feel shame for his actions, for the things he’s done in the past. I don’t want him to feel like he’s worth less because of his choices. But I do want to understand why he felt compelled to make those choices.

“And this is something she did often? Even though you’d told her you wanted to be exclusive?”

He chews on his fingernails. It makes him look more boy than man. “Bring other girls?”

“Yes.”

“Aye.”

“And what happened then?”

I get more fidgeting, more avoiding eye contact.

“Lance?”

“I used to give her what she wanted.”

“Which was?”

“To take care of the situation.”

He’s not going to come out and say it, and I can’t blame him. I need to find a way to say what I want to without him shutting down.

“Did you want it to happen or did you let it?”

“Let.”

“Why?”

“What?” He glances up.

“Why would you let that happen if you didn’t want it to?”

“Because she expected it. Because I thought maybe eventually I’d be enough. Because I didn’t think I deserved to have what I wanted.”

My heart breaks for him. “What if I wanted that? Would you let it happen?”

His face crumples. “You would never want that.”

“How do you know?” I’m not asking to hurt him, but because I want to understand his thought process.

“You’re not like that. You’re too precious for that.” His voice is hard, like stone.

I place a palm against his cheek, hoping to calm the sudden surge of energy that seems to course through him. “You’re right. I would never ask that of you. I value you more than that.”

His fingers cover mine.

“Why don’t you deserve what you want?”

“I’ve done a lot of bad things. I’m trying to rearrange the way I think about it.” He sighs. “I want to be with you. I want to be what you need. That’s all I want. I tried to avoid her. I really tried, but she can’t seem to let this go.”

I key in the passcode to my phone, because I need to see whatever it is that’s causing him such distress. I check the most obvious accounts first, and then I finally come across an unfamiliar name.

“Natasha is Tash?” I ask.

Lance closes his eyes and bows his head.

I open the message. My throat tightens.

I try not to react to it immediately or look at it with judging eyes. It’s difficult, though. Everything about this picture screams lies and deceit. But then I force myself to look without emotions, ignoring my aching heart, so I can see it for what it is.

I know this woman—the one smiling at the camera. The one lying on a bed of white sheets with Lance’s big body. She’s naked, or topless at least, based on the bare expanse of her back. She was the one who came to the house the morning after I stayed the night at Lance’s a year ago.

She’s gorgeous and in amazing shape, much better than what my twice-a-week yoga routine yields. We look absolutely nothing alike.

Lance is stretched out on top of her. But while she smiles for the camera, he looks like he wants to rip someone’s head off. He’s wearing boxers. It’s better than him being naked, but not by much. A million unwanted scenarios rush through my mind, despite what Lance has told me, and despite my trying to keep perspective.

I push the phone toward him. “This is what you wanted to explain?”

“As soon as they came in the room, she climbed into bed with me and tried to take pictures. I was trying to get the camera from her so she couldn’t post them, and her friend snapped that one. I know how it looks, though, which is why I wanted to be here when you saw it.” He covers the image with his palm.

I’m grateful. It’s like a train wreck. I can’t look away, even though I want to. His hand is the shield I need.

“Is this going to end up all over social media?” I have to consider what that will be like, how difficult it will be to defend my relationship with him. How humiliating it will be.

“No. This is the only copy of that picture left.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I deleted all of them.”

“All of them? There were more?”

“Tash tried to take a few, but they were blurry.”

Of all the conversations I’ve had over the years concerning exes, this is definitely the most unorthodox. “Is she going to keep contacting me?”

“I don’t know. She’s vindictive, but I told her not to. It wouldn’t take much for me to cause her a lot of problems if she does. It won’t look good for her that she’s still been in contact with me after everything that happened.”

“Do you think she’ll send me other things? Pictures? Messages? Videos?”

“There aren’t any videos, but we were together for a while. She’ll have old pictures of her and me.”

I consider what may lie ahead. Dating someone like Lance puts a spotlight on me. I’m not sure how I’m going to manage that. Or if I can. What if things like this keep happening?

“Did she call the night before you went away?”

“Aye.”

“And you talked to her?” My chest feels tight. If I’d asked this question before he’d gone, would we still be dealing with this mess?

“I did.”

“Why?”

“Because she won’t leave me alone if I don’t answer. It had been weeks of her bullshit before I did.”

“Why not block her?”

“I have. I did. She messaged from someone else’s phone.”

That makes sense, but it still doesn’t answer the most important question. “Why didn’t you tell me about her before you went away? Why lie?”

Lance takes a sip of his water and clears his throat. “I didn’t want to mess things up and make you worry while I was gone. I guess that kind of backfired, huh?”

“I don’t understand the point of keeping it from me. Why not be honest that your ex was going to be there in the first place? This makes it look like you were hiding it.”

“That’s not what I meant to do.” He’s so forlorn.

“If we’re going to have any chance of working, we have to be transparent with each other. Especially about this kind of thing. It’s not avoidable, but I don’t want to be blindsided by it. Today was horrible for me. I’ve spent the entire day on edge, feeling awful and wondering what was so damaging that you needed to be here before I could see it.”

“I know. I’m sorry. But you get why I asked for that, right?”

“How often is this kind of thing going to happen? Are you going to avoid going out with your teammates every time you’re in LA? I mean, really, even that isn’t enough, is it?”

“Maybe you could come with me next time.”

“To LA?”

“Aye.”

“Why would I come to LA when you don’t even have me come to home games? What are you hiding from me? Her?”

“I’m not hiding anything. I’m protecting you.”

“From what? Or who?”

“The bunnies, the media crap. People will take pictures of you just like when we went out for dinner. But if you come to LA, you’ll know exactly where I am and what I’m doing.”

“It’s not the media I’m worried about. I don’t want to police your actions, Lance. I want to be part of your life, more than just this little slice you’ve carved out for us.”

“I just don’t want you dragged into all the shitty stuff that comes with being with someone like me.”

“You mean like Tash? You said she comes to your games when you’re in LA. And if she’s there, then what? Will she confront me? Will she do things to hurt me? You?”

He drops his head again. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. I told her it was done for good this time, that I wasn’t doing this with her any more. And I meant it. I don’t want to be that person.”

“I don’t understand why you still talk to her when she does these kinds of things to you. Why answer her calls at all? Why is she still messaging you?”

“She got vindictive if I didn’t respond. I didn’t feel like I had a choice.”

“But you gave her that power. Why let her have it at all?”

He’s fidgety, struggling with my questions. “I don’t know. We have similar backgrounds. She made it hard to walk away.”

“You realize these are all excuses you’re making for both of you. She still seems like part of your present, like you can’t let her go. If it’s only me, it can’t be her, too.”

“But she’s not part of my present any more. I told her that last night. I know she’s not good for me, and I don’t want that any more.”

“This is a discussion we should’ve had before you went away. We’ve been seeing each other for weeks. When would you have told me about her if this hadn’t happened?”

“I wanted to. I would have,” he says quickly.

“But when? She’s called when I’ve been with you. Do you call her back later? When we’re not together?”

“I’ve been ignoring her. I only talked to her that one time, and only because she kept calling, and I wanted to be clear that I wasn’t going to see her in LA. I promise I won’t talk to her any more. If she calls, I won’t answer. I’ll get a new phone so she doesn’t have my number. I’ll do anything, Poppy. Just please, give me a chance to fix this.”

I can hear the child in him, the beaten one, the one who’s been abandoned over and over again. But I have to protect myself too.

“This is a lot to take in, Lance. I don’t want to be responsible for allowing my heart to be broken.”

Panic flares in his eyes. “So what does that mean? Are you saying it’s over?”

“I’m not saying this is over. It’s not black and white. But I need some time to process all of this.”

His agitation makes the whole couch shake. His foot is going on the floor, the vibrations making the ice tinkle in his glass on the table. His elbows balance on his shaking knees, his fists clenching and releasing. I’m not sure whether to be afraid for him right now or not. I know he won’t hurt me, but he has a tendency to find ways to hurt himself.

I’ve seen him fight on the ice before, watched him take hits over and over until he’s finally had enough. He has to be pushed hard before he breaks. It’s like watching a rubber band snap, a bomb explode.

He runs a rough hand through his hair and down over his face. Balling it into a fist, he presses it against his mouth and makes a low sound. “How much?”

“How much what?”

“How much time will you need?” His voice is mangled.

“I don’t know. A week? Maybe more?”

He makes a noise that sounds a lot like a sob. “And I can’t see you at all?”

Oh, God. The look on his face is breaking my heart more than that picture, and that picture shredded me. “It’s not a good idea.”

“Fuck. Fuck.” He rubs hard at the space between his eyes with his knuckles. “Have I ruined this? I have, haven’t I?”

“You haven’t ruined it. I need time to think, Lance. This has been intense right from the start—and I mean a decade ago. Every time you come into my life again, my world is turned upside down. I need to figure out if I can handle this level of intensity all the time.” I also need time to figure out how to find balance with this man. I want to save him from himself, and keep myself safe at the same time. But I can’t stop myself from putting my hand over his knee.

He shudders and covers my hand with his. His palm is clammy and shaking along with the rest of him. Suddenly he’s on his knees in front of me. He wraps one arm around me and buries his face in my lap. The other hand grips my wrist. He presses my palm to the back of his neck, holding it there.

“I wanna deserve you. Why can’t I find a way to deserve you?”

Paralyzed by shock, I watch this huge man fall apart for an agonizing, protracted moment. Because I told him I need time. And that’s not unreasonable, I remind myself. Not after what I’ve just seen and what he’s told me.

I run my fingers through his hair, and he nuzzles in closer, another tortured sound leaving him, like he’s dying for the affection. I consider that for a moment—how he’s gone through life prepared for the women in it to hurt him, rather than care for him.

I don’t want to be that all over again, but I have to manage all the feelings I have for and about this man. I let him stay on the floor in front of me, for as long as I can, but eventually I stroke his cheek.

He turns his head like he’s chasing the touch. He catches my hand and brings my fingers to his mouth. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“I know you are.”

He lifts his head, but keeps a tight hold on my hand. “But you can’t forgive me?”

“I didn’t say that. Just give me some time to get this all sorted out.”

“That’s not a yes.”

“It’s not a no, either. I’m not going to lie and tell you this is okay, because for me it’s not. But that doesn’t mean I won’t get over it. I need time to process, okay? I have to figure out if I’m ready for something like this.”

That someone else wields such power over him scares me, especially since she’s been such a negative force in his life. I don’t think I could bear it if I let him into my heart the way I want to, only to have their pattern prove impossible for him to break. What will I do if he discards me like she seems to do to him, over and over again?