Bridgette
All of the kids were painting happy themes today which made my day brighter.
It was hard to get up this morning after consecutive late nights of talking way past midnight on the phone.
The Royals won the preseason games three weeks in a row, and Scott has been pretty much riding the high of winning.
I understood football, but I wasn’t a big fan.
Any sport where a guy could get concussions, spinal injuries, and paralysis wasn’t a good selling point for me to watch it.
My brother played hockey most of his life before switching to rugby. The latter was just as brutal but on a grass surface.
I didn’t watch Bishop’s games. I couldn’t stomach that one wrong move from another person could end his career, or his life. But I was there whenever his body surrendered from the beatings of the sport he played. I might have been little, but I knew the physical toll on a person’s body.
Our father, Beau Cordello, was Hockey’s Hall of Famer. He was also the best at abusing my brother at a very young age. I watched my brother’s childhood fade into the background as my father subjected Bishop to rigorous, soul-battering practices just so my father could be back in the spotlight. Retirement wasn’t a vacation for my father, rather it was the end of his game, his life and he placed the burden on my brother’s shoulders.
And my mother, willing or not, watched it all happen. Which was why until now, I’d avoided her calls and only spoke to her when necessary.
Time healed wounds. But the scars left were forever embedded in your psyche.
“Miss B, what’s a concussion?” Matty, the blue-eyed boy to my right, asked.
Oh.
I must have said it out loud.
“I’m just talking to myself again.” I ruffled his hair and he gave me a side eye, wondering if I was okay.
The one thing I learned from being around children was that they picked up on the slightest things. I wasn’t sad often, but if I was, they tried to make me happy. If I was having a bad day, almost all of them did everything to make my day go smoother. They didn’t have filters. Truth was black or white. Grays were not present yet, and that’s what I loved about being around them.
“Are you sure, Miss B?” Matty asked again, stopping his movement and placing his nylon brush on top of a small round container so it wouldn’t dry out. His favorite palettes were blues and greens, but today he was trying reds. The colors he was combining was translating well into the medium.
“I’m sure, Matty,” I replied in a quiet voice, trying not to distract the other kids who were completely focused in their medium.
They were a boisterous group, but once they settled into the activities I’d planned out for the day, it was hard to take their focus away.
Matty nodded his dark head, picked up his brush, dipped it into the water and then picked a Cadmium Red and started painting again.
The stillness in the room was one of my favorite moments.
It was when everyone was so immersed in their art that they didn’t even notice time passing them by.
I knew the feeling.
Painting allowed me to exist in a world when reality was too much to bear.
It was my medium to express my feelings when speech wasn’t available.
To this day, my mother couldn’t process why I had stopped speaking at two years old.
The brain had a way of coping with trauma, and what Dr. Fortez had told her over and over again was that it was my mind’s way of dealing with stress. Elective mutism he’d called it.
And once I started speaking again at the age of eight, after my brother had convinced my parents to get me into a special school for kids like me. I spoke in short, two-syllable words. The syllables came out in stutters and the shame on my mother’s face grew exponentially.
I embraced moments like these, in the presence of children who held no judgment against each other, who didn’t care who their parents were or how much each of them were worth.
My mother tried to rile me up last year, and said that I was going to waste my time in college, that the seventeen point eight million I’d inherited from my father would be worth more if I invested it in her company. I had plans for the money, and she wasn’t in on it, and that’s what bugged her the most.
I was turning twenty-one in two months, and from there I could direct where the funds went.
There were millions of people in this world who could make use of it better than I ever would.
“I’m done, Ms. B.” Kaycee, from the back of the room, raised her hand. “I hope you like it.”
“What’s important is that you love it, Kaycee,” I said while taking a few steps towards her, careful not to topple over any paint sets that were on top of the tiny tables.
“I made this for you, Miss B.” Kaycee’s eyes were shining in hope as she pointed to her painting.
Against the white watercolor, splashes of blacks, mixes of cobalt blue, a smattering of purple, and a healthy amount of cadmium orange dominated the page.
On the far right corner, she’d created enough contrast to make out the white, circular shape, one that would be recognizable from anywhere in this Earth.
“I love it, Kaycee.” My voice came out in a breathless hush.
Children.
They listened with their hearts.
And Kaycee, she knew.
My heart belonged up there.
The place where gravity had no room, where the stars, planets, and moons were free to move along their orbits.
Where the purest colors abound, created by the strength of how hydrogen gas absorbed light at particular wavelengths.
At a young age, when my voice box stopped working and every night, when I heard my brother’s soft cries in his bedroom because of his pain, I always looked up at the sky.
Sometimes the stars were vibrant. Sometimes the sky was a cascade of black. Sometimes they were angry streaks of reds and other times as calm as the green Himalayan cedars that our landscaper had imported from Tibet.
They say that one day you’ll find your life’s purpose and everything will make sense.
I found my purpose and I was slowly working my way to my goal.
And I would do everything that I could to get up there.
“How was college today?”
His dark blonde head was propped up on three pillows, and the grin he was giving me was clearly meant to stop my heart from beating.
“Same,” I said, rolling my eyes because apparently since he’d graduated a little over two years ago, college was nothing but ancient memories now.
“Any cute boys hanging around you?” His voice was teasing, but the greens in his eyes were darker.
I shook my head and stood up from sitting on my bed, flexing my neck to the side, feeling the stress I’d put on it. When I studied, or when I was writing papers, proper body mechanics went out the window.
“Actually, there are lots of cute boys around. Today I even put on lipstick and maybe some of them noticed.” I kept my voice even. I liked teasing him. Scott looked so cool on the outside.
The first time I met him, I thought that nothing could faze this man. His poker face was enough to win him a championship.
Maybe that’s what made him a great quarterback; he knew how to block out his emotions.
But I’d also come to know a different Scott.
Like the one right now – who was clenching his jaw and straightening his spine, trying not to throw a pillow at my face on Facetime.
“Bridge.”
How could he say my name and it automatically makes my panties wet?
“Yeah.” I clenched my thighs together because my reaction couldn’t be normal. Could it?
“It’s too bad that I’m in Dallas right now, or you’d be getting a spanking.” His smile was crooked, and gah, he was adorable.
He was wearing a plain black shirt and blue athletic pants, but he was anything but plain.
I’d felt the ridges of muscle in his stomach and the hard bulges in his back. His body was proof of the hours that he punched in the gym and in training. It didn’t hurt that his butt was the most perfect butt I’d ever seen.
Granted, I’d only seen two men naked in my life. My brother didn’t count because that was just disgusting.
My first was with a man I’d rather not waste my time thinking or talking about. He was the one I gave my virginity to, the one I’d trusted to protect my heart with his own, but his promises turned out to be worth less than a penny.
Now Scott, NFL’s emerging king, had a butt that should be the face of the NFL. His backside was a better view than the NFL commissioner.
“I miss your spankings.” I stretched my arms to the ceiling, knowing that I’d never reach it, but no one ever got hurt for trying.
His eyes softened and his voice became rough, “Yeah?”
The days before pre-season started, Scott and I only emerged from his bedroom to eat, shower, and hydrate. We’d meet at his place, and spent a lot of time getting to know each other.
He loved horror movies and he loved scaring me.
I liked comedy, and sometimes I caught him grinning at me when my eyes burned from laughing-crying.
He didn’t have a roommate, so his place was the best space for us to run around naked.
Him.
Not me.
I kept my clothes to a minimum, but Scott had no shame in letting his butt and his ding dong air out. Yeah, I said ding dong, so sue me.
It was a better word than cock. Or dick.
Those two words made me giggle uncontrollably. Yep, I’m so mature.
We hadn’t defined what we were. But he’d made it sure that I got it – that we were something to each other, not nothing.
His life was football and he was great at it.
I’d seen him play on TV and it beguiled me that he was the same man who had given me multiple orgasms just with a few licks of his tongue.
“I miss you too, Bridge.” He had moved from his bed to what would be the living room area of the hotel he was staying at. “I miss holding you, kissing you, just ah - Shit!”
“What’s going on?” I asked, his voice had gone from soft to extremely loud and annoyed in a few seconds.
“Lester left his fucking underwear on the couch and I tripped on them.” Lester Kovali was his teammate and roommate. Scott had complained about how messy he was, and Lester apparently didn’t care what his quarterback thought about it.
“At least it’s not a used condom,” I said, laughter bubbling out of me.
“That’s fucking sick.” His face looked green, like he was growing to throw up.
I held out both of my hands in the air, “Hey, I’m just sayin’, it could be worse. You did say he’s got a loose ding dong.”
His chuckles rocked his broad shoulders, “Bridge, baby, you gotta be able to say ‘cock’ one of these days…”
Oh, I’d said it many times. When I wanted him to put it inside of me. But conversation wise, it was still the funniest word to me.
“You know I’ve said it,” I retaliated, this time my girly parts were heating up again.
He shrugged and walked around, the view on his phone making me dizzy so I looked away from the screen.
“I know. And I miss you saying it to my face.” Scott didn’t mince words with me. He might not say much in front of the TV unless it’s football-related, but he never ran out of things to talk about with me. “I’m flying back to L.A. in two days, but I have practice and my agent wants me to go to a couple of interviews…”
Meaning he had no time for me. Or us.
He was unsettled, and I didn’t want a cloud hanging over his head, “Hey, it’s fine. I get it. I know you’re busy. I am too.”
A long sigh escaped his lips. Lips that have touched me in the most intimate of ways. “Bridge, I want you. I want to be in your life.”
“I am,” I said, knowing full well how busy athletes’ lives could be.
Bishop hardly had time for Kara, and when he did it was timed to the last minute. You’d think that once athletes snagged a contract in their sport, that their lives would be less busy.
Wrong.
The more in demand they became, the busier they got.
Scott and I Facetimed a lot, but it was at night, after he’d fulfilled all of his obligations. We’d spend thirty minutes talking then he’d fall asleep and I wouldn’t hang up. I’d finish my school work while watching his tired face in slumber.
He loved his sport; it was at the top of his list.
But I also knew that he wanted to spend time with me.
When he couldn’t, he sent me random text messages throughout the day. After a training session. After a quarterback coach meeting. After watching hours of film. After an offensive line meeting. After a late lunch. After physio. After a late meeting with his agent.
His life wasn’t conducive for a relationship, but he was trying.
Whatever it was we’re not defining, he was trying to make it work.
“There are no cute boys. I only put lipstick on today because I knew I was going to Facetime with you. I miss you, too.” He didn’t need the additional burden of thinking that I was stepping out on him. “I miss being with you, but it is what it is and I’m here.”
“Kara broke up with me because of this.” His voice didn’t waver; the statement came out of the blue and so matter-of-factly that I almost had a whiplash from the revelation.
He didn’t speak of her with me.
His ex-girlfriend.
My brother’s amazing girlfriend.
“I broke up with her because of football, quite a few times actually.” His green eyes reflected conflict, and I wished he was near me right now, within reach so I could be close to him.
“What are you saying?” I didn’t like ambiguity. There were so many things in my life that were partly in the shadows already. Even though we hadn’t defined our relationship, I acknowledged my feelings for him. I cared about him and I wanted his happiness.
“I don’t want that with you, Bridge.” He pulled on the side of his right ear. A habit that I was starting to associate with him being uncomfortable. “I know you get that I’m busy.”
“I do.” I reiterated, waiting for him to flesh it out for me, “What are you trying to get at?”
“I wish I could take you with me, wherever I go. I’ve never felt that with anyone,” he said, his eyes somber, his hands hanging loosely on his side as he was sitting around what looked like a bar area. A bar area in their room? His team didn’t do cheap.
“Ha. You want me to be your good luck charm?” The Royals were already lucky enough to have him. They’d won pre-season, outscoring their opponents with no sweat.
“You’re already my good luck charm.” His hair had gotten long-ish, a few strands went into his eyes and he pushed them back with his left hand, “I wish you could travel with me.”
“Scott.” I couldn’t hide the sadness in my voice. I had my life here and in a few years, my life would completely change when my goals came to fruition. “I can’t.”
A muscle on the right side of jaw ticked, “I know…I’m just shooting for it, I guess. I just miss you. Maybe one day, huh?”
My throat became dry at the wish he’d just voiced out.
No, that one day wouldn’t come.
I couldn’t travel with him.
My life wasn’t meant to be the girlfriend or a significant other of a football star, a man who could command a press conference because of the number of plays he’d made in a game.
I grew up shielded from the spotlight that my parents reveled in, and that my brother excelled in even when I knew he hated it.
I’d hate for my life to be catalogued to the public, a cacophony of media bytes and headlines, because of my relationship with him and I had no doubt that it would be.
In this day and age of hashtags and selfies, I avoided social media like the plague.
Scott and I had gotten a reprieve because we started dating before preseason even started and we’d been very low key.
My friend and co-worker, Miguel, had posted some picture on his social media, but I wasn’t in them, mainly because Scott was the apple of his eye and I was just an afterthought.
I liked it that way.
But the bigger star Scott became, the more the press would start asking him about his significant others.
I wasn’t a fool.
Every time a sports star gained popularity, the first thing people looked for were their girlfriends, wives, exes.
Scott was on the rise to meteoric fame, and as much as I wanted to be with him, I couldn’t.
I’d lived most of my life in a glass cage created by my parents’ clamor for fame. I’d gone to boarding schools where we were all considered special because of our unique abilities, but also because money talked and silence can be bought. My mother didn’t want to be known as the woman who had a mute daughter, so she kept me away from the limelight.
It was my saving grace.
I may have graced the covers of baby magazines before I could even talk, but it was yanked out of me, out my future because, ironically, I didn’t want to talk.
The media liked to dig into people’s pasts, and if I were alongside Scott, they’d interview my classmates, my few friends, my past teachers, and while I didn’t have any scary skeletons in the closet, I absolutely hated the ramifications to my privacy.
“Hey, I’m not forcing you into anything…” His expression was apologetic and maybe I really needed to tell him about my reservations. And my fears. “I just want you to know that if you’re ever inclined to travel to my games or watch them in person, I’d be ecstatic.”
It was funny how I gave him access to the deepest parts of me, but I didn’t know how to bridge the talk of my insecurities about the liabilities of fame.
“Okay…” I said, closing my eyes for a second, trying to dampen the beginning of a headache. There were many things to think about and I was pushing them off for another second. Talking to my brother would help, but he was out of the country, and he didn’t know about Scott and I yet. Rianna was out of town and I didn’t want to disturb her time with her folks. My circle was incredibly small because the less people I got close to, the lesser the chances of them disappointing me.
“I’m gonna make time for you when I get back, okay?” Scott’s voice held so much hope. And it hurt my chest because I didn’t want to crush it. “Even if it’s for a few hours or a couple of days, I don’t know yet, but I’ll come up with something.”
One day, I might crush his hopes.
But that day was not today.
“Lemme know when you’re available and I’ll be there.” My schedule was pretty set, his was unpredictable, but I let the worries wash off of me at that moment.
I shouldn’t keep getting close to him if I didn’t want to stick around.
I shouldn’t keep talking to him if I didn’t want to be there for him, amid the threat of the flashes of cameras and never-ending media scrutiny.
But the thing with want is that there were times when it was superseded
by
need.