“Well, then, you’re wasting away.” I gave him an admonishing head shake. “And I’m sure you worked out today.”
He shrugged this off. “Only two hours. Off-season.”
“Have some of this,” I said, pushing my plate toward him. “It would be great for me if you did because I’ve been eyeing that cheesy veggie gratin thing.”
We traded plates and I went straight for the small cast-iron crock topped with blistered cheese. I still heard Teddy’s voice inmy head when I ate anything that wasn’t strictlylight,but I was getting a lot of practice at flipping that voice off.
Ryan polished off my fish in about three bites, but something changed when he set his fork on the edge of the plate and glanced at me.
It was as if the energy between us switched to a higher frequency. I felt his gaze heating my skin. I didn’t know what was happening right now or how to get us back to the way we always were, but I knew I needed to.
“Em, I was serious about?—”
“Not until you tell me why,” I said. I closed my hand around his wrist, my fingers flat on his pulse. It seemed quick, a hard and steady beat against my fingertips. “Either you tell me what’s really going on or I’m dragging you to the nearest hospital to get your head checked.”
He stared down at my hand for a long moment, a million thoughts whirling behind those eyes. “I think we can help each other,” he said carefully. “All this stress you’re feeling about the wedding, I can take it off your shoulders. I’ll go to Grace’s wedding with you and any of the other parties, and I’ll keep that sonofabitch far away from you. You know I don’t invite myself to fights but if that kid even looks at you the wrong way, I’ll sack his ass so hard he’ll be coughing up grass for days.”
I couldn’t ignore the immediate surge of relief that pulsed through me. The tension that had cemented itself in my body since the night I found out about Teddy faded a bit and my shoulders sagged. A deep, weary breath slipped past my lips and I fought hard to keep tears from filling my eyes.
It didn’t matter that Ryan was plucking me out of the water by the scruff of my neck. Any port in a storm.
Just for a minute, I wasn’t fighting to stay afloat. I wasn’t in this all by myself.
When I was positive my voice wouldn’t crack, I asked, “What’s in it for you?”
He made a face like he already hated the taste of the words to come. “My image needs some work. I’m making some moves for life after the League, and if I want things to go my way, I need to acquire something resembling a family values vibe.”
When he drowned those comments with the last of his beer, I released his wrist and went back to the cheesy vegetables. But just as quickly, I jabbed my fork in his direction. A bit of broccoli flew across the table. “I don’t buy that.”
He rubbed his brows. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”
“Okay, but the League and the rest of pro sports is full of abusers, predators, bigots, and fools who invent their own trouble. They still have endorsement deals and cushy post-retirement gigs waiting for them.”
“You’re not wrong about that,” he said, picking up the stray broccoli and depositing it on the edge of his plate. “But it’s not true for my current circumstances.”
“What do you need to work on? Even if you’ve earned yourself a reputation for heartlessly plowing your way through every new supermodel and rising pop star in the past five years, I really don’t see how that’s bad enough to warrant a fake marriage.”
A muscle high in his jaw ticked as he signaled for another round of drinks. Eventually, he said, “Heartlessly?”
I jabbed the fork again. Some breadcrumbs went flying this time. “Didn’t that British singer with the lavender hair release a brutal breakup song about you last summer? Poppy Whatshername?”
He blinked up at the ceiling. “It’s not about me.”
“It’s widely accepted that it’s about you.”
“It’s not about me.”
“She slices and dices you, my friend,” I said. “It basically charges you with leaving her in a pile of emotional dirty laundry without a backward glance.”
“It’s not about me,” he said, biting off each word, thoroughly exasperated now.
It wasn’t that I didn’t believe him. I did. Or, rather, I wanted to, but when that song came out, the citizens of the internet had gathered the evidence and made a very compelling case as to his guilt in the matter. We’d talked back then, but he hadn’t been too chatty. I hadn’t pushed.
Was it possible that I hadn’t pushed because I couldn’t wrap my mind around the idea of him with a very young, very emotive singer who made waves everywhere she went? Sure. Or that the media had breathlessly documented every minute of their relationship, and for the first time in my life I had to look away when I saw my friend’s face in my newsfeed? Also yes.
It’d felt disloyal to resent his girlfriend for no other reason than Iknewshe drove him up the wall, so I’d said nothing about it. No texts teasing him about landing on the cover of magazines with his hand in her back pocket. No long voice notes reading unhinged social posts about whether he was riding her coattails (impossible) or she was taking his focus away from football (also impossible). And no comments about the song that seemed to imply he cared little for a woman who wanted to give him her entire world.
I’d kept it all to myself. That was how it’d always been with us. We didn’t talk too much about the people we dated. It was fine for the most part. I learned long ago how to play nice with the girls he hung out with, and he didn’t even notice the guys in my life. It wasfine.
