“Beer,” Ella said, turning toward the fridge. “Only beer can help me now.”
In full agreement, I wiped the drool from my skin and followed her into the kitchen. The light was better here, and I caught my first good look at her face as she passed. She had a creamy complexion with olive undertones, strikingly pale blue eyes, and a smattering of freckles across her button nose. She was pretty. Really pretty. Even with matted hair and cheeks a little blotchy from the cold.
She opened the door of the fridge and mostly disappeared behind it as she ducked down to inspect its contents. Mostly being the operative word. Her festive butt was the only part of her still visible. I was suddenly aware of just how long it had been since I’d been around an attractive woman. If Jack walked in now, he’d catch me staring.
“Any oatmeal stout left?” I asked.
She made a pained noise in response, and, without straightening, handed me one over the top of the door.
I frowned and moved to take it.
Jack rejoined us then, stopping beside me to clap a hand on my shoulder. “Don’t mind Ella. Her sense of humor takes a little while to get used to. She likes to say things that are only funny if you were part of her conversation from twenty minutes before. Or a week ago.” He gave me a long-suffering look and lowered his voice. “I miss a lot of the ones I think I’m meant to get.”
“Ah, gotcha,” I said. But I didn’t really.
Needing something to do to keep my gaze from being drawn back to Ella’s reindeer-covered ass, I uncapped my beer and took a healthy swig, savoring the beer’s depth and complexity. This was by far the best homebrew I’d ever had.
Jack leaned in and mock-whispered, “She called on the way over and asked about the oatmeal stout. I told her I’d save the last two for her.”
Her pained groan suddenly made sense.
“Oh, uh, sorry, Ella. I already took a sip,” I told her.
She closed the fridge, the last of the oatmeal stout in hand, and turned toward us, revealing the full glory of her outfit to Jack for the first time.
He spluttered and took an exaggerated step back, hand over his heart. “Holy Hannah! Were you suddenly struck colorblind?”
“I’ll have you know that this is the new style, Jack,” she said. “Matchy-matchy is out. Clashy-clashy is in.”
Jack looked to me, as if for help, and I just shrugged, starting to both understand and appreciate Ella’s particular brand of humor. It seemed like the kind that left other people feeling slightly off-kilter but stopped well short of being mean-spirited or turning them into the butt of her jokes.
She turned to me. “It’s okay about the beer, Ben. I can share like any other well-adjusted adult.”
Jack opened his mouth. I could tell by his expression that something smart-assed was about to come out of it.
So could Ella. “Shut it,” she told him.
He chuckled in response and wisely kept his unspoken comment to himself.
One of the dogs moved in then, to press against Ella’s leg and look up at her with large, inquisitive eyes.
She leaned down to pet him. “Ready to take a nap?”
The dog sighed heavily, looking past ready.
She turned and led us into the living room.
I liked Jack’s place. It was simple, straight forward, a lot like the man himself. The kitchen was small and tidy. A center island with barstools tucked beneath it doubled as the dining area. The living room was dominated by a fireplace made of river rock instead of the traditional brick, with rustic, comfortable armchairs and a couch spread out around it. Down the hallway were a bedroom, a home office, and a bathroom. Upstairs, two more bedrooms sat tucked under the rafters. I doubted the man even owned a television.
My gaze strayed back to Ella, following the swish of her fiery ponytail as she walked. I’d only known her for a few minutes, but I already felt something for her. Sometimes, you meet people, and you just know that there’s potential there, be it for unforgettable sex, or intense, burning dislike and antagonization. While Ella was attractive,my intuition told me I could be friends with her. Good friends. That indefinable thing,that “click” was just…there.
I couldn’t remember the last friend I’d made outside of football-related circles. As a kid, I’d hit it off with almost everyone I met. I was a good read of people. I was easy-going, quick to trust, and even quicker to forgive. Now I wasn’t good with strangers. It was the lack of trust I’d developed. Or so I told myself. Because that’s what I hoped it was.
Deep down, I was afraid it was something else. I didn’t doubt that I had some level of brain injury, regardless of that “inconclusive” MRI I had after Zach died. I’d had concussions. I’d run head and shoulder first into dudes my size or bigger for nearly two decades, and had them hit me in return.
Just like my brother.
How extensive the damage to my brain was, I had no idea, because I hadn’t subjected myself to the more in-depth tests needed to search for signs of Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy. Would that degenerative brain disease lead me to suffer a life-ending seizure, like Zach? Or slip-slide my way into irrational, uncontrollable anger, paranoia, and violent outbursts, like some of the retired pros I’d met had? Or would I be one of the lucky asymptomatic few?
