“You’re not going to swim with me?”
“Is that what you want?” I’m surprised. She’s outgrown me in so many ways the last two years, but I love when she lobs me a softball like this and wants me to be a part of her world.
“Yes!” she huffs, as if duh, I should be able to read her mind.
I give her a smile and follow her down the stairs. “Okay, bossy.”
Max, in his continued hospitality, stocked the fridge with our same favorites from home, so I set Emma to work finding her own dinner while I read through the text from the team doctor and work on getting Max set up in the living room.
“Hmmm,” I say, furrowing my brow as I tuck the phone into my back pocket.
He looks concerned. “What do you need? We can do a delivery order for whatever I’m missing.”
“The doctor didn’t say anything in his instructions about playing non-stop Roy Orbison to help you recover. I’m just not sure I can trust a guy who doesn’t prescribe that.”
Max puts a hand to his head and stops himself from laughing. “Don’t be funny right now, please. My head is killing me.”
Emma cries from her perch at the counter. “Ah! Reese is calling! I’ll be back!” She flies up the stairs without glancing back.
I set a few things on the coffee table across from Max, who rubs his temple in slow circles. “Hey. Are you low-key making fun of Stella with that reference?”
“Maybe. But I do feel like Roy’s your family’s calling card. There’s something comforting in that and a part of me is envious you have that.” Standing in front of him, I hold out my hands and help him to his feet. “Let’s change you. I think you’ll feel better if you’re not in polyester.”
I reach for the hem of his uniform top and carefully slide it up his sides, over his rib cage, and guide his arms straight into the air to remove the piece. Once it’s off, my eyes don’t maintain professional conduct, and they drop to his broad chest.
His breaths quicken as I take in his muscles, toned in all the right places. He’s not ripped, not married to the gym theway he probably once was, but he’s in shape. Sculpted. Light chest hair trails across his pecs and down his torso. I swallow hard. This is the most intimate thing we’ve done, and he’s concussed. Regardless, I blush so fast I can feel the heat radiating off my face like the evening after a bad sunburn.
Max watches me in amusement. “You think I’m gorgeous?—”
“Yeah, and what if I do?” His quoting taunt stops and it’s his turn to pink at the cheeks.
My breathing quickens as I discard the top to the floor, reaching my arm behind me to grab the concert t-shirt from the pile I’d left on the coffee table.
“Marry me,” he whispers.
I chuckle and run my hand through his hair. “According to the state of Idaho, I already have, Maxford.”
“Let’s do it for real, Nola.” He’s being earnest. “Let’s plan a real wedding and invite all our friends and family. No contract from Stella’s lawyers, no timeline. I want forever with you.”
24
NOLA
Maxford’s words hang in the air, almost visibly, like I can grab them and tuck them into my pocket. He wants forever with me. A real life. He said everything I’ve been wishing he’d say to me, but instead of jumping up and down in eager agreement, I engage with him in the most uncomfortable staring contest of all time.There are too many lingering questions for me to make any kind of commitment to this man right now.
When Emma, Stella and I took him to the airport, I’d told him he could lose it all but he wouldn’t lose me. It was a peak moment. He was heading to spring training to revive his career. I was still riding the high from the portrait unveiling. We were in a solid place as a couple. It was very win-win-win. I’ve lived long enough to know those moments don’t last forever; there’s always a hiccup that comes along to tip the scales and test your resolve.
From the bottom of my heart, I don’t care if he never plays baseball again. That’s not what attracts me to him. But I see the panic on his face that he’s worried it could be over and I’mconcerned I would become his consolation prize in the process.
“Please say something,” he finally coaxes.
With a squeeze of his hand, I tell him, “What if you’re just saying all of this because you’re afraid your career is over and you don’t want to feel like you could lose everything?”
“Don’t do that.” He carefully shakes his head. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”
“I’m not trying to, I’m sorry.” I sigh and know I have to ask the thing that’s been on my mind since bringing him home this afternoon. “Do you think you’ll want to do your whole five-year contract with Seattle?”
“What?” He acts like what I’ve said is blaspheme and lets go of my hand.
