“And he still doesn’t know?”
“Still haven’t told him.” I cross my legs in front of me on the deep couch. “But he knows I watch now.”
“All supportive-like.”
“Precisely.”
We watch for a while, and then I get up to get us some refreshments. It’s only in the relative quiet of the kitchen that I think about how I’m keeping things from August. Important pieces of me. Guarding them like a trembling little mouse for fear of... what? Why can’t I tell him my secrets? Would it be so bad?
We’re so into each other right now. When we’re alone together, we’re the air the other breathes. I know August’s heart: it is good and tender. He would never hurt me. But when Iimagine laying my soul utterly bare to him, something inside grows hard and thick, bottling everything up like a stopper. I don’t know how to pull that plug. But if I want this to last, I have to.
My hands shake only a little as I pick up the cocktails I’ve made and head back to the den and the game.
Monica sits on the edge of the chaise. Lines run between her brows as she leans forward, gripping her knees. The game has taken a downturn, and our guys are falling behind. I hand Monica her drink. Then sit and watch for a while in silence.
At second down on the thirty, August executes a beautifultough throwto Jelly, who catches it with the grace of a dancer. And is instantly tackled by a linebacker with the force of a truck. Jelly slams into the ground, head bouncing, legs flopping.
“Oh, shit, that was hard.” Monica bites her knuckle, eyes on the TV. She isn’t wrong. It’s difficult watching them get pummeled like this. Worse, when it’s your man.
“He got up and is walking okay.” I place a hand on her back. “That’s what August always says, anyway.”
Monica sips her drink and gives me a wry look. “Trent says the same. Still sucks watching.”
“It really does.”
“He’s off tonight.”
I know she means her man. Poor Jelly isn’t on his game. He’s fumbled twice, missed two passes. August looks pissed one second then rallies the next. Each time they regroup, he’s giving them pats on the shoulder, bending close and talking to them.
On-screen, a shiny-toothed commentator in a bulky-fitting checked suit ponders the current plight of Trent “Jelly” Gellis. It’s of his expert opinion that Jelly just isn’t in the game anymore. That he has his mind on “other things.”
“Aw, man.” Monica grimaces. “I felt that.”
Anger surges hot in my belly. “He’s full of shit.”
Even as I speak, the co-commentator chuckles meaningfully. “What are you trying to say, Brad?”
Brad holds up his hands. “I’m just sayin’ when A and B lead to C...”
“Give dickhead a gold star,” I mutter to the screen. “He can say the alphabet.”
Monica pushes a grim smile that ends with a wobble. “If I hear this, you better believe Trent will too.”
“And he’ll tell you the same thing I did. It’s. Bull. Shit.”
A wave of glossy dark hair falls over her cheek. “I know...”
“You don’t look convinced.” When Monica doesn’t answer, I lean in and take her hand. “Hey, it is not your fault.”
She inhales sharply and lifts her chin. Anger crackles in her eyes. “Why is it that whenever an athlete has a famous girlfriend, it’s always the girlfriend’s fault if his performance slips?”
“Blatant sexism?”
“Right? Because it’s never the guy’s fault. It’s his dastardly, vain girlfriend ruining his life, taking up all his time. And they never blame a famous boyfriend when a female athlete is in trouble. No, that’s still on her.”
“The siren situation,” I say with a nod.
“Sounds like the name of a band or old mystery.” She surges to her feet, assuming a fighting stance in front of the two chuckleheads still going on about Jelly’s troubles. “We’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t.”
