“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” He leads me toward the elevator, but rather than pressing the button to go down, he presses it to go up.
My brother lives on the top floor, so I assume that’s where he’s taking me—maybe to tell Dex about my mom, to hold my hand while I do it.
Which is why I’m surprised when he cuts to the stairwell instead of my brother’s door.
I follow him up the stairs to a door markedRooftop Access.
I didn’t know therewasrooftop access in this building, but apparently there is.
He props the door open so we don’t get locked up here like some scene straight out of a comedy, and we walk over toward the side that looks out over Las Vegas Boulevard. He hasn’t let go of my hand yet. I haven’t let go of his, either.
We stare at the famed skyline for a few quiet moments.
“Have you ever heard of finger breathing?” he asks.
I glance over at him with furrowed brows and shake my head.
He lets go of the hold he has on my hand, and instead, he turns in toward me and holds my hand up in the air between us. “Breathe in,” he says as he slowly traces the outside of my pinky finger and stops at the top. “Hold here,” he says, and he pauses for a beat before he traces the path down the other side of my finger. “And let it out.” He pauses again between my pinky and my ring finger, and then he does it again. “In,” he instructs. “Hold.” He pauses at the top. “Out,” he says, tracing back down. He goes through all of my fingers, and he breathes with me on the last two rather than instructing me aloud. “Sometimes when I get overwhelmed, I come up here. It’s quiet, somehow more peaceful than my place even when I’m alone. I look out over that skyline at a place that’s anything but quiet or peaceful with its flashing lights and tourists and dancers and money being lost and won, and I do my finger breathing, and it recenters me. It calms me.”
He's still holding my hand in the air between us, and I wrap that hand around his. I use my other to trace his jawline, my fingertips light on his skin, and I stare up into his eyes. Something shifts between us, some new understanding, or a new bond, or something. I’m not sure what, but I feel it, and it feels somehow like it’s us against the world. Like together, we can do anything. Like we can stand up here staring out at that skyline, breathe deeply together, and everything will turn out okay.
When I wake in the morning, it’s with Maverick’s arms around me. It’s only the second time we’ve spent the night together, but this time was different.
We stayed up on that rooftop a long time just talking. We talked about my fears, about my complicated relationshipwith my mother, about everything. He listened, and he told me more about his own complicated relationship with his mother, too, as he held my hand.
It felt like I was giving him pieces of myself that I won’t get back. Like I took pieces of him for myself, too. Like our souls were entwining.
Would I have felt that way if it had been Billy there to comfort me? Unlikely.
I was together with Billy longer, but what I’m starting with Maverick feels different. Deeper. More passionate. More important.
It’s a Saturday morning, and the Aces have a home game this weekend, which means light practice today. I get up and take a quick shower, and Maverick is awake in my bed when I emerge dressed for the day.
“Feeling okay?” he asks.
I nod. “Thanks for last night. I needed that.”
He gets up and wraps his arms around me. “So did I.” He presses a kiss to the top of my head, and it makes me wonder what an actual relationship with him would be like. Would it be tender nights and sweet mornings?
Something tells me that with a guy like Maverick, the answer is no. He let out his tender side for a night because I needed it, but even with me, he doesn’t always show that side.
And with anyone else? Henevershows that side.
Before we leave for practice this morning, he has an interview with two popular former players who started a podcast, and I help get him set up. He has a home office in his condo where he can record things like this. A jersey from his college days hangs in a frame behind his desk, but no traces of the Cowboys are here in his office—or the Aces, come to think of it. His office has a recliner chair in the corner with a small table beside it on which sits the latest Pattersonthriller. I can’t help but wonder if he gets a thrill from reading them. I wonder what gives him a thrill at all.
I sit in the chair to give him a few coaching tips before the podcast begins. “Stick to what we’re trying to do here. If you want to mention the foundation or the Hope Gala, great. Keep it positive. You didn’t get screwed by the Cowboys; you’ve learned a lot from the Aces. Can you tell me your top three talking points?”
“Grinding athlete, everyday kind of guy, football-focused?” he guesses.
I chuckle. “Works for me. Don’t let them trap you. Pivot whenever you need to. Questions?”
He grimaces as he keeps his gaze focused on me, and then he shakes his head and connects to the call.
“Hey, Mav. I’m Reggie Bishop,” Reggie says.
“And I’m Darren Vickers,” Darren says.
