Elle telling me that Cassie never scrubbed her Instagram, hitting me with the “soulmate” caption brings forth the various memories associated with the raw emotion that I desperately tried to shield myself and her from. I gave her the facts, yes, but I removed the sting. I sterilized the past because the reality of it, the pain of being that in love, that sure, and that publicly betrayed; is something I hate acknowledging. I didn’t want Elle to see the broken man I was. I wanted her to see the confident man she knows now.
Hanging up the phone without hearing her say “I love you” back twists the knife. I lean my forehead against the cool concrete of the stairwell wall, taking ragged breaths.
I feel a wave of crushing guilt. I never told her the full story. I lied to protect myself, told her a story to see if she would sell me out to the tabloids when we first met. And she figured it out. By doing so all I’ve done is create a void she’s filled with the worst possible information, delivered in high definition via Instagram.
I push off the wall and trudge toward the elevators, the exhaustion hitting me tenfold. I need to fix this. I will fix this.
???
The cheers and jeers of tens of thousands of people are a dull rumble in my focus. Midway through the second quarter, we’re trailing by seven. I throw an interception and then I’m sacked next time we get the ball. I pound the turf in frustration, the weight of my personal life spilling onto the public stage. I’m a mess, unfocused, distracted by a ghost I thought I’d buried.
Walking off at halftime, Coach puts a hand on my shoulder. “Head in the game, Archer. We need you.”
He doesn’t know I’m spiraling, heading down to the same headspace that plagued me at the beginning of the season.
I do the only thing I can do. I push it down. Lock it up. I emerge for the second half. I’m on autopilot. There is only instinct now. The third quarter becomes a blur of pure adrenaline. I engineer a long, grinding drive that eats up most of the fourth quarter, ending it with a risky, desperate scramble into the end zone, taking a brutal hit at the goal line. I lie there in the end zone for a moment, the cacophony of the crowd washing over me.
We win by three points, 24-21, a gritty, hard-fought victory. The relief in the locker room is palpable. Reporters swarm; microphones thrust in my face.
I duck out of the press conference as soon as I am able, the sound of the team celebratingfading behind me. I need a shower and time to figure out what I’m going to say when I get the chance to explain everything, I’d been too afraid to share.
I throw my bag onto the floor the moment I burst through the door of our apartment. The place is quiet, dimly lit, save for a lamp in the living room. It’s late. Our flight was delayed due to weather, giving me more time to stew in my thoughts.
“Elle?” My voice is hoarse.
She emerges from the bedroom, wearing an old college sweatshirt. Her eyes are red and tired, but the fight from last night is gone, replaced by a quiet remorse. We just stare at each other from across the room, me in my street clothes, still smelling faintly of the airline, her looking smaller and a little pale.
I drop my keys onto the hall table, the silence amplifying the sharp clink. I close the distance between us slowly, stopping just a few feet away.
“You won your game,” she says, her voice flat.
“Yeah, but that game doesn’t matter, not when I spent the entirety worried whether or not you’d be here.” I say, my voice is low and earnest.
She laughs bitterly. “Where would I go?” Sadie’s. Vi’s. Steph’s. Hell, she could stay with any of her teacher friends. Elle has a huge support network, she is kind and loving, and that has earned her a spot amongst many hearts. Mine first and foremost.
Taking a shuddering breath she continues, “I found everything I needed to know,” she states, cuttingthrough the tension. The acknowledgement in her tone is different this time than it was on the phone.
“I know,” I say gently. “I’m sorry I put you in that position. I was an idiot for minimizing it.”
“You weren’t an idiot,” Elle counters, her voice quiet, a flicker of a sad smile touching her lips. “You were protecting yourself, and me. I knew the facts, Archer. I knew about the engagement and the cheating. You were honest with me about the broad strokes.”
She takes a step closer to me, looking down at the floor. “I’m sorry, Archer. I was spiraling. Cassie’s text just lit a fuse, and I went looking for a fight. I invaded your privacy and turned facts into a drama that didn’t need to happen right before your game.”
I listen to her apology, realizing she’s owning her side of the phone call. The tension in my shoulders eases slightly.
“I should have handled her text differently,” I say, reaching out a hand and gently lifting her chin so she has to meet my eyes. “And I should have been more explicit that the whole thing was a brutal mess, so you understood the context. We both could have done better.”
“I let my insecurity get the best of me,” she admits, the confession raw and honest. She leans into my touch, closing her eyes.
“We all have our moments,” I whisper, pulling her into a hug. She wraps her arms around my waist, and I feel her body sag, the tension leaving. I hold her tight against me, the physical connectiongrounding me, this is what I needed. I tilt her head so I can give her a gentle kiss, the barest caress of our lips before she ducks her head back to my chest. Listening to my heart beat, the sound must be comforting to her.
After what seems like an eternity in the hall, I hear Elle mumble against my shoulder.
“You smell.”
“Excuse me?!” I laugh, acting offended. “Did you say my natural musk offends your delicate sensibilities?”
Elle laughs, genuinely this time. “You need a shower.” She steps out of my arms, “And I’m cold, want to join me?”
