Tilly
“You’re going to have a good game.”
“Yep.”
“A great game.”
“Definitely.”
“I should have given you a blow job before you left yesterday.”
“That’s sweet, but you don’t have to do that.”
I smile because I hear the sincerity in Blaise’s voice, but I also hear the anxiety in it. I thought it was adorable the first couple weeks, but then, when I mentioned Blaise’s game day jitters to Merrick at the bonfire after the Jugs’ first home game, Merrick was extremely blunt about how he’d never had jitters before Donovan and I came around, and this was clearly my fault, and Blaise was probably going to get hurt becauseof it.
It’s every game. They’re having a great season so far, three and one, and this is the fifth pre-game phone call he’s sounded like he’s going to barf. He’s not even supposed to be making this call. He’s in the shower in the locker room, and twice now, I’ve heard his teammates call him out for clearly taking a shower just to sneak a phone call. I want to ask Joss about it, but I don’t want her to feel bad if Gabe isn’t sneaking phone calls.
Plus, at that same party, Cora badgered me into admitting Merrick had been kind of a dick to me, and it turned into a whole thing. She started a fight with Merrick, went running off to Wes Foster before Merrick could do anything to her, so he started a fight with Foster that ended with a split lip and a black eye, respectively, and I’m pretty sure Merrick literally broke into her house to bang her because she left before he could chase her down at the Jugs house and fuck her like usual.
Like, she was really relaxed the next day, and that’s the only reason she’s ever that relaxed.
“Maybe we could coordinate something before the game starts,” I suggest. “I’m almost to the stadium. I could see if they’ll let me in through one of the service entrances and—”
“I’ll get fined,” he says more briskly, and I know better than to push him on that. Things have been weird since I told him the truth about how Dad’s being cared for. At first, it was great. I thought he’d be mad, and instead, he was super sweet and gentle to me. Arguably, he was bending over backwards for me.
But he hasn’t offered to take up the payments from Emerson, and he hasn’t hinted at any of the plans we had started to dance around about expanding our family and everything that goes along with it. And I know,I know,he’snot responsible for me, that I’ve never asked and he’s never offered, and the one thing he’s liable for is Donovan’s expenses, which he does pay for, but . . .
He has money. He has an insane amount of money. This is common knowledge. Or he should, and if he doesn’t actually have it, I don’t know what’s happened to it.
I need to start talking to him about these things. I know this, too. It doesn’t matter that I’m not entitled to his money; I still need to understand what’s happening. If for no other reason, then for Donovan’s sake. And if I can’t rely on Blaise’s money, I really do need to get back to full-time work on location, but that was already impossible before we knew that Donovan was going to need even more care than the typical infant.
But when things are good between Blaise and me, I don’t want to ruin them by bringing up a bad topic. And when things are bad, I don’t want to make them even worse. When it’s the middle of the night and I push myself up against Blaise, I need to know he’s going to wrap his arm around my waist and hold me close until the sick feelings subside. It seems like no matter how long this has gone on for and how much we’ve worked through, I’m still scared I’m going to lose him.
“I’m going to be right in the stands today, right next to Joss. And Cadence and Wren have promised to check in every quarter with an update on Donovan. I moved the car up to that corner shop so I’m only fifteen minutes away from it if I need to run and get him, but I won’t get caught up in traffic. We’re good there.”
I hear him take a deep breath. “I’m not worried about him. Cadence and Wren are solid. I’m just . . . I’m fine. I’m sorry for being weird.”
“Aww, baby, you’re always weird.”
He chuffs out a laugh. It’s raw, but it’s a laugh. “I just don’t want you thinking it’s you. You haven’t done anything. It’s just something I gotta deal with.”
I want to tell him I love him, but I don’t know if it will help any. He hasn’t said it to me, either. It could just add more pressure on him he doesn’t need.
“I trust you,” I say instead, and maybe that’s more important, anyway.
I don’t know a ton about football. My dad was big into it when I was growing up, but I’d rather have been watching anything else, and it was my sister who really got involved in it to suck up to Dad. I learned some when I costumed a teen football movie. I’ve watched it occasionally as part of crew functions, since sports bars tend to best accommodate random large parties showing up at weird times. Enough of my coworkers were into it that it occasionally caught my attention. There’s just that energy that sucks you in.
I didn’t get to go to any games last year. I was on location for much of the season, trying to make as much money as possible since I knew having a baby was going to be a major problem as an independent contractor. So I’m surprised with myself when, despite the Jugs being in the lead in the third quarter, I’m as aware as everyone around me that something’s not quite right about the game. Or maybe it’s because everyone else has this nervous sort of energy that I get that there’s something wrong.
Joss is actually squeezing my hand like there’s some tragedy ensuing on the field, even though most plays, we gain just enough yards to get our first downs. It’s a slog, but it’s happening.
“Do you think there’s something going wrong with their headsets?” she asks Mel Cohen on her other side. “Like, it could be that they’re not getting anything from the coaches, right?”
Mel shrugs, but her lips peel back slightly like she has her doubts.
“Merrick probably started some shit, the fucking asshole,” Cora grumbles. I see the way she’s eying him up in his tight white pants, his muscles tensed, ready to spring forward into the end zone the second the ball is snapped. I bet her panties are wet thinking about whatever fucked-up mess she’s going to get into with him after the game.
That’s not me. Blaise is tense. I can feel it from thirty yards away. I did watch some of the games on TV last year, and he’s not nearly as bouncy or frenetic. He’s . . . grim. Rigid. His play is different, too, I just don’t know enough about the sport to understand how it’s different. I’ll have to ask him about it tonight.
