“That’s right.” She grabs my forearm and shakes it with her hand. “I thought you were smart enough to know that it applies to everything. Not just football.”
I tilt my head, looking down at the granite counter, my fingers tracing the lines of charcoal gray on the cream stone—the way I’ve done ever since I was a kid.
She grabs additional mulling spices, ready for her second batch, and pours them in the pan. She stirs them with a wooden spoon and asks, “Do you think Blair is worth it?”
I pivot and catch her eyes with mine, quickly, and she already knows my answer.
“Then why are you running from the fight?”
I take a deep breath, stretching my lungs into my rib cage, before sighing out through my mouth—my shoulders following suit. “Why now? Why would she want this now? And does she really think of me like that? I don’t seem like—” My brain tries to find the right word but lands on the closest. “Enough.”
“Enough? Tyson. When you’re ready, you’re going to make someone extremely happy—you know you have this way of making everyone feel special. That’s hard to find. Don’t doubt yourself like that.”
I nod, and look down at my fingers, following the patterns of the granite.
“And why wouldn’t she tell me about her dad?”
“Sweetie, those aren’t questions I can answer. But you know who can? The woman you’ve loved for a decade, whether you want to admit it or not. Talk to her. Be honest. At least for the sake of your friendship.”
Did I fuck up by leaving her in the city? Not saying anything and hopping on the first flight? Who knows. Maybe she won’t even show up? The idea of her skipping the holiday because I left her behind brings a cold sweat to my forehead.
Fuck. I’m a mess.
“I’m going to take a walk,” I say while grabbing my scarf that hangs on the back of the chair. I know it’s just the two of us—my dad is workingand my brothers aren’t supposed to be here until tonight and tomorrow morning.
“Took you long enough. We walked out there a few weeks ago. Everything is still perfect. Waiting for you.” She winks at me. “Also, don’t be afraid to stop by that cafe in town, Daylight Coffee, for a latte on your way back. The vanilla latte has no business being that good. And tell Skyler I said hello.”
I’m putting on my coat and all the things that will keep me warm on a walk which is just under a mile when the sense of home starts to envelop me. My time in the NFL has had me living in two massive cities and while I enjoy the idea of great food and getting anything you want when you want it, I miss small town living.
Not that I want a farm or anything like that, I just want a space that’s my own. No more doormen and penthouses and black cars taking me somewhere. The amazing thing about Brindlewick is there are a few coffee shops, not four on a block. You get to know the owners, they know you, and you get to chit chat about what they’re working on. It’s about community—building relationships—and that’s something I’m going to need when I'm not playing football anymore.
The snow is deeper than this morning when I arrived and I love the feeling of the chilled air filling my lungs, biting my skin. Each minute that passes I feel more and more myself, the version I like the best. I know how important it is for me to come back here, whenever I can. I grew up in the lower peninsula, maybe forty-five minutes from Traverse City and only a ten minute drive from my parents’ house to the lake.
The sound of crunching snow is music to my ears as I soak it in. The brightness of the landscape, the untouched and fresh snow ahead of me, and the pit in my stomach that doesn’t feel like it could swallow me whole.
Honestly, why does it feel like I was this close with Blair, only to have it fall further away? Why does it hurt more having kissed her? Why did Ileave her like that? Is all this even worth it? The questions don’t stop as I continue to walk.
Then I see it. My own secret I’ve been keeping.
Our family cabin is first—the one where we spent endless summer days and fall nights. But then everything behind it? All ten acres of land?
That’s all mine.
Twenty
Blair
Istandinfrontof the door and I hate that I feel like a visitor. I’ve always shown up with Tyson and he obviously would just walk us into his childhood home. That isn’t the case today—it’s just me and a strong recommendation from Ty’s older brother that I obviously still make the trip. He convinced me yesterday and I even called this morning to double check that this was still a good idea.
According to Teague, Tyson was being dramatic and doesn’t know how to communicate when he needs a teeny tiny break.
Well, fuck. Tyson and I seem to be more like each other than I thought.
When the question hit me that maybe I should stay home, not join the Bishops for their Thanksgiving tradition—it was awful. It was this overwhelming wave of sadness of not playing games late at night the Wednesday before the big day, or not curling up with a warm cup of coffee in the morning, or missing out on making pie with Tyson’s mom, Sara.
He’s always been a consistent part of my life, even when we were a whole world apart. I refuse to accept that when the universe puts us almost in the same city, that this is where it doesn’t work.
Well, maybe it doesn’t work the way I thought it would. This is what I’ve been mulling over the whole flight. I used to daydream and wonder what it’d be like to date Tyson. Be that person. But when I thought about it, it was almost in the same way as “what if I won the lottery” or “if I could getup and move to any country, where would it be?” It never felt like an actual possibility.
