RED ZONE: OPPONENT’S 20-YARD LINE TO GOAL LINE.
How can a week be measured in so many different ways?
Seven precious days since the breakfast marking the morning after Troy and I consummated our relationship. Where I’ve spent every night in his bed since. If I measure it in heartbeats, I’m traveling at the speed of light. If I measure it in routine, we’ve fallen into one. Naturally. Easily.
We wake up. He fuels me first with himself, then with coffee. We go our separate ways to work and come back together in the early afternoon. We spend the evening in front of roaring fires before we retire to his rooms.
A week can also be measured in desperation—as in the more frequent emails I’m receiving from Bryce. With a sigh, I read the latest one.
To: Maya Cox
From: B. Parry
Subject: Why won’t you talk to me?
I know you don’t owe me anything—not after what you saw in the news and on social media. But I can’t stop thinking about you, us. What we had.
Every morning feels wrong. Every night I catch myself reaching for the other side of the bed like you’re still there.
I don’t know how you gave us up without a fight. I just need to understand how you could walk away so easily when everything we had meant everything to me.
I’ve changed. I swear I have. You know me better than anyone, and I can’t accept that you’d just erase what we were. Please, Maya. Talk to me.
One last time.
—B
I file the message with the others he’s sent and block this email address too. Rolling my shoulders, I mutter, “I really wish I didn’t need to keep this email address for work so he’d stop reaching out.”
That’s when I hear him behind me. “What’s wrong?”
Shit.Troy whirls my chair around so I’m facing him when he asks, “Maya, what’s happening?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Nothing doesn’t stress you out like this.” He crouches down in front of me and covers my hands with his own. “Talk to me,uvetta mia.”
So, I do. I tell him about Bryce still reaching out to me via email. About the delusional persistence that I’ll be right there for him. I conclude with, “It’s like he thinks I owe him something.”
His jaw twitches. “You don’t owe him a damn thing, Maya—least of all your time. But only you can decide what should happen next. Reply, don’t reply. The decision is up to you.”
My voice comes out as a rasp when I admit, “I don’t want my future to include him hanging around my neck like an albatross.”
The storm in Troy’s gaze banks slightly. His thumb brushes my wrist in slow, grounding circles. “He doesn’t get to take any more space in your head than you allow.”
I release a slow breath. “Thank you.”
“For?”
Lifting my hand, I cup the side of his cheek. “Always having my back.”
He covers my hand with one of his. “Didn’t I promise you I always would?”
His words fling me back to a weekend when Troy was in town and Bryce was playing the big football hero at what was supposed to be a surprise birthday event for him that included only private family and friends. He ruined that by grandstanding at the restaurant, taking photos with everyone—working the room while everyone inside was plunged into dim lights and disappointment.
At the entrance to our private room, I lean against the jamb, swirling a glass of wine. One swish for every photo he took ashe worked the room. “I know he thinks it’s just dinner with me, but this is ridiculous.”
That’s when I hear Troy’s voice behind me. “What did that poor wine do to you? There’s aerating it and then there’s murdering it.”
