As I make love to the most amazing woman against a wall in a Paris hotel room, I can’t help but think about how lucky I am to have ended up here. How grateful I am that I realized the team doc was right: I would feel the decision to keep playing for the rest of my life.
But not because of my hip—because of Finley.
And that wasn’t a hurt I was willing to try to play through.
Five minutes later, I slowly lower Finley onto her post-orgasm jelly legs. After grabbing a washcloth, I clean her quickly and tuck myself back in my pants before pulling her toward the door. “Dinner awaits.”
We’re almost to the restaurant when Finley’s phone rings. Her dad’s name flashes across the screen. When she goes to ignore it, I pull her to a stop. She’s been avoiding his calls since the day the news of her suspension broke, and I can tell how much it’s wearing on her.
“You can talk to him,” I say.
She slips the phone into her purse. “He’s just going to lecture me.”
“You don’t know that.”
She laughs, a joyless imitation of her usual chuckle. “Right.”
I squeeze her hand. “I don’t care whether you talk to him or not. It just seems likeyoucare.”
Her right cheek pulls in slightly as she thinks it over. “Maybe.”
We take a few more steps before she announces, “I’ll call him after dinner.”
“Sounds great.”
As we walk in the warm June night, the lights of Paris glowing gold around us, I feel content in a way I never did before I stopped chasing my parents’ dream for me and started chasing my dream woman.
“This is already the best decision I’ve ever made,” I say.
“Coming to Paris with your favorite person?” she asks.
I bump my shoulder into hers. “You’re assuming that’s you?”
She leans into me, and I drop her hand to wrap my arm around her shoulders. “Yep.”
“Was it the two-week trip to Paris?”
She laughs. “I was thinking the way you referred to me as your girlfriend when we checked in.”
I raise my eyebrow as I pull her to another stop. “Wait, have you been functioning under the assumption that you’renotmy girlfriend? I know we’re doing things a little out of order, but I assume the woman I love and sleep with every night falls into that category without us having that talk.”
“I just like hearing it,” she admits, pressing onto her toes to place a gentle kiss on my mouth.
“Then come on, girlfriend. Dinner awaits.”
We make it to the restaurant later than predicted, but they still let us in. Candlelight flickers across white tablecloths, and music plays softly in the background as we’re led to a secluded table.Though requesting the table in the back was likely unnecessary. No one points. No one stares. I’m not a professional athlete; she isn’t Coach Blake. No microscopes, no adoring fans. Just Beckett and Finley.
I order a bottle of wine, and by the time we order, we’ve had just enough to attempt the French pronunciations, clearly butchering them by the look on the waiter’s face.
When the man leaves, Finley starts laughing so hard she has to wipe her eyes.
“I needed this,” she admits once she’s recovered.
I reach across the table and lace my fingers through hers. “I needed you.”
Her phone vibrates in her purse, the sound barely audible over the hum of the conversation. She stiffens a little, though she doesn’t reach for her bag.
“You still planning to call him after?” I ask.
