Page 72 of Beg Me

Now that I think about things, knowing her history with Jasper, a lot more about Markie makes sense.

The way her body molds to mine, the way her breathing evens out against my chest? She feels safe in my arms.

She can finally breathe.

“Fuck that guy,” I say, pulling myself back to the conversation with Drake. “Hey, how’s your dad?” I need to move this conversation along. “Is he doing any better?”

“Yeah and no. It’s dementia, so there’s really no getting better.”

I frown, wondering if I shouldn’t have brought it up. But we used to talk about his dad a lot, so I feel like it’d be rude not to ask.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

He sighs, frowning, too. “You know, that’s really just me being pissed about the whole situation and not necessarily true. He is on a few new medicines, and they’re helping some of his symptoms. His sundowning episodes have decreased, which is a huge help. Nighttime was when things were starting to get ugly, and Mom was really struggling, not sleeping—all that jazz.”

I recall Drake telling me about some of Ed’s episodes and how quickly he was deteriorating. We had a long talk about it one night over Pad Thai. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen him cry. Hearing him talk about his idol not remembering who he was or any of the memories they shared together was fucking heartbreaking.

“My sister Elodie moved in with our parents,” he says. “I volunteered to move them in with Gianna and me, but Mom thought it was best to keep Dad in the house he knew. And that makes sense. Plus, it helped my sister out. Everybody won.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

Lisa brings us plates and our pizzas, checks our drinks, then scoots off to answer the drive-thru window.

We sit quietly for a few minutes as we eat, and my mind drifts to Ed.

If there was ever a father I’d want to emulate, it’s Ed Bennett. The way Drake talks about him makes him out to be Superman. He was always there, supportive, and a source of advice for his son. Drake laughed once and said it was great growing up with a dad who knew everything, and he wasn’t sure how people made it with a father who didn’t. My own father wasn’t a walking source of knowledge, but he did teach me a lot in the eighteen years that we had together. I can only imagine what I could’ve learned from him if I’d had him as an adult.

One thing I always knew, without a doubt, was that he loved me unconditionally. It sounds like Markie knew that kind of love, too. Yet …

“Come to think of it, besides my dad and grandpa, I’m not sure a man has ever not disappointed me.”

Her words haunt me today, tugging at my heart and my head. I hate that she feels that way. I hate that it’s such a part of her existence that she can speak it freely, like it’s an accepted part of her life.

There’s nothing I can do to erase the shitty behavior of other men, but I can validate her feelings. She’s right to expect more from men, especially ones she allows into her life, and she should expect to be adored and treated like the Pickleball Princess she is. Even if I’m only her fake boyfriend and our fake relationship has a timer ticking away with an end in sight, I’ll be damned if I don’t demonstrate to this amazing woman how a real man would treat her.

How I’d treat her if I got the chance. If the world worked differently.

“So I hear you’re playing in the pickleball tournament,” Drake says, taking another bite of his pizza. An olive falls off and lands on his plate. “That should be fun to watch.”

I laugh. “From a professional athlete’s perspective, Markie’s impressive. She’s exceptionally athletic, which surprised the hell out of me. I play with guys who get paid a lot of money to play rugby, and they don’t take it nearly as seriously as Markie takes pickleball.”

Drake laughs. “I believe that. I’ve heard about this tournament for months. Gianna’s made shirts for it. There are pompoms. It’s an event, I’m telling you. I hope you’re ready.”

I pluck a pepperoni off a slice and pop it into my mouth. Thank God Markie has friends who love her so much.

“Oh, I was going to ask you about something,” Drake says. “I saw a report last week that the Royals might be signing Graber Boyer from Lansing. Is there any truth to that?”

I nod. “Yeah. I think so. Brewer called me into his office just before I left Nashville and asked me if I’d be willing to mentor Boyer if they got him. They think he’ll be a good fit and hope he can step into my role after I’ve retired.”

My breath holds as I await the burst of anxiety that usually comes with talking about my retirement. Hearing the mechanics of my departure—what roster changes are coming, who they’re eyeing to replace me—makes it feel real. It’s not simply talking about my retirement. That feels so nonspecific.

But discussing the new winger from Michigan coming in to be the new me? That’s incredibly specific.

I blow out the breath when the surge of nervous energy doesn’t come. I’m not sure why, but it’s a relief.

“He has a great pedigree,” Drake says. “His stats all the way back to high school are impressive. And his dad was a pro in Australia years back.”

“I heard that. I watched bits and pieces of video Brewer had of Boyer, and he has a lot of potential, for sure.”