Page 65 of Last Slice of Pie

I am such an idiot.

Why did I believe she was a distraction? Why did I let outside influences sway me into believing she was? Yes, I thought about her nonstop when before I only thought about the game, but thinking about her brought joy to my life, a joy I never had—a joy I never thought I deserved.

Keeping my gaze on the ground, I briefly glance up as I weave past different people, my only goal being to get to the door, and then my eyes catch on a teal shirt, blonde hair, and a Tarpons ball cap. At first it doesn’t register that it’s her, just a known recognition, and then my brain catches up with my eyes. I’m so shocked to see her, I pause mid-step, and the lineman behind me runs into me, causing me to stumble.

“Sorry, man,” he says, patting me on the shoulder and moving around me, only I can’t take my eyes off her.

She doesn’t move, and neither do I. She looks like a deer caught in headlights, not that I can blame her.

My heart starts racing, blood roars through my ears, and a lump forms in my throat.

I can’t believe she’s here. In Seattle. For me.

I didn’t know she was here. In fact, I would have bet everything I own she wouldn’t come after the way I talked to her, yet here she is, and I’m torn in half from feeling such a proud sense of relief and a deep shame at the same time.

Slowly, I make my way over and soak in every beautiful detail of her. Her hair is down underneath the hat and curled on the ends; she’s wearing a fitted jersey with my number—my number—on the front, jeans, and tall boots; and there’s a backpack strapped to her back. Her eyes are nervous, and I understand why, but she doesn’t realize seeing her is like being able to breathe for the first time in days. She is air, she is water, she is life . . . she is everything I need.

When I stop in front of her, she raises her face to look at me as I lower my forehead to hers and gently reach for her hand.

My eyes slip shut, and as time passes, her love sweeps over me in palpable waves, surrounding us, giving me strength, and the simple touch of her fingers slightly soothes the ever-present ache in the middle of my chest.

“Hey, Bryan,” she finally whispers, and my eyes blink open. Pale green stares back at me. She’s not smiling, the tension in her gaze saying she understands that right now I feel utterly and completely broken, only it isn’t just from the game. It’s from the way I left things between us as well.

In my mind, I respond, Hey, you, but physically, I can’t. I just reach for her, pull her close, and bury my face where her neck meets her shoulder. She smells like sugar and vanilla, she smells like home, and I shudder as I breathe her in. We stand together, clinging to each other in the middle of the crowded room.

Nonstop for the past two weeks, people have been patting me on the back, clapping me on the shoulder, and rubbing my head, but suddenly, it’s all stopped. No more, “Good luck,” and for now, no more, “Tough loss.” They’re giving me this moment. They know I need this, and after everything I said to try to push her away, I’m so grateful she knows I need her too.

I hug her tighter and fight the tears burning the backs of my eyes. Thank God the press isn’t allowed in here. I’m certain they’d be having a field day with this type of affectionate reaction from me.

Then again, I don’t care. Let them all see me love on her. She hasn’t jinxed me, she’s saved me, and I’ll do whatever it takes to make them understand this.

Pulling back, I wrap my hands around the sides of her face and press my lips to hers. It’s a little bit of a kiss and a lot of just needing a connection to her.

“I’m sorry,” I croak out, my words just barely audible. Her hands, which haven’t left me, slide up from under my suit jacket to my face and squeeze.

“Not here, not now.” She shakes her head, speaking so quietly I almost don’t hear her.

I nod, unable to speak, but keep my forehead pressed to hers. She’s right; if we do this here, I damn well may start bawling, and that’s the last thing I want anyone to see. Disappointment, of course—let it shine. That’s expected, but seeing me ripped open because of my own stupidity and grief . . . well, that needs to be for her and her alone.

“I know. I just . . . I couldn’t wait one more second to tell you that. I’m so sorry.”

Pushing up on her tiptoes, she silences me with her lips, lips that are so soft, so delicious, and so mine.

I’ve always thought in order to be happy, truly happy, I’d have to be perfect at everything I do. I thought if I won the big game, I’d finally be good enough to have things in my life that make me happy. I’d deserve them, would deserve Lexi, but I didn’t win. I’m not perfect, and I’ll never be perfect. I’m starting to realize it doesn’t matter if I win every game for the rest of my life. I’m still just a guy who’s trying to make a difference and be someone.

The simple fact is, I’ve spent ten years trying to be good enough for her when I already am. She knew me then, and she knows me now. Winning today’s game wouldn’t have changed her opinion of me. It might have changed my opinion of myself, but it is what it is, and I know she loves me just for me, win or lose.

Taking half a step back, I straighten and let out a loud, audible sigh. Her hands drop to the lapels of my winter coat, and she moves them down, running her palms across my chest. She studies my face, and as I stare down at her, instead of masking it all, I let her see everything. Her lips roll in between her teeth and she bites them from the inside. She sucks in air through her nose, and her eyes turn watery. She’s fighting it, just like I am, not only for herself, but for the pain she sees in me.

“You came,” I acknowledge, the reverence and thankfulness clear in my tone.

The right side of her mouth tips up just a tiny bit and she blinks. “I promised you I would.”

She did, almost eleven years ago. With that, my heart cracks, a single tear I can’t hold back escapes, and I run my hand over my face to wipe it away. It’s time to get out of here and away from all these people. Reaching for her hand, I tangle our fingers together, and there’s no way I’m letting go.

“The team has extra buses lined up outside to transport the players and their families back to the hotel. Are you staying at our hotel?”

“No.”