Fair Game: A Football Romance (9 page)

“Oh yes, he’s grumpy. This way,” she says, gesturing for me to follow her upstairs.

“How did he get up here?” I ask, climbing the wide curved staircase to the second floor.

“There’s an elevator. The house was built by an elderly billionaire. I don’t get why he wanted such a huge house when he was, well, you know,” she cups her hand around the side of her mouth and whispers, “gonna die.”

I’m not sure whom she thinks is going to overhear her. I’ve yet to meet any of Adam’s other employees.

At the top of the stairs, there is a marvelous stained glass window that must face the rear of the house. I’ve never noticed it from the guesthouse, but I’ll make a point to look the next time I’m outside. The sun filters through the window, throwing streaks and spots of teal and dark blue light across the floor and down the steps.

“Wow, that’s breathtaking,” I say, stopping to admire the window. “Did the old billionaire have this custom made?”

Casey stares up at the work of art as if it’s nothing. She’s probably so used to seeing it that it doesn’t seem so spectacular anymore, and that’s a shame.

“No, Mr. Silver had it made last year; it was kind of weird. All of a sudden one day, he sat down and drew how he wanted the window, and the next week it arrived. I thought maybe it meant something to him, but I never asked.”

I drag my eyes from the mesmerizing glass to look at Casey.

“Why not?”

“I, uh, I don’t think he likes me very well. He told me once that I was a rambler, so I try to keep to myself around him. I need this job.” Her head tips to the side and one corner of her mouth lifts in a “it-is-what-it-is” smile.

Casey is a rambler, but it’s rude to point it out. I’ve only known her for two days though; I can’t imagine Casey’s mouth on a regular basis.

“He can be a jerk. Actually, he
is
a jerk. Don’t let it bother you.”

“Oh, I don’t. I’m still chatty, only not around him.”

Casey continues to the end of the hall where a set of double doors is open and knocks softly on one of them.

“Mr. Silver, Amethyst is here to see you.”

When I step inside, I’m taken aback at the size of the room. Adam is a tall, muscular man, but this all-white winter wonderland dwarfs him in his king-sized bed. I think my whole apartment would fit in here.

“Got something against color?” I ask, walking to look out the wall of windows that faces the rear of the house.

“Nah, I let the decorators do what they wanted, and this is what I got. Probably should have told them my favorite color is …”

“Blue, cobalt, and teal.”

I gaze out the window at the bare, cold branches of the trees surrounding Adam’s house. At home in my apartment, I would feel a chilly draft leaking through the windowpanes, but not here. These windows are expensive, top of the line and soundproof.

We are such different people now. The old Ame and Adam had modest tastes. We had no idea the wealth and fame that came with being an NFA player, or the stipulations.

This enormous mansion is nothing like the home I envisioned us raising our children in one day. But then again, I didn’t realize I was the only one really having those dreams and aspirations. Adam misled me for so many years; it’s unbelievable I didn’t sense his insincerity.

“You remember that?” he asks, and I turn to face him, blinded by all the stark whiteness of the walls, art, furniture, and comforter.

“Of course. You had that ridiculous cobalt blue superhero costume hidden in the back of your closet for years. I could never get you to throw it away or give it to the Goodwill.”

Adam’s eyes sparkle and dance when I mention the costume. He would never tell me why that stupid thing was so important to him.

“That was my second grade Halloween costume. Everybody thought I was so cool when I wore it for the costume parade through the classrooms. I never told you why I loved that costume so much, did I?”

“No.”

“See that door over there?” he says, pointing to the opposite side of the room. When I look, I realize Casey is gone and she had closed the doors behind her.

“Yeah.”

“Go look inside.”

I tilt my head to the side and frown.

“Why?”

He rolls his eyes, “Go look. It’s nothing bad, I promise.”

His promises hold no weight with me, but I pad across the plush thick carpet toward the door. Carpet, crap, this carpet is pure white; I should probably take off my boots.

“What’s the matter?” he asks when I stop mid-step.

“I’m wearing boots on your perfect carpet.”

Adam shakes his head back and forth and waves me on.

“It’s no big deal. Maybe you’ll ruin it and I can finally get some color in here.”

He may think it’s no big deal, but I’m not about to ruin thousands of dollars worth of carpet. I slip off my boots and carry them with me through the mystery door.

Inside is a room starkly opposite his bedroom. It’s a long narrow room that opens into a semi-circle at the end. It’s his trophy room.

The aisle leading to the semi-circle is lined with lit cases holding special balls from championship games, bowls, playoffs, you name it; there is a ball to commemorate it. I wander down the row, looking at photographs that are mounted behind every ball of the moment Adam made the play that won that specific game.

He is truly an amazing athlete. The photographer captured shots of him with his arm cocked back, and the rain or snow pelting him in the face ready to throw the ball. A few are of him slithering down the field in his amazing form for a touchdown.

In the main part of the room, there are jerseys encased in glass hung around the semi-circle. Red and gold Redking paraphernalia has been preserved to showcase everywhere, and there are helmets in glass slots, lining the space under the crown molding.

A large brown plush ottoman is positioned in the center of the room for the onlooker to sit on while admiring the accomplishments of the great Adam Silver. I sit down and gaze in awe at all he has achieved in our years apart and wonder if he would have done all of this if we had been together.

I pull my feet up and turn to face the small wall behind me at the end of the hall, before the semi-circle begins, and smile at what Adam wanted me to see.

Encased in glass exactly like his winning America Bowl jersey is the cobalt blue Halloween costume that he cherished all those years.

It sticks out like a sore thumb in the sea of red and gold, but I’d be willing to bet it’s his favorite thing in his trophy room.

I scoot to the opposite edge of the big ottoman and lean forward to get a better look at the superhero costume. It’s in perfect condition, except for a tear where the cape connects to the back of the neckline.

“You get lost in there?” he calls from the bedroom.

“Coming,” I say and cringe when the word leaves my lips. The inappropriate Adam would make a lewd comment, but true to his word, he keeps it professional.

He’s got the television on to football naturally. The TV is a monstrous thing that takes up nearly the entire wall opposite his bed. He holds up a remote and mutes the game.

“Do you like it?” he asks.

“The trophy room?” I say, hitching my thumb over my shoulder.

“It’s amazing. You’ve had an amazing career so far.”

He turns away from me and looks out the window. It’s snowing now, not the heavy blizzard sort of snow they’ve been predicting on the news over the past twenty-four hours.

It’s a gentle sort of slow motion snow, like every flake wants its fifteen seconds of fame before melting into the earth or melding with a zillion others to form a blanket that warms nothing.

“Adam? You okay?” I ask, moving closer to the bed.

“Thanks for not referring to my career in the past tense.”

“Past tense? Of course not, Adam. We will have you playing again in no time.”

I don’t know if that’s true or not, but the fear in his voice is uncharacteristic. He can’t be losing hope already. That’s not the hardworking man I used to know.

“I’m scared, Ame,” he says, still not meeting my eyes.

I can’t help it. Even after all he’s put me through, my heart aches for him.

“I know, Adam, but if anybody can do this, it’s you.”

I walk to the edge of the bed and sit next to him. He finally turns to face me, and I’m shocked to find his eyes brimming with unshed tears. This big, strong, tough football player has allowed doubt to seep into his confident spirit, and it kills me to watch it happen.

I’ve chosen a spot near his feet to sit, far away from his ever-tempting hand. But, I’m a compassionate person, all good nurses are. Against my better judgment, I slide closer, our hands instinctively reach for one another. His hand is warm and calloused when we touch, and I feel the familiar transmission of what I used to identify as love flowing between us.

If this isn’t love, what the hell is it? I’ve never had feelings like this for anyone but Adam. It’s different and utterly specific. I could swear it goes both ways.

I must be imagining the reciprocation though. Actions speak much louder than words, and his actions in the past have more than proven he doesn’t love me.

“Thank you for coming, or for staying I should say. I know you were sort of tricked into this, and I also know you’d love to be anywhere else right now. I want you to know how much I appreciate you not abandoning me the way you think I abandoned you.”

That’s it, his words melt my resolve, and he pulls me against him before I can protest.

I start to cry as I wrap my arms around him, like I swore I would never do again.

Ever.

“Shush, don’t cry. I’m sorry, Amethyst, so sorry,” he whispers. His hand moves up and down my arm as if he’s trying to rub the pain away. I tilt my face up to tell him I’ll be all right before I try to untangle my body from his embrace and my heart from the spell he has cast on me.

I haven’t been this close to him in years, but his minty breath and woodsy scent are overwhelmingly familiar. Memories of us making out in the back of his truck in high school and making love in our dorm rooms in college flood my mind. I’m dizzy with reminiscent thoughts and yearnings that I’ve squashed for so long. And most of all, I’m weak, very weak.

When his lips touch mine ever so tentatively, I can’t say no. My lips part, inviting him in and when he obliges, an electrical shock stronger than anything I’ve ever experienced zings through my body, ending in a concentrated bundle of crazy between my legs.

He moans when our tongues meet, and every sensible professional thought I’ve ever had dissipates like steam into the air. The only things that matter in this moment are his lips and hands on my body.

His mouth leaves mine, and I whimper, but I find solace in where it travels next. I’m pretty sure every woman has her “wet spot,” and I am no exception. Right behind my ear and down my neck is mine. He’s always played that as his ace in the hole. And it always worked, today included.

Adam pushes my hair off of my shoulder, and I move away to allow him access. I can feel his pounding heart under my right hand that is resting on his chest. I feel like this isn’t me, like I’m floating above the bed, watching two people on the precipice of making love. That hand on his heart is on the move now over his rock-hard abdominal muscles, hesitating at the drawstring of his sweat pants.

Adam nips at my skin, and I gasp. Something between us clicks, like we’re being sucked back in time to the back of his Ford truck. His lips find mine again, and he kisses me into a fog I’ll never find my way out of. My hand slides around his neck into his shaggy hair, and I pull him closer when he roughly swings me into a straddling position over him. He slides his hands up my thighs and around to cup my ass, aligning my primed and ready core with his rock-hard cock.

I look down into his hooded, blue-rimmed irises, and there he is,
my
Adam. The Adam who never had eyes for anyone else. The Adam who stood behind me in everything. The Adam who pledged to love me forever repeatedly.

My eyes dart back and forth between his, and I find love there. I don’t care what he did or what he said. There’s no way I could have misinterpreted this for all those years.

I rise up carefully and hover over him so I don’t touch his leg. I take the hem of his t-shirt and lift it an inch or two. Never taking his eyes from mine, he helps me remove it and tosses it aside.

Good God almighty, he’s the epitome of male perfection. Every sculpted, rippling muscle of his chest and abdomen call out to me to touch him. My eyes roam over the tattoos that are new since I’ve seen him without clothes.

I trace my fingers over the large letters arching over his pectorals that spell out, “Faith.” He shivers under my touch, and I look back into his eyes for a brief moment before continuing my exploration. Under “Faith,” in much smaller font, are the words, “It does not make things easy; it makes them possible.” Luke 1:37. It surprises me that he has a biblical quote on his skin. His family was Catholic, but Adam separated himself from the church when he went away to college.