Rushing Amy: A Love and Football Novel (34 page)

She was shaking her head before he finished speaking.

“Oh, my GOD, Matty. Is this one of these things like ‘It depends on what the meaning of “is” is?’ Are you listening to yourself? What do you think any woman thinks when you lie to her, honey? I’ll tell you what they think: What else has he lied to me about?” She let out a bark of laughter. “You’re busted. You finally found a woman who will stand up to you, and you didn’t like it.”

“This is NOT funny,” he fumed.

His mother’s voice grew gentle. “Of course it’s not, honey. You have to admit it, though. You don’t make it easy. I’ll bet she told you no, and said ‘stay out of it,’ and you just couldn’t stand letting her handle it herself.”

“I didn’t think she’d dump me over this, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Maybe his stitches were pulled too tightly. His vision blurred. He glanced away from her. “I’ll be fine.” He blinked till the tears went back where they came from, and pretended great interest in a hangnail.

He’d had some tequila and he was tired, he told himself. He’d feel better after some food and a nap. Plus, his mom was a champ at getting under his skin.

She got out of the chair, scooted behind the coffee table, and hip-checked him into moving further down the couch so she could sit next to him. She slipped one arm around his shoulders. “Listen. You won’t be fine. You’re in love with Amy, and she’s in love with you. You are going to have to apologize, and you’d better make it good. For starters I’d advise you to tell her you were wrong, you shouldn’t have done this, you are sorry, and you will never lie to her again. Right after that, you need to find something else to occupy your time and your money while she runs her business. It’ll be good for both of you.”

“I can’t believe you’re siding with her,” he said.

“I’m siding with my future daughter-in-law.” His mother’s smile was heartfelt. “If you let her go, Matty, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life. You’d better figure out how you’re going to fix this, and how you’re getting her back.”

Someone knocked at his hotel room door. “That’ll be the food.” Pauline got to her feet and hurried away from him.

Samantha vanished back into the second bedroom with a tray full of food he couldn’t believe he was letting her eat. He couldn’t imagine when she’d developed a taste for chicken nuggets, but he was somewhat happy to note she actually ordered a salad for herself. He and his mother talked about everything but Amy while they ate their own room service dinner. Shortly afterward Pauline grabbed her phone out of her bag, stepped back into her shoes, and called out, “Samantha, come on out here.”

He heard the racket from whatever video game she was playing shut off abruptly. “What’s going on, Grandma?”

“Your dad’s publicist just texted me. We’re going to get mani-pedis downstairs with her while he takes a nap.” She gave Matt a nod. “Get some sleep, son. When I get back, we’re going to talk about Amy. You need a plan.”

She dumped the entire bottle of tequila down the bathroom sink before she left, too.

T
HREE DAYS LATER
Matt’s stitches itched like a mofo, photos of his trip to the local grocery store for supplies ended up on TMZ.com, and he had to apologize in front of witnesses to that dickless wonder Harry McCord, whose “facial contusions” had miraculously healed.

Someone on the show’s production staff must have liked the holiday gift Matt gave them last year. A “source” told multiple sports reporters what really happened before Matt punched Harry. PSN withdrew Matt’s suspension the following day. Matt asked for a leave of absence instead. He had some things to work on before he went back to the show.

The only thing that kept it all somewhat bearable was the fact Samantha was still with him. It seemed she was infuriated with her mother these days, for reasons that were a mystery to Matt. He muttered something about “hormones,” and his mother went medieval on his ass.

Fifi was silent. He had tried calling her. She didn’t call him back. Maybe it was time he stopped chasing her. There were other women who would be more than happy to take his calls. Maybe he should find one of them. LA was full of gorgeous, single women.

The only problem was he didn’t want any of them.

Chapter Twenty-Six

A
MY CURLED UP
on her couch after a challenging day at the flower shop. Most of the time the worst thing that happened in her job was someone didn’t like their order. But today she had done the flowers for a funeral.

The deceased was a twenty-year-old college kid who fell into a crevasse on Mount Rainier. The young man’s mother appeared at the shop herself to order flowers for the pedestal the urn with his ashes would rest on during the memorial service. She glanced through Amy’s arrangement books. Amy offered her a cup of coffee.

The woman dug a well-used handkerchief out of her purse and pointed toward a small arrangement of greenery with a few white tulips and roses. “This is the closest I’ll get to what I think he’d want,” she said. She picked up her coffee with a trembling hand, took a sip, and put the paper cup back down on the table.

Amy reached out and patted her hand. The woman gripped hers. Amy squeezed in return. “Why don’t you tell me what you think he would like?”

“He loved the outdoors. He was outside all the time, even as a little boy. I had to drag him into the house to eat and sleep. He . . . The arrangements in this book are beautiful, but they’re not him. He’d want something that reminded everyone of the trees, the sky, water, and mountains, and—”

Amy leaned forward in her chair. “Let me see what I can come up with.” She thought for a moment. “Do you have a measurement of the pedestal you’ll be using during the service?”

A
MY LOADED THE
arrangement into the delivery van herself the next morning. She used pine branches and greenery as a base. She raided her mother’s garden for old-fashioned wildflowers, like bluebells, digitalis, and forget-me-nots. The arrangement wasn’t large, but the urn would be surrounded on all sides by the beauty and fragrance of the outdoors.

Amy clicked the TV on, and she settled in for an hour or so of mindless entertainment. She reached for the remote again to change the channel when an entertainment news show came on. A photo of Matt’s face on the screen made her stop.

“Matt Stephens of Pro Sports Network must be wishing for a do-over. The set of
NFL Today
was thrown into turmoil after punches were thrown between Stephens and his co-anchor, Hall-of-Fame defensive end Harry McCord. We haven’t been able to determine what started the fracas, but an unnamed source told us this afternoon, ‘It wasn’t the first fight on the set, and it won’t be the last.’ Matt Stephens was suspended from the show, only to be reinstated this morning. He asked for a leave of absence instead. Stephens is licking his wounds in Los Angeles this week. He was spotted inside a local grocery store earlier this afternoon but would not answer our reporter’s questions.”

The video clip they showed was of Matt and Samantha, pushing a half-loaded grocery cart. Matt responded to the reporter’s shouted questions with “No comment,” while shielding Samantha under one arm. Amy saw Samantha fling a couple of packages of Pepperidge Farm cookies into the cart while Matt was busy keeping the press away from them. She had to smile.

The bandage on Matt’s face looked awful.

She didn’t listen to the rest of the report. She got up, grabbed the cordless from the kitchen, and plunked herself back down on the couch.

The entertainment show anchors kept talking. Amy gripped the phone in her hand. All she had to do was scroll down the caller ID, locate Matt’s number, and hit “dial.” The hundreds of reasons why she thought it was such a good idea to walk out on him fell away while she considered what a mess he was in right now.

He tried to help her. Maybe he’d appreciate whatever help she might have to offer, too. Or maybe he’d hang up on her.

Maybe she should stop being so afraid. Of everything.

She clicked the TV off, and scrolled the caller ID. She hit “dial.” She closed her eyes, and took a huge breath.

“M
ATT’S PHONE
,” P
AULINE
barked.

“I’d like to talk to Matt, please,” Amy said.

“Who’s this?”

“Amy Hamilton. Is he there?”

“Amy, he’s a little busy right now. I’ll tell him you called, though.” Amy heard the phone click off. She redialed the phone number. It went to voice mail.

“Well, that takes care of that,” she muttered to herself. Amy got up off the couch, grabbed a beer out of the refrigerator, dispensed with the top, and chugged it.

An hour later, Amy was in bed and falling asleep. The phone rang. She didn’t answer it. The call must have gone to voice mail. It rang again. She snatched the cordless off the base in her darkened bedroom, punched “talk,” and held it up to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Fifi, it’s me. Don’t hang up.”

“Your mom said you weren’t available.”

“I’m here now.” She heard the mouthpiece rub up against the stubble on Matt’s chin.

She sat up in bed. “I’m worried about you. What happened?”

Silence ensued.

“I saw something on an entertainment show—”

He cut her off. “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

She flopped back into her pillows. “Then maybe you should tell me what wasn’t true. Did you punch Harry McCord? What’s going on with your job?”

“Harry made a comment about you he won’t be making again.”

“What in God’s name could he have said that was so bad you punched him?”

Matt ignored that. “I’m on a leave of absence from my job while I decide what I want to do. My mother and daughter are treating me like an invalid. I sent them to Disneyland overnight so I could get some peace and quiet.” He let out a breath. “You’re filled in, Fifi.”

She rubbed a trembling hand over her mouth. Any thought of facing this in a dispassionate way was gone.

“Did you find the cookies Samantha threw into the cart at the store before you got to the check stand?”

She heard strain in his voice. “I let her have the damn things.”

“I don’t even know how to say this.”

“You’re not backing up the truck on me, too,” he said. His words were wary and cautious; the way he’d talk with someone he wasn’t letting anywhere close enough to affect him.

“That wasn’t what I was going to say.”

“Well, spit it out,” he said. “I don’t have all day.” He was going to bluster and give her attitude, but she knew him well enough to know the truth: She’d hurt him, too, and he was trying to pretend like he didn’t care.

Amy swallowed hard, and closed her eyes. Just hearing his voice made her long to walk to wherever he was and throw herself into his arms. “I can go over and pick up your mail if you’d like.”

“Excuse me?”

“I—you didn’t say how long you’ll be there, and someone has to get the mail. I can do it. If there’s anything else you need me to pick up or make sure you have on hand—”

The previously chilly tone of his voice warmed. “I have an assistant for that.”

“All right. I wanted to make the offer.”

“That’s all you have to say to me right now—you’ll get the mail?” Incredulity replaced Matt’s false bravado.

She rubbed one hand over her face. “No. It’s not. I don’t have any idea what to say, but I’ll start with this. You listened to me when I had trouble. Maybe it’s my turn to listen for a while.”

He still owed her an apology. She deserved that apology, too. At the same time, just listening to his voice—she was lost. She missed him so much. She’d get her apology, but right now, he needed her help.

She heard his low, sardonic laughter at the other end of the phone. “We’re not at the therapist’s.”

“Do you want to go back to the show?”

He let out a long breath. “No. No, I don’t.” She heard two thumps as his shoes must have hit the hotel room floor. “Let me stretch out here.” Blankets rustled. “I’ll bet you’re coming up with some psychobabble bullshit that’s going to make it all better.”

“No. I’d like to think we’re still friends.”

“Friends, huh? That’s funny, Fifi.” The tone of his voice indicated he didn’t think it was funny at all. “If that’s what you want, though, we’ll go that route. Friends. I suppose this means I get to belch in front of you and complain about other women.”

“That’s up to you.” She felt like someone had slapped her in the face. Just imagining him with someone else made her want to scream with pain. She pulled the down blanket over her shoulders with her free hand. “Maybe you should tell me why you’re not sure you want to go back to your job.”

He was silent for so long Amy wondered if they’d been disconnected. “Matt?”

“I’m still here. I’m thinking.” She could hear him breathing. “To be truthful, I’m over it. I loved playing football. I’d still be playing if I could get out there and mix it up with the young bucks, but that’s not going to happen. I’m tired of talking about it. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life telling the same stories, interviewing guys I wouldn’t want to have a beer with in real life, and worrying about my Q rating when my contract’s up for negotiation. Football may have defined me in the past, but it doesn’t now.” He pulled breath into his lungs. “I’d like to do something that made a lasting impact, and I’m not talking about more endorsements.”

“Is there something you’ve been considering?”

“Yeah.” She heard him moving around on the bed. He must have sat up. He hit the speaker button on his phone. “Just a second.” She heard the hiss as he twisted the top off a bottle of carbonated drink. “By the way, I’m on alcohol restriction for another three days.”

“I don’t get what you’re talking about.”

“My daughter decreed I needed a punishment for my behavior. They made me promise them I wouldn’t drink alcohol for a week. I’m having some juice drink they got at the store right now.”

“You don’t have a drinking problem.”

“They’re concerned. The next time you go to the store, you might try the stuff. It’s a little sweet for me, but the blackberry flavor’s not too bad. Back to the subject. How long did it take you to decide you’d had enough of accounting?”