Winning Pass - A Football Romance (5 page)

T
his is goddamn near-ridiculous
. Never in my life have I given a damn about my clothes or how I look, but now, I'm standing here in this closet and still can't figure out what the hell I want to wear.

I
sn’t
that supposed to be a woman thing? Because it’s damn sure not an Elijah Witter thing. I'm ready to punch a hole through this wall before I finally settle on a gray T-shirt and some jeans. It's a little snug on me, but I guess I will have to do.
Why was that so hard?

I
try
to clean myself up some, at the very least, washing my face off and brushing my teeth. God knows, the girl doesn't want me to breathe on her face on accident and her die from sheer funk. I frown as I look in the mirror, almost wishing I had time to get a quick haircut. My hair is all shaggy and not at all it’s usual short cut, plus, I’m pretty sure that even after taking a quick shower, my pits still smell like day-old hangover.

I
lift my arms up
, doing a quick sniff test, and decide to throw on some extra deodorant just in case.
Damn, dude, you're going just a bit overboard here. You don't have to shave for no one, not even Paige Sullivan. And if she doesn't like it, she can get the hell over it.

I
take
my time going down the steps, wondering what I should possibly expect, but the doorbell rings and I almost run back up. Okay, maybe I'm being dramatic here, but it feels too real.

B
ut somehow
, I manage to make it over to the door, with the doorknob in hand. I stop.

You can do this, man. All you’ve got to do is just let her into the house, talk for a minute, see how she's been practically her whole life, and then go from there. More than likely, she'll take one look at you and roll her eyes, coming up with some excuse for why she has to bail on you. Maybe it'll save you the humiliation of having to stutter your way through a conversation with her, but it could be for the best. You can do it.

I
t's not
the exact pre-game pep talk I give myself, but it works enough, and the doorknob turns in my hand without my hesitating. For the briefest of moments, I think to myself how ironic it would be if I were to open the door and it be the delivery guy or something after getting all amped up to see Paige again.

T
hat's not
how it goes down, though, and when I open the door, it’s her face I see first. Her long, red hair is pulled to the side, similar to how she used to wear it but different at the same time. Her big blue eyes are open wide, probably taking me in one step at a time as I'm doing with her. My eyes follow down the rest of her face, and I find it hard to pull myself away from it. Her lips are full and a pretty light pink color, surrounded by the same freckles I remember.

I
t's
her face that pulls me back in time, and then it's like I'm watching one of those cool little flipbooks with memories scribbled across each page. Paige laughing at a frog we found in the woods. Rolling her eyes at me over something dumb I've said. Paige crying to herself after her sister has said something mean to her. Paige looking up at me from the lower tree branch, looking so sad for me at my mother's funeral.

I
t's gone in an instant
, and it's as if her face has aged right in front of me into this insanely beautiful version of herself.

A
nd that’s just
her face, so when I let my eyes travel down the rest of her, I'm in for a world of surprise.

P
aige is definitely
all
woman
. These thoughts that I've only had about her as a teenager start rolling in on this insane wave of crazy, and I have to stop them before they take hold of me.
This is Paige, motherfucker. You can't just take her inside and bang her up against the back of the door just because she’s wicked sexy. That’s not how this works.

H
er curves are perfectly accented
by what she's wearing, a white, lacy tank top with some of those short denim pants—what do they call those? Oh yeah, capris. It's simple but effective enough to draw my eyes into the bountiful cleavage that she's modestly trying to cover up.

And then I look back at her eyes, and I can tell that she’s slightly embarrassed, catching me staring at her tits.
For fuck’s sake, Elijah, get a grip!

I
swallow hard
. "Uh, Hi. It's nice to see you."

I
'm
the biggest asshole on the planet, obviously. I can't even manage to mumble a coherent sentence, which usually isn't an issue. I rarely speak, and when I do, it's usually something well-thought out. Not this bullshit.

P
aige softly laughs
, pushing hair back behind her ear. "Okay. It’s nice to see you too, Elijah."

I
don't expect
my name to cross her lips, but when it does, it's like a shock to my very bones. I think of the last time I heard her say my name when I walked away from her for good. ‘Course, I didn't really think it was for good back then. I tried to pretend that I would see her later on that day. Fuck, even now, those memories still hurt like a bitch.

I
move
past for her to walk inside behind me, and when I turn to shut the door and get a glance at her from behind, I’m
very
satisfied with what I see. It's ridiculous, but I have to quickly think of standing in the sweaty locker room, getting changed in front of all the other dudes on my team, to keep myself from getting a hard-on. Embarrassed, I reach behind and massage my neck, unsure of what to say next.

P
aige turns around
, and again, I'm struck by her beautiful shape, the curves everywhere that lead to places I can only imagine. And believe me, though I don't mean to, try as I might, I'm
definitely
imagining. A funny little thought occurs to me. I bet Jessie probably shit her pants when Paige went to school that one year rocking all
those
curves.

P
aige stands there
, bouncing up and down her heels and glancing around my house. "Wow, I guess the NFL pays pretty well, huh?"

I
t's so unexpected
that I have to laugh. "Yeah, you could say that. I mean, I'm not big on fancy houses or anything, but it does the job, I guess."

S
he nods
along with me slowly, looking everywhere but directly at me. I know it's ridiculous, but part of me wishes she would just look at me.

W
e both stand there awkwardly
, trying to think of what to say next, and then, of course, in true Elijah and Paige fashion, we both start running our mouths at the same time. The only time I've ever been full of words to say is with Paige in the room.

"
S
o it's been
a long time—"

"
H
ow have you been
?"

W
e both pause
, and Paige bites her lip as I try not to laugh again. Dammit, why does this have to be so weird?

"
Y
ou didn't write
me back." Oh, for fuck’s sake, is that
really
going to be the first thing that I bring up with her?

P
aige’s smile falters
, and I immediately regret even bringing it up. "What was that?"

I
lick
my dry lips and force myself not to look anywhere else but at her eyes. "You didn't write me back. When I moved. I wrote you back after you sent me your first letter, and . . . that was it. I never heard back from you again."

S
he draws
her eyebrows together and looks away. "That's not how it went, but okay."

I expect her to say something else, to give me something else, but she just stands there, still bouncing on her feet.

M
aybe this is a bad idea
. There are so many things that I could say, but I won’t let myself, not if she won't even at least fess up and explain why she did what she did. Hell, maybe I'm just being stupid about this whole thing. I mean, I don't know her, not really. She's probably completely changed, and why wouldn't she have? Everyone does. I know I have. There's no way she could be the same girl that I . . . cared for. So maybe I should just stop pretending as if I actually know her or something.

I
can tell
by looking in her eyes that she's thinking the same thing.

"
I
. . . came here thinking I was maybe going to . . . I don't know, really. I don't know why I came here. This should be so easy, but it isn't. And I guess I didn't expect that. I did want to make sure you were okay, though, and that you're happy. You seem like you have a pretty good life now, and it's nice to know that you're doing well. I . . ." She trails off, bringing her hands out in front of her. She looks so concerned that I have to hold back from reaching out and touching her. Part of me just wants to make sure she's even real to begin with.

S
he looks
over her shoulder at the staircase, and that's when I see it. I'm standing close enough to her now. Somehow, getting closer to her is easier than standing still. But I see something that always intrigued me about Paige—what I used to refer to as the
Paige Constellation
. There is a cluster of larger freckles on her left shoulder, and I can see half of them next to the strap of her top, peeking out and reminding me of the first time I saw them.

W
e were swimming
at the pool, and I had never paid attention until Paige accidentally knocked into me when she cannonballed in, almost knocking my front teeth out. She felt so bad, and when she helped pulled me out of the water, I noticed in my daze that she had a group of freckles that looked like a pretty constellation in the sky at night, not really forming a picture but still looking super cool all the same. "
We'll call it the Paige Constellation
," I had said to her, still nursing a lump on my head.

I
knew
, even at twelve years old, that how I felt about Paige was different than anyone else in the world. I had a couple of good friends besides her, guy friends that would occasionally rip on me for even hanging out with Paige in the first place. But I knew deep down that there was a reason. That feeling starts to flood into this moment, rising up like an unwanted tide inside me. It's of sense of overwhelming curiosity and amazement with her, and I force it back down where it came from.

I
'm being a fucking fool
, sitting here and reminiscing like it's going to make a difference or something. Clearly, things are different now, and I just need to chill out with this chick shit.

Because I don't do love. I'm married to the game.

O
kay
, so this is not going as I had hoped. Call me a hopeless romantic, but I thought there was a small chance that maybe Elijah would see me and everything would come back, and we would instantly fall in love with each other. I've read enough romance novels and watched enough made-for-TV movies to know that this is what is
supposed
to happen.

Instead of that happening, though, we’re both standing here like two idiots, fumbling around and throwing odd thoughts out as if it's supposed to form some sort of conversation. Elijah mentions something about the letters, and even though I want to get to that point pretty quickly myself, I can't help wondering if that's the only thing he's taking away from this. Is he angry at me? Does he even have a right to be?

"Maybe I should just go," I say halfheartedly, hoping that maybe he'll pull me back and give me a reason to stay. But this is real life, and that's not how it works, so he doesn't. He just stands there like he doesn't understand English.

I take the first few steps until we’re on equal level—me standing slightly off to his left—and then I keep walking, clutching my purse tightly against my side. This has got to be the most awkward and humiliating experience I've had in a long time. I would hate to know what he's thinking right about now.

As I’m walking to the door, a flash of something catches my eye. The light from the huge, expensive chandelier is reflecting off a glass display bookcase, throwing prisms all over the doorway.

I raise my brow, scanning the books in an instant. He has many classics, some of my own favorites, actually, plus some that I've never read before. That’s not even the best part—it’s that they all look like they’re first editions. I bite my lip. I definitely did not expect this.

I change my direction and stand in front of the bookcase, quietly admiring everything I see. Poems by Longfellow, Frost, Joyce. Novels by Fitzgerald, Steinbeck, and Wilde. Even a few classic children’s books like
The Wizard of Oz
. As impressive as these rarities are, nothing prepares me for what I see next. In the middle of the shelves, on a shelf of its own, is a tattered, very old copy of
The Secret Garden
. There’s a sharp intake of breath behind me that sends chills across my skin.

It's the very same book that I read to Elijah, with Elijah, and helped teach him how to read better with. And if I didn't know any better . . .

"This is the actual book. This is
the
book I gave you, isn't it?"

Elijah's at my side before I realize, and he watches my expression carefully. "Yes. It's the same one."

Never in my dreams had I imagined that Elijah Simmons, of all people, would grow up to be what looks like a book collector. I remember how he used to get so angry at himself trying to mentally flip letters the right way as he read back to me. I had done my own bit of research through the encyclopedias to find out how dyslexia worked and how to help a dyslexic person overcome it, and that weekend, when I read it all, I couldn't help but cry to myself, wondering how miserable Elijah has probably felt ever since he learned how to read. We spent that whole summer mainly reading this book, although there were a few others too. Something about
The Secret Garden
stuck out to Elijah, though, and when he had the choice to pick, which was pretty often, he always chose it over the others.

Everyone who knows me knows how big of a book worm I am. It hurt to think that he had such a hard time when it came so naturally for me. I thought he hated books. But maybe I was wrong.

I pause, wondering why he's had this specific copy all these years. There’s nothing extraordinary about it, nothing that really stands out as a keepsake. And here I thought he threw it out the first chance he got. I smile to myself, but I can't bring myself to look up at him, wishing I knew what to say.

Elijah is really quiet, to the point where I eventually have to look up to make sure he’s still standing there.

"It was rough, you know? I mean, I know that
you
know, because you saw me and what I had to deal with. That book always did something to me. Like it was telling me I had to keep trying. You’re the reason I know how to read, even if it's still kinda hard every now and then. I know I probably never thanked you because I was a dumb boy who didn’t know any better, so thank you."

His words are low, almost a mumble, but they echo in my head as if he's yelled them. He's right, actually, now that I think about it. He never did say thank you, but then again, I never expected him to.

"That's what friends are for." And as I say it, I realize at the same time that just because we've been separated for so long, it doesn't mean that we can't at least try to bring back the friendship we were so lucky enough to have.

And when Elijah gives me a small, watered-down version of that grin that I so dearly loved, I can't help flashing my own smile back at him. It's strained between us right now, but even if nothing is to come from our meeting, I will at least know that he appreciated everything I tried to do for him, and that it helped him kind of become who he is now.

I look away because it feels so intense to keep smiling at him when he's this damn close to me. I know I'm not pretending or imagining it when I feel the familiarity start to take shape again between us. I almost skitter backward, overwhelmed by Elijah's presence. Nothing could have possibly prepared me for meeting him in real life again.

He's intense on so many levels, from the way his eyes seem to see right through me, to the way his jaw is set when he looks so serious. It reminds me of those moments when I would see that side of him when we were kids. And I was rarely ever serious unless I was crying about somebody hurting my feelings. Which, unfortunately, was more than I would've liked to admit.

I always tried to keep everything light and happy between us, because if at least one of us were cheerful enough, it would bring the other back to better spirits too.

But this is a different type of serious look, one where I can see the wheels spinning in his head. I'm not sure how he feels about our little reunion here, but I'm glad that I made the decision to show up. I'm proud of myself, especially considering all the hoops I've had to jump through to accept myself for who I am.

Elijah looks like he's about to say something, but he stops, scratching at the scruff on his face. His dark eyebrows furl together, and he looks at me, almost sheepishly. "I don't suppose you want to maybe go out for dinner tomorrow? I mean, if you don't have any plans already, that is. We could . . . catch up." And yet again, Elijah has taken me by complete surprise.

"Sure," I say without even realizing it. Because, come on, what else was I going to say? "I’d really like that." Of course, I should be thinking about the fact that I'm supposed to be flying back home early the morning after next, but at this point, it doesn't matter. Screw it all. I'm going on a—dare I say it—dinner date with Elijah.