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I continue before he can interrupt, “I like my life here. It’s quiet, peaceful.” I’m going to hate myself for saying this because it is such a dick thing to say. “Even though we have lines we can’t cross, I don’t want you out of my life completely—”
He cuts me off, looking at me with such ferocious passion in his eyes, “Nikki, please don’t use the phrase that we can still be friends—unless friends to you means kissing, cuddling, watching late-night movies, and having sex…lots of sex. I will be your friend, Little Dove, but you will be more to me.”
I want to say so much right now. I want to say, Fuck Trey; let him find me, and take the risk. I want to let myself have one goddamn good thing in my life for once. I want so much in life that I can’t have, and I don’t know that I ever will be able to have them.
But instead, I reach across the console, grab his face in my hands, pull him over to me, and kiss his cheek, holding it for longer than I probably should. “Thank you for everything, Cam.” I offer the best smile I can, although I know it resembles more of a frown.
His eyes light up for only a second. “You called me Cam.”
I have to leave before I do anything reckless. “Good night, Cam. I hope you have a safe flight.”
As I close the door, I smile genuinely for the moments we did share. Ones that I will certainly cherish.
10
Cam
Another win for the books. We beat the Elmont Eagles, one of the other New York teams, three to one. Which means we are heading to End Zone next to celebrate the win.
I have never wanted to skip a night out more than tonight. At the very least, I want to bring someone with me—a certain someone who’s in Minnesota.
Brett and I make the short drive back to our place, change, and leave immediately for the bar. I slipped on a black hoodie, gray joggers, and a Nighthawks cap, placing it backward on my head.
I meet Brett in the living room, and his face is locked on to his phone.
“Ready?” I ask him as I pull my phone out of my pocket.
“Oh, yeah. I’m more than ready.” He smiles, and I have an idea of why he is so excited.
Brett finally got out of a toxic relationship with his now ex-girlfriend of two years and is having fun getting over her by bringing home a different girl almost every night.
I follow Brett out and unlock my phone, pulling up my texts, specifically Nikki’s. We’ve been talking almost daily—well, maybe that’s a lie. I have talked to her daily since I left. In the middle of the night is usually when the thought of her lingers the most. Typically, I am waking from a nightmare, and I swear I can smell her in the room. Like sweet berries, mixed with vanilla.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m usually good at keeping emotions out of all of my relationships of any kind. Aside from my teammates, of course. But I can’t shake her. She’s like a sickness that’s spreading through my body and taking over. Part of me is terrified, and part of me never wants to beat this cold.
In the mornings, I send her a text, often accompanied by a photo of myself in bed with messy hair so she can see what I would look like if she woke up by my side. On practice days, I shoot her a text afterward, either of me sweaty in my gear or in a towel, wet after a shower.
This is the first game I’ve had since last weekend, since I left her. Part of me wants to send her a selfie and say I wish she were here. But that sounds like the most douchebag line I could possibly send her.
So, instead, I wait until we arrive at the bar, End Zone, and I text her and attach a pic of the team huddled around the counter, getting their first drink.
Me: Just beat the Eagles’ ass. It would have been a better win with you in the crowd to cheer me on. You name the game, and the tickets are yours.
I hit Send before I can stop myself, and once it is mark Delivered, I get nervous, like a little schoolgirl waiting to see if her crush marked yes or no on a note. Three dots appear, and I wait for a response. The dots always appear for longer than a technical difficulty, but they always disappear eventually. This time is no different.
When they disappear, I shove my phone in my pocket, feeling vulnerable and defeated. I want to know why she won’t answer, why she’s so afraid. I want to know what caused the scars on her body, the reason she is so blocked off. I want to know everything. But I can’t do that if I can’t even get a text back.
“Double whiskey sour, please,” I ask the waitress when she meets my eyes.
“Coming right up.” She pops the P.
Within a minute, she returns with my drink and slides it across the counter with a napkin underneath it. I can see something written on the napkin. I ignore it.
“Eight dollars,” she hums with hooded eyes.
I hand her my card. “Open tab, please.”
“You got it, babe,” she says, and I’m already over the advances of women tonight.
