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The former me would’ve stayed quiet, wouldn’t have caused a ripple. Everything’s changed now, however. “I can’t do this anymore.” His head turns swiftly in my direction, something strongly resembling fear crosses his face and his body braces. “I can’t live day in and day out with someone that is about as pleasant as a nest of riled up hornets. Life’s too frigging short!”
He squirms a little in his seat. His expression turns pensive, the lines of anger on his face going smooth. After blowing out a deep breath, very quietly, he says, “I’m sorry…I’ve got a lot on my mind lately.”
Wow. I mean, wow. An apology? A genuine one? And he just admitted I wasn’t the instrument of his pain. Maybe there’s hope for him yet. “What are you stressed about?” Helping people, if it’s in my power, is an instinct I cannot curb or deny. That will never change. If he wants to talk to someone about it, I’m a great listener––except I really don’t expect him to answer.
“For one thing, my contract expires after this season.”
More honesty. It’s official––hell has frozen over. “You’re in your prime and you had a top five total QBR last year.”
He glances briefly at me. By the look on his face, I think it’s to make sure I’m the one that spoke those words, and not some other random person who has somehow hitched a ride with us in the last ten seconds.
“You watch football?”
Should I be offended? Not only am I big fan of professional football, I can recite stats as well as any dude. I watch all three days of the draft and check Bleacher Report every couple of days for breaking news. This, he does not need to know because I’ve never been a big fan of the Titans, or him for that matter, and I have a tiny suspicion that he may take this as a personal insult. When I give him a sly smile, his brows lower in understanding.
“Whose jersey do you own?”
“That’s for me to know and for you to wonder about,” I say, chuckling at his annoyed expression.
“Top three,” corrects Mr. Modesty.
“Under Brady,” I counter. His face scrunches up in mock anger.
“The year before he was two bellow me.” I laugh at this. I laugh. Holy cow, we’re actually laughing together. Well––technically he’s not laughing. But there is a ghost of a smile on his face. And it feels good. So damn good.
I glance his way and his face has transformed. Even with the beard, he looks much younger when he lets go of all that angst. Brooding intensity is only sexy on a man if your own life isn’t filled with shit that makes you broody and intense.
“Are you really worried? You’ve won a Super Bowl and appeared in another, you’ve been voted league MVP I don’t know how many times…you’re indispensable to this team.”
Taking his eyes off the road again, he turns to look at me. I notice that his handsome face wears gravity well. Yes, handsome. For the first time, I get a glimpse of it.
“Nobody’s indispensable,” he says quietly. A meaningful silence hangs between us.
“Calvin.” His name sounds pleasant on my lips––and strangely familiar. He makes a humming noise and his smoky grey eyes hold mine. “I don’t want to be at odds with you. I’ve had my fair share of crap this year and I...” What am I trying to say? Take mercy on me?
“I get it,” he says. “I don’t mean to pile on.”
“I’ll be out of your hair soon enough. Can we call a truce?”
“Yeah,” he says, nodding slowly. After that, a comfortable silence settles between us. I find myself smiling the rest of the ride home. As we pull into the driveway, Calvin’s the one to break the silence.
“I have a thing, a team sponsored event coming up on Saturday. Do you think Sam would like to go?”
“I think he’d love it if you asked him. He worships you, you know.” Still no smile. “I’ll go see my parents.”
“You don’t want to come?” he casually asks, more like a question framed as a statement.
When I don’t answer right away because I’m SHOCKED, he takes that as a no. “It’s fine.” He’s already mad. Good Lord, this guy is wound tight.
“Jeez, give me a chance to answer. I’m just getting used to you not growling the question.” His lips want to curve up. I know they do. Making this guy smile is becoming a worthwhile pursuit. That’s why I answer, “I’d love to come.”
Around lunchtime, Shaw makes an appearance. That seems to be happening more and more lately. We’ve reached a fragile detente in our tolerate/hate relationship. I don’t even bother to ask. I place some of my looks-fried-but-it’s-really-baked-chicken on a plate along with fresh grilled vegetables and roasted Yukon potatoes sprinkled with rosemary, and set it down next to Sam in the hope that these two males might relax around each other over a good meal.
