Page 68 of Last Slice of Pie

He frowns, breaks eye contact to look over my shoulder, and takes a minute to gather his thoughts.

“Cole had this way about him,” he says, almost like the admission is too much for him. “He was never physical with me, but verbally, he filled my head with a lot of shit for a lot of years. He knew I loved you.” He pauses to look back at me. “I don’t know how he knew, but he did, and I swear he made it his life’s mission to make me feel like I would never be good enough for you.”

“You have to know that’s not true—not at all.” I curl my fingers tightly around his.

“I don’t”—he lets out a sigh—“and I do at the same time. Because of him, I became this person who’s driven by success. Winning makes me feel worthy, and I needed to win to feel worthy of you. My singular goal all these years was to be perfect, to be the best. I always thought if I was perfect, I’d know true happiness. So, I focused, trained, and didn’t allow for any distractions, because once I did it, once I won, then I would be good enough . . . good enough for you.”

“But you hadn’t won yet, so what changed this year?”

“I thought this year was going to be the year. I just knew we were going to win. We were going to win the biggest game of them all, and because of that, I finally allowed myself to get the girl of my dreams.”

Girl of my dreams. It’s hard for me to wrap my head around this, but maybe not at the same time. There was never anyone else for me either, and all this time, I only wanted him. I could never free myself because I truly loved him.

“You don’t understand,” he says. “I’ve dreamed about this, us, for years—every detail. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“And yet, you could have had me, and I could have had you this whole time.” I look down at our hands, his so large, mine so small.

“I’m realizing that now, but the thing is, Lex, I like who I am. I like feeling the drive to do more, to be more. It makes me a better player, and it makes me a better leader for our team.”

“I’ve never asked you to change, and I never would. I love you just the way you are.”

“I know that. I just needed you to understand where it comes from and why it took me so long to come back to you. I’m sorry, and I’m even more sorry for what I said to you.”

“I know.”

“I do love you. A lot.” Both of his hands grasp my thighs, tugging me slightly toward him.

Reaching up, I cup his cheek, and he tilts his head while blinking those long eyelashes at me. “I know,” I tell him. “And I love you.”

He lets out a shaky breath, turns his head to kiss the center of my palm, and then looks back at me to say, “I love football, too.” His eyes are pleading for me to understand.

“I know that, I think more than anyone. I’ve never viewed it as a competition for your time. It’s always just been who you are. Does me making pies bother you?”

He pulls his face away and sits up straighter. “Never. I’m so proud of you.”

“And I’m proud of you.”

“This last month . . .” He shakes his head. “It won’t happen again, not ever.”

My eyebrows rise, and one side of his mouth quirks up.

“Don’t look at me like that. Yes, I know I’ll make mistakes, but I always learn from them, and I promise I’ll always make things right. I was coming for you, the minute the plane landed. I was prepared to beg, grovel, crawl through glass if I had to. I need you. I love you.”

“What about next year, and the year after that? I can’t go through this again. The stress, the media—I’m not built for this like you are.”

“I think by next year, with the time you and I will have had together between now and then, we’ll be in a different place, more settled. The media will have lost interest in us, and besides, we know it’s going to be hard, but we’ll be better prepared. I’m not going to lose you over this. I’ve worked too hard and waited too long.”

“So, what you’re saying is . . .” I look at him, my expression sheepish and devilish at the same time. “You don’t think my pies are poisonous?”

He lets out a snort but looks at me tenderly. “Quite the opposite, actually. I think your pies could save lives, at least they have mine.”

“Well, you know, food is love.”

“I’ll show you love.” Leaning over, his arms scoop around me as he drags me onto his lap. He buries his face in the crook of my neck and holds me as my heart beats in sync with his. I pull on his shirt, it slips free of his pants, and I run my hand underneath it to feel his skin. His muscles flutter at my touch.

“I love your hands on me,” he mumbles, dragging his lips over my chin, up to kiss the corner of my mouth. It’s a delicious sensation that has my stomach somersaulting in anticipation of what’s to come.

“Not as much as I love putting them on you,” I tell him, sliding them around his ribcage and up his back.