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Maxon nods. “He’s too much like Dad in all the worst ways.”
“But I think maybe you can make her happy,” Griff says. “I’ve seen Harlow with boyfriends and lovers over the years. I’ve never seen her quite as in tune with one as she seems to be with you. There’s something between you two. And frankly, if she didn’t feel something for you, she would have given zero fucks about Mercedes Fleet and told you to shove your marriage proposal on the spot.”
He’s right. That whole paying attention to what Harlow doesn’t say works foreverythingshe’s hiding, not just her secrets.
“Exactly,” Maxon seconds. “And if sex brought you together, keep giving it to her, man. Don’t give Harlow too much time to catch her breath. Or think.”
I choke on my sip of beer.
“Never give her space,” Griff agrees with a nod. “With a woman like her, you have to stay one step ahead.”
Finally I manage to swallow. “She won’t like me in her face all the time.”
“You’re right. That’s not what I mean.” Maxon shakes his head and scoffs. “Just focus on keeping her sated and smiling. Because as much as the Reeds are allergic to emotion, they’re addicted to sex.”
I’m totally happy with that approach. I have the upper hand in bed. So if I can make that advantage work in my favor, then hell yeah. It’s on. And I’ll do my best to pleasure her into saying yes.
* * *
On Friday afternoon, I’m having trouble sitting across from Harlow in the home office. She’s scanning her notes, absently piling her dark hair in a loose topknot and securing it with a pencil. The red bikini top she wore when we first met cradles her lush breasts. A moment later, she stands, and the flowing floral sarong around her hips emphasizes everything about her that’s both delicate and curvy. I barely notice when she opens a thick tome, flips through, her brows knitting in a frown of concentration.
Even after getting out with the girls on Tuesday, she’s distant. Maxon and Griff said their wives got zero information out of Harlow except a polite clap after Keeley finished singing. Harlow successfully dodged me most of Wednesday for meetings with some local therapists. On Thursday, we completed the assessment we hadn’t earlier in the week. This morning, I had a TV interview with a local station on behalf of a nearby food bank. If it hadn’t been for the generosity of others after my dad died, I might not have had three meals a day. I give faithfully and encourage others to do the same. After that, I had to run an important errand that required me to make a few phone calls so I could have a little privacy.
Finally home, I sit across from Harlow and watch her, wondering what the devil that woman is thinking under her studious facade.
“Baby?”
Head stuck in a book, she holds up a finger. “Almost done. I want to get this right since I know we’re working against the clock.”
She’s not wrong about that. Cliff called me again yesterday to update me on the Mercedes Fleet situation. The woman wants me to acknowledge her baby and pay child support. I’ve refused. The news is still making waves on social media and in the sports world. My agent wants me to accept the deal before the network retracts it. I can’t until I know whether I’ll actually be able to fulfill the role. But I want the job so bad. I love football. I want to stay in the game however I can. Not to relive my glory days. I was never into that. This sport is in my blood. I know these players. I understand how the game is played better than most. I think NFL fans are the best, most loyal people. I’m not ready to walk away from any of it.
A few minutes later, Harlow sets the book aside. She sits across from me, clasps her hands, and levels a serious look my way. “Here’s what I’ve come up with. You ready?”
“As I’ll ever be.” But am I? My stomach knots. Sure, her diagnosis could fill in the gaps, help me understand so I can move forward. This information might also terrify me with how hopeless my situation is.
“You might have some residual lapses in speech following your last concussion. I’m not discounting that possibility,” she says. “I think it’s more likely, however, that because you lost your ability to speak for a short time after your injury, you associate it with being unable to play the game any longer. That’s a source of anxiety for you. And because of that, you found it hard to announce your retirement at your post-Super Bowl interview. The fact that you were unable to filled you with more anxiety, and something in your head clicked. The association was set. So when you get into tense situations, you have the disconnect between your brain and your mouth. It works the same with being really tired because I’m guessing that after the Super Bowl you were exhausted.”
“You think I’m crazy?” That’s what she’s come up with?
She finally cracks a smile and looks at me with soft understanding. “No. And you’re not defective, either. Nearly forty million Americans suffer with some form of anxiety, so you’re hardly alone. I suspect your anxiety is a post-traumatic thing. It wasn’t so much the concussion that disturbed you as it was your inability to speak afterward. Am I right?”
“Yeah.”
“So that’s it. When you start to experience anxiety, you associate the loss of speech with that, so the symptom kicks in. When you’re calm and rested, it doesn’t happen.”
I get what she’s saying but… “So you do think I’m crazy?”
“No,” she assures, taking my hand.
It’s the most contact we’ve had in days. I clutch her fingers in mine.
“What I think is that the loss of your career was something you weren’t prepared for. Coupled with your injuries, which caused the problem, your anxiousness about the changes in your life are manifesting in this way. I’ve suspected this for a while, but I wanted to validate my thoughts, so my professors helped me to reach out to some people, a few even local, so I could get different perspectives. This is pretty much the consensus.” Harlow rises and comes around the desk, never releasing my hand, before she sidles up to me and curls herself in my lap. “What this means is, we should experiment with ways to keep your anxiety and stress levels down—exercise, diet, meditation—that sort of thing. If we can’t control it with those methods, we look at psychotherapy or medication. We search for what works.”
I pull her into my arms and hold her close, closing my eyes to let her words sink in. I’m overwhelmed. It sounds as if this process won’t be overnight. What if it takes months—or years—to work? I don’t have that long. I need results now. “I’m not ready to turn down the job.”
I’m barely able to get the words out. I feel both hot and frozen. The world is quaking beneath me, but I’m utterly unable to move.
“It’s way too early for you to do that. And if the network job won’t work for you, maybe you continue to cover football in writing. You’ll find a way. But you’re going to be fine. We’ll work to keep improving your response, see if we can disassociate the stress with your loss of speech. I don’t know how. This isn’t my exact area of expertise, but I’m here.” She meets my gaze. “And I’m sorry I tried to run out on you last week. We have an agreement, and I’m committed to helping you however I can.”
