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He blinks and comes out of his trance. “Did I miss something?” Rylan asks, a wry smile on his face.
“No,” I answer. “I was just trying this on as a favor for Ashlyn.”
“Oh.” He finally looks at where Aubrey stands in front of him. “Declan’s outside.”
“I should change.”
I lift the bottom of the dress and walk to the changing room, feeling Rylan’s eyes on me the entire time. He’ll probably hightail it back to Chicago on the redeye tonight.
“Here’s your bride,” Alice announces Jean as I walk by.
“You look beautiful.” I place my hand on her arm. This time Jean is in an elegant lace dress that suits her perfectly.
All I can think of is Rylan’s eyes as I change out of the dress. How many times did I imagine how he would look at me as I walked down the aisle toward him? Now I have my answer. But I think I was better off imagining it, because I’ll never forget those hazel eyes for the rest of my life. And I know that if any other set of eyes is waiting for me at the end of the aisle, it just won’t feel right.
Twenty-Four
Rylan
With three minutes left in Calista’s game, my heart was beating out of my chest. Not because the game was close. Calista had scored two of the three goals and the other team hadn’t made one. Everyone knew the game was over, but still her coach kept his starting lineup on the field. Their season was close to ending and he probably felt like he couldn’t chance a loss, although it would’ve taken a miracle for the other team to come back.
I put my hand in my pocket for the millionth time since I’d arrived, making sure there wasn’t a hole in my pants and the ring hadn’t slid out. Everything was planned for that night after her game. The fact that the game had gone so well for her made it even more perfect for a proposal.
I watched her run down the field, and her footwork amazed me. Over the years, she’d grown as a player and her confidence amazed me. She was going for the goal when another player got behind her and stuck her foot between Calista’s legs to kick the ball, but they both went down, legs twisted together. Calista cried out in pain and didn’t get up.
My heart hammered, and I ran down the aisle of stadium seats and jumped the barrier, running out onto the field.
My first concern was that she might have a gash on her. Calista was diagnosed with Von Willebrand Disease when she was younger and since it’s a blood clotting disorder, she had to be really careful whenever she cut herself.
The assistant coaches tried to keep me back, but I was faster and beat everyone but the medical staff to her. She was in tears, biting her lip in pain, but I didn’t see any blood.
“Calista,” I said, running my hand over her forehead.
“My leg. My knee.” Tears fell from her eyes.
I couldn’t describe it, but when our gazes locked, it was as though we both knew. We’d find out later that Calista’s leg had bent to the right and her entire knee was shattered.
I rode in the ambulance with her, waited during her MRIs and scans, listened to the doctors tell us her road to recovery. They gave her a slim chance of playing again, but luckily, we were in Chicago where some of the best surgeons were. Surgery was riskier for her than most people because of her clotting disorder but she come out of it fine.
The first eight months, she was still my Calista—unwilling to accept defeat. She’d prove them wrong. I helped her every way I could, but the harder it was for her, the more she stopped coming to my games. The more I’d come home to a dark condo. One hiccup after another in her recovery, and I felt her resentment grow every time I left to go to practice or a game. We were fighting over the stupidest shit like who didn’t replace the milk or who left the clothes in the washer. I found myself staying out later after practice, even if it meant hanging out at the coffee place across the street. I’d come home when I knew she’d already be asleep.
Finally, the doctors sat us down and said that she couldn’t trust her knee under the stress of playing soccer at a competitive level. She didn’t cry, and when I reached for her hand, she pulled it away. Looking back, I thought that was when she decided that she was done with me, even if she didn’t say the words. She nodded, thanked them, and walked out of the room.
“Nothing?” I asked the doctor.
“I’m sorry. But the injury will consistently prove to be challenging and put her in pain, and more than likely she’ll be sitting on the injured list year after year.”
I thanked the doctor and naively hoped this would be a fresh start for us. That maybe now that we knew she wouldn’t play, we could move on. Although I had no idea what I would do if I had been given that news. Thinking back on it, I was a selfish asshole who just wanted her to get over it so we could go back to being us.
Aubrey and Declan came to visit one weekend, and Calista and I argued so much that I ended up at a bar with Declan while Aubrey stayed home with Calista, which was now her favorite place—our bed without me in it.
One day, I opened up my drawer and stared at the diamond while it shined under the light and briefly thought maybe a wedding would give her something to do and make her happy. A new purpose in life. We could have kids without the confines of her training and traveling for games. She walked into the room, and I shut the drawer.
“I want us to go back home for the off-season.” She sat on the bed.
“This is our home.”
“You know what I mean.”
