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I look around the field and take in all he has done. The renovated stadium. The athletes scouted from all over the world. A devoted mid-sized fan base cheering from the bleachers. My stomach sinks, uncertainty crawling about in my gut. It’s so beautiful here and yet somehow it’s not perfect.
And I realize these feelings aren’t mine: they’re Andrew’s. There is no room in him for anything less than perfection. I gaze up at his ruggedly handsome face and it dawns on me the answer isn’t going to be found on the field. It’s going to be found within Andrew Courtland. Over-achiever. Perfectionist. Second-guesser.
Suddenly I’m dying to know if I can crack open the wound that broke him, the same way I cracked open Dylan’s. I sleep with him that night. The first time we have sex is nice. When I close my eyes I can almost imagine Dylan.
Andrew’s a considerate lover, well aware that a girl has needs. The second time we have sex is about helping him relax, getting him to let down his guard. But the third time I do what I did with Dylan. I tell him when and how he can touch me.
I call the shots during these healing sessions. There’s no kissing or touching without my consent. I ask the questions and he answers. I compare his responses to the feelings that rise up in me. His sadness weighs on my shoulders. His heaviness carves my heart. And I feel his bitter belief within me. Spot the dirty thread at the bottom of his lovely, second-guessing soul. No matter what he does, no matter how hard he works at anything he does, Andrew doesn’t believe he is good enough.
“You can kiss me, Andrew. Now.”
He does.
“Touch my breasts, Andrew.”
He fondles my tits like he’s a teenager and they’re the first breasts he’s ever felt. “That feels good. See how my nipple pebbles under your touch? You’re so hot. I have a question for you. Tell me how why you’re not good enough.”
“I shouldn’t have sold the company. I must have fallen short or corporate wouldn’t have hired the ringer from Cleveland. Let me fuck you, Evelyn.”
“Not yet.” I run a hand through his short blonde hair. With my other hand I trace my fingers down his abdomen and brush back and forth just inches away from his erection.
He moans. “Why not?”
“Because we’ve got a ways to go.” I place my hand over his heart because this feels like the source of the poison. I need to touch him here. I visualize tugging on that toxic thread, coaxing it out from where it’s hiding deep inside him. I pull it to me inch by inch. “Tell me more about falling short. Where else have you fallen short in life?”
“Do we have to talk about this, Evie?”
“Yes.”
Days pass. He takes me out on his boat. We go to a party at the yacht club. We hit more ballgames and I meet the players. We end up back in bed and I question him. Each twinge of pain he’s carrying rolls through me. He’s desperate to do all the right things.
I place my hand on his heart and feel the bitter belief, the wound within him. The thread turns into a cord. I think it’s all going to come out so easily. Like excising an encapsulated tumor. But the tumor isn’t encapsulated. Its roots are terrified with angry tendrils that fire up when they realize their existence is threatened. Andrew’s fear isn’t going to leave easily. It fights back.
“Why are we playing this game, Evie?” Andrew asks. “I didn’t fly you down to Florida to play a stupid game.”
“If you wanted regular sex you could have a hired a local girl to suck your cock for a fraction of what Ma Maison charged you,” I say, and run a finger over his lips. “Listen to me. Do this my way, please.”
“Fine,” he grumbles.
Andrew doesn’t want to let go of the old, doesn’t want to release what has worked for him up until recently. But my resolve is firm. We play a game of tug of war and I refuse to let go when that wound slides through my hands. I don’t let go when it burns and tries to suck itself back into the abyss and disappear. I hold tight until we get down to the nitty-gritty. Until we circle closer and closer to the messed up belief that is his undoing. “Do you want to keep working for these people?” I ask. “Is managing this team that important to you?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “Part of me wants to quit this job. Part of me wanted to quit it before I even sold the company.”
Interesting. “What do you want to do instead?” I run my hands up and down his body, lightly running my palm over his hard dick.
“You’re killing me, Evie.”
“What do you want to do instead?”
“I want to spend time with family,” he says and moans. My parents are getting older. My daughter’s growing up so fast.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“I’ve been doing this for fifteen years. I’m a hard worker. I’m not a quitter.”
“You always will be a hard worker, whatever you do.”
“Not true. When things get tough I quit. I quit visiting my grandmother when she went into a home. I quit my marriage. What if at the end of the day I’m just a guy who quits when the going gets tough?”
