Chapter 18

Lincoln

I stare at my ceiling, the heating pad cranked up to high beneath me. The cold weather irritates my shoulder, making the joint feel three times my age on a good day. Across the hall, something slams against the wall. Candance is over, and they’re either having a fight or angry sex—regardless, I’ve been too distracted to decipher, my thoughts preoccupied with spinning intricate webs about the future. A future with me wearing a suit and working twelve-hour days for whichever company pays me the most—morals and ethics be damned. I imagine a future where my secretary runs more than my schedule at work but my personal life as well, knowing to order Christmas cards I’ll only see long enough to approve and gifts for my future wife and kids that will grow more gregarious and expensive with time, not because I’ll be profiting more but because the fractures and guilt will be so vast it will require a ferry to cross the other side. I know because I watched my father live this life. It wasn’t only the fact that his home life was a failure that has kept me from wanting to follow in his footsteps; it’s just a reminder that I have no interest in pursuing a legal career where you sell your soul to the highest bidder and constantly seek excuses and loopholes until you no longer see right from wrong but simply a bidding war.

Thoughts of my wife hating me, having faceless children I don’t know from kids I watch on TV, celebrating another win that blindly steals another piece of my humanity becomes a blinding realization and a chaotic mess in my head. I roll to my side in an attempt to slow the whizzing thoughts and reach for my phone. I’m desperate for a distraction. Stacey. She was the last person to enter her number into my phone, and I vividly recall her taking a picture of her cleavage to assign to her number. It wasn’t the classiest move, but it made her unforgettable nonetheless. It also clearly stated her intentions, preventing me from feeling one iota of guilt as I flip on my screen with the intent to scroll through my contacts.

A half dozen icons along the top of my screen call on my OCD tendencies, demanding I clear them first.

A missed call from Dad.

Clear.

Social media alerts.

Clear.

Unwanted solicitations in my email.

Delete.

Five text messages from three different senders. My thumb hovers over the notification, debating whether I ignore them or see if someone’s already making an offer.

I clear them away, too, moving on to my contacts.

‘That’s what the A’s are for.’

Raegan’s words plague me as I cross into the C’s, making my muscles tighter. I want to hit something. I want to hit someone. I want to be out on the field and take out every last person until there’s no one left standing. It’s a dream I’ve had for years, one that makes little sense considering I’ve always played offense and am always the one trying to outrun the person trying to tackle me.

I stop on Raegan’s name, seeing the aging thread between us. My teasing insinuations, her clear determent. I think of seeing her the other day when she’d arrived home after pulling in the fishing net, wet and dirtied, her hair pulled back and her face clear of makeup. Her eyes were so damn big. I knew the second she stepped inside that something was wrong but I aslo knew it wasn’t my place to ask as soon as her mom reacted. My already primed imagination pictures Raegan on a boat, fighting a war few are aware of and less care about. I think of the cut that she tried to wave away, though she cradled her hand, exposing it hurt more than she led on.

It’s been a week since I’ve seen her.

This is our norm.

I see her when I stop by the house with Paxton. I see her on the rare occasion she comes over. Only, now I see her at parties, and she frequently makes cameos in my thoughts.

I stare at the screen until it fades and goes dark. This is probably a reminder that I should leave shit alone. Stop trying to reach this itch because, unlike others before, it’s guaranteed to scar.

Me: I have some more tape to watch. Are you interested?

It’s past nine on a Tuesday. I can’t invite her over here because her brother is here getting his balls milked, and I can’t go there because she lives with her parents. This is a terrible idea, one I’m guaranteed to regret, yet I hit ‘send.’

Raegan: For tomorrow’s game?

I’ve already dissected all the film for tomorrow’s game a dozen times. I know Utah’s plays forward and backward to the point, I could be quizzed on their defense and probably do better than half their starting line-up.

Me: Yeah.

I lie. Otherwise, there’s no urgency.

Raegan: You guys want to meet somewhere?

Me: Pax is otherwise engaged. It’s just me tonight.

The dots appear and vanish again, revealing her internal debate.

Raegan: Candace?

Me: Apparently, they’re trying again.

She responds with an eye roll emoji.

Raegan: Want to meet at my Beam Me Up? I’m closing tonight, and it’s dead.

Me: I’ll be there in 10.

I pull on a hoodie and a baseball hat, my movements hurried as my thoughts race to the beat of my heart that’s sounding a warning alarm in my chest.

Cancel.

Bad idea.

Terrible idea.

What color are her underwear?

Bad idea.

Will she let me kiss her again?

I’m going to get punched in the nuts when Paxton finds out.

Cancel.

Call Stacey.

I slide my feet into my shoes and grab the backpack with the tapes and portable DVD player. I take the stairs two at a time, ignoring each alarm in my head.

“Hey,” Caleb calls as I round the corner into the living room, where he’s playing a video game.

“What’s up, man?”

He grins, but his attention remains on the TV. “Are you heading out?”

“Yeah. I’ll be back in a while. Do you need anything?”

Caleb shakes his head. “Nope. Have fun.”

“Yeah, you too.” I wait until he hides behind an obstacle before I pass in front of him, grabbing my keys off the hook and crossing the driveway to my truck.

The drive is shorter, my foot heavy on the gas pedal. I don’t want reason to catch up with me, not tonight when I’ve already been doing one hell of a job outrunning it. I park next to Rae’s car at Bean Me Up and see her through one of the large paned windows, wiping a counter down. She’s been working here since I met her, and I have no idea why when her parents have to be quite flush. Regardless of the why, it’s always been a contributing factor as to why I like her.

I step inside, the bell from the door ringing my arrival. Raegan looks up, a smile stamping her features into a greeting. Her blond hair is pulled into a high pony, small whisps loose around her face, and her eyes look brighter and happier tonight than they’ve been for the past couple of weeks. I instantly want to know why. Her full lips are on display tonight, stained a light shade that bridges pink to red. Her flawless skin is still tanned from summer, her cheeks colored with a shade of pink that has me appreciating the lines of her cheekbones and jaw.

“Hey.” She drops the rag she was holding and wipes her hands across the black apron tied around her neck. “Would you like something to drink?”

I clear my throat, dispelling thoughts of tracing her features with my fingertips. “Coffee would be great.”

“Black, right?”

I nod.

She walks behind the counter, grabbing a large red mug, and fills it with coffee. She sets it on the counter, then proceeds to make a drink filled with steamed milk, espresso shots, and syrups. I already know because I’ve watched her do this a few dozen times without even realizing it.

“No one will come in. We can sit at the counter.” She grabs her drink and walks around, so we’re on the same side of the high marble top.

I fish out the DVD player and the disc with Utah on it, placing them both on the counter but don’t move to set it up.

“How’s your hand?” I ask, catching sight of the bandage covering the wound like a secret.

“It’s fine.” She traces the foreign object on her skin with a dark blue fingernail, too gingerly, before wrapping both hands around her matching red mug. “How are you feeling? How was the team dinner tonight?”

“I see you weren’t just avoiding us.”

A smile teases her lips as her gaze meets mine. “I wish. Someone called in sick, so I’ve been here since nine this morning.” She straightens her shoulders. “What was for dinner tonight?”

“Taco bar.”

She looks disappointed. “Oh. Tell me there were leftovers.”

“What time does this place close?”

“Ten.”

I glance at my watch, realizing that’s only fifteen minutes off. “We could go get something to eat?” The hesitance in my voice kills every ounce of coolness she might have thought I possessed.

She stares at me, her lashes long sweeping fans over eyes the color of a clear July afternoon. “That’s okay.” She lifts her glass to her lips.

“Embarrassed to be seen with me?” I knock my knee against hers. It’s juvenile, but the more I’m around her, the stronger the itch becomes, and even slight touches become a necessity.

“Moreover, I don’t have a death wish. I’ve seen the way girls eye other girls you’re with, and it’s not pretty.”

“What are you talking about?”

Her eyes grow round and bright, humor sparking with surprise. “Oh, don’t try and be humble now.”

I laugh, noting her cheeks are turning a deeper shade of red. “I’ve never been told this before.”

“Well, that’s because they’re all blinded by your….” She waves a hand up and down in front of me.

“What’s that?” I ask, capturing her hand in mine, tangling our fingers loosely, holding them against my knee. Her skin’s so cold, I can feel it through my jeans.

She pulls away after only a second, tucking some loose hair behind an ear before returning it to her coffee. “You know what I’m talking about.”

I shake my head once, trying not to laugh as her cheeks remain flushed. “I don’t.”

“They get distracted by you,” she says.

“Isn’t that the point? Spend time with people who distract you from the shit?”

She shrugs. “Sure. Unless you’re getting death glares from everyone in a twenty-mile radius.”

I can’t stop smiling, feeling a bit smug and even more elated that she pays attention to me as well. “Twenty-miles? I get fans emailing me from across the country.”

Her eyebrows soar high. “So much for being humble. I have a feeling I’m never going to hear the end of this admission.”

“What? That you watch me?”

“Watch you?” she cries. “You make me sound like a stalker.”

“I’m just flattered you pay attention.”

“Gramps actually pointed it out, initially.”

“You had to kill my buzz, didn’t you?”

“It was necessary. I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to make it out the door. It’s only eight feet.”

“Come on,” I tell her. “No one’s coming. Let’s close up. We’ll go grab a burger, or tacos, or something.”