Page 49 of Flame After the Fumble

When I click the link he sent, my heart barrels out of my chest. My mind moves at a thousand miles a minute while I register the magnitude of this. Ryan got caught up in a sports betting deal. Even worse? He bet on his own game. I know enough about sports from dating an athlete long-term that betting is one of the cardinal sins. He won’t play after this. I click back to our text thread to see I missed one text from him.

Hartley: How is she?

Me: Not good. They’re arguing in the bar. How are you?

Hartley: It doesn’t matter.

Me: It does. You matter to me.

Hartley: I fumbled. Cost us the game.

Me: Where are you?

Hartley: Leaving the field, going to the apartment

Clicking my phone off, I lift myself off the concrete sidewalk and head back into the bar to check on Violet. The potent smell of liquor and bad decisions hits my nostrils, as well as a red-eyed, sobbing Violet. Slamming into my chest, she grips my shoulders in sheer panic and clenches onto the fabric of my jersey.

Reading her expression, I take control. “Let’s go.” She nods frantically and allows me to lead us back to her car. She fishes her keys out of her purse and drops them into the palm of my hands to drive us back home. We take the somber drive back in the darkness of the night, and I manage to keep my mouth shut and allow her to talk to me when she’s ready. As we pull in, my mind wanders to Hartley and how he’s taking this. Since we have the car, he must have walked or caught a ride back from the field. The dome lights dim as I put the car in park. Violet’s eyes stare ahead at nothing, but I imagine she’s thinking about everything all at once.

“C. . . Co. . .Could you—” She tries her best to form the question her brain is thinking.

“I’m staying.” For both her and Hartley.

Guiding her exhausted body upstairs and into the apartment, I help her into the bed and climb in next to her. She rolls over and tucks her covers under her hands like a foil-wrapped burrito. With the lights turned off, her bedroom illuminates with moonlight peeking through the sheer curtains she hung a few weeks ago. The midnight haze casts shadows over us. Leaning up on my elbow, I peek over to check if Violet’s sleeping. I’m greeted with her heavy-lidded eyes staring at the wall.

“It doesn’t seem like it, but everything will be okay,” I whisper softly, not to startle her. “It feels like your heart is being ripped out of your chest with no medicine to ease the pain.” I rub her back to soothe her into sleep. “You’re stronger than you think.”

“I hope so.” Her voice cracks before one of her hands untucks from the comforter and grips over her mouth. “I don’t know how I’ll be able to trust him again after this.”

I snuggle closer to her and squeeze her into a tight hug. “You may or may not. Just know I’m here for you, regardless. I’m your ride or die.”

We lay there like that for what has to be over two hours before her breathing steadies and the first snore leaves her mouth. The sight of her like this reminds me of the night my life came crashing down before me. I wish I had a friend to stick by me through it all and to tell me that everything will be okay, eventually.

Now that I know Violet is asleep for the night, I throw around the idea of checking on Hartley. Part of me wants to make sure he’s doing okay, but the other part doesn't want to over step.

The impulsive side of me takes over as I roll out of bed with as little movement as possible to not wake Vi. I move through the apartment at sloth speed, careful not to creak the old wooden floors before I make it to Hartley’s cracked, open door. Darkness peaks through the crack, giving me the evidence I need to know he’s asleep, but as I turn to head back to Violet’s bed, a raspy voice calls out, “Goldie?” That voice stops my tiptoes dead in their tracks as my body flies around to meet the man behind it.

“It’s me,” I whisper back.

“Don’t leave.”

My fragile heart cracks at the sound of him pleading with me to stay, so I enter the dark room, reaching my hands out to feel around so I don’t run into furniture or trip over his clothes piled on the floor.

“Right here,” he says, making a patting sound next to himunderthe sheets. Breathe, Liza.

“I don’t want to. . .” My breathing picks up as my chest rises and falls with anticipation and trepidation. “Intrude.”

“Please.”

Before I can overthink myself being in his bedroom, I slip my socks off and scoot next to him, careful not to touch his legs with my freezing toes. His warmth iseverywherewhen our bodies are this close, and it takes all of my will power not to scoot against him and cuddle. “How are you?”

“Could be better.” His voice is filled with a mix of anger and sadness, but he mostly soundstired.

“Tell me what happened.”

“I fumbled. It wasn’t even close,” he scoffs as pulls his hands down hard, running them over his face.

“It’s not all your fault, Hart. Football is a team sport, and you’re allowed to feel the way you did.”

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