Page 29 of Whirlwind
“My bedroom,” I say with a nod. “I almost never turn music off in there.”
“Even when you sleep.”
“Especially then,” I say quietly. It would play softer when I lived with Willa, but then, I wasn’t alone. Now, it plays a little louder. Loud enough to drown out the world. To silence the memories. At night, in bed, trying to fall asleep is when I feel most alone in the world. When I’m vulnerable.
Tyson doesn’t say anything else as he pulls into a parking space at the restaurant. He doesn’t move to exit the car right away, either. Instead, he reaches his hand across the center console to place it on the seat right next to mine. Not holding my fingers as he did earlier, but giving me the option, if I want it. Silently, I think he’s telling me he’s here if I need him, while also telling me I can keep to myself.
It means a lot that he understands. I’ve never been diagnosed with anything else, but surely, I’m more neurodivergent than just my ADHD. Over the years, I’ve found my own ways to cope with my triggers and trauma. Willa is the only one I’ve ever opened up with completely, and that took me a long time. She understood, too, and gave me the space to get there in my own time.
I may never get to that level of comfort and trust with Tyson. Or with anyone else. I don’t know, but it’s still nice to have someone else that doesn’t push me to be what I can’t. I appreciate it more than he could know.
7
Tyson
Hugo is right about Kit. The more time I spend with her, the more I see that something in her past weighs on her. The more time I spend with her, the more I want to know her, too.
She reminds me of Lottie in many ways. The best ways, really. Her inquisitiveness, her honesty, and bluntness. Sometimes she holds back, as if she’s afraid what she wants to say will offend. But if I call her on it, she opens back up.
With most things, that is. If I get too close to what plagues her, she clams up tight. I want to know. I find myself wanting to know everything about her. Yet, I’m also afraid of her telling me. Scared that, if I’m correct in my assumptions, I’ll never know peace until I find who hurt her. Because I don’t think it’s as simple as growing up without her mother.
Kit doesn’t know peace, though. Not completely, or not always. Why should she be alone in that? The answer is, she shouldn’t be. Nobody should feel alone in the world. And I don’t want that for her. I wouldn’t let my sister be alone in that. Maybe Kit isn’t; she has the Cole family, who I know love her. But when she drifts off into her own head, she looks like the loneliest person I’ve ever seen.
Her sad stare breaks my fucking heart.
I hadn’t realized that I had much heart left to break. Not after Isla. I thought what I had left was strictly reserved for my family and for my career.
The past couple of years I’ve quit letting people in. If you don’t get close, you don’t get hurt. There’s something different about this woman, though. She’s capable in so many ways, yet in my head, she’s fragile and needs protection. I can’t make sense of my feelings when I think of her. Which is more than I’d like to admit.
The little hints she’s given about her life before coming to Seattle stay with me like a plague. I can admit I’ve lived a fucking privileged life. Not only financially, but with a loving and caring family, with friends, with a community. Death didn’t touch me until I was old enough to understand it. Hardship wasn’t something I understood. Mostly, I still don’t.
The most tragic thing to happen to me is heartbreak. Not a loved one who has been missing for twenty-five years.
Kit is a fascinating mystery. One I want to solve.
Zander and I are working out with trainers today, none of the other teammates are here this morning. I use the opportunity to my benefit.
“Hey, Fane. What do you know about Kit?”
“A lot. And also, not that much,” he answers, looking at me strangely. “You’ll need to be more specific. Then, I’ll decide if I want to answer.”
“That means you get it,” I say. “She’s different. Special.”
“Different than who? The random women you take home after a game? Most definitely.”
“They’re all the same,” I dismiss. Does that make me an asshole? Probably. It doesn’t make it less true, though. The random women I fuck only care about being able to tell their girlfriends they bagged a pro athlete. Maybe in the back of theirminds they hold hope that they’ll land a rich husband out of it, but most know better. “I mean, she’s different than most people I’ve known. She’s blunt, honest, and…I don’t know, fun. Sassy.”
“You dated Isla. None of that is new to you. She’s all those things, too. But I get your meaning. What’s your intention?”
“I want to be her friend.”
“Is that it?” he asks.
“You think I’m not capable of that?” Fane is being cautious of me in favor of his friend. I love that about him, and I love that for Kit.
“I know you are,” he says, laughing. “But you do have a reputation.”
“That was a one-time fuck up,” I protest at the same time my trainer, Jesse, adds more weight to the leg press I’m on. I feel the burn in my thighs. It’s a good fire, a reminder that I can be stronger. And a good distraction from the tabloid debacle I ended up in when I was caught with a sex worker after a game on the road. Being caught by the press would have been bad enough; being caught by police was much worse.
