Page 60 of Redemption
“Shut up,” I say, slapping his chest again, except this time, when my hand meets the warm skin there, it hits me that he didn’t put his shirt back on.
Scrambling off of him, I stand, offer him my hand, and try to hide my face so he can’t see how red my cheeks are. He takes it and pulls himself up.
But he should have stayed down because any humor I’d found in the situation vanishes once he’s standing. My eyes zero in on the black ink etched onto his ribs. Going down the muscles on his side, three delicate butterflies flap their wings, but it’s not just the butterflies that hold my attention. No, it’s how my name is delicately woven down his ribs in a straight line until it ends above the line of his shorts.
I can’t bring myself to look up at him or even ask the question.
I’m frozen.
“It’s not what you think.” Hayes’s voice is raspy, like my name on his skin is just as much a shock to him as it is to me.
“You don’t know what I’m thinking,” I say, still transfixed on the lines of my name.
He grunts, and I can imagine his lips pressing together in disapproval, but no matter how hard I try, I can’t pull my gaze from his side.
“I guarantee I can tell you what you’re thinking.” The words are so cocky that it nearly makes me snort, and finally, I meet him head-on. Just like I imagined, his lips are pinched into a firm line, my favorite muscle in his jaw jumping as he grits his teeth.
“Then tell me, Hayes—what is it that you think is going through my mind?” There’s anger and sadness and hope and—something else I won’t acknowledge, swirling inside me as I wait for him to answer.
That muscle jumps again. “You think it means I’m in love with you.”
It’s almost comical how wrong he is—no, that’s not what I was thinking at all.
No part of me still believes he’s in love with me, not even the delusional parts.
The tattoo looks like a memorial for a girl who is still alive, standing right in front of him. But I guess more than Langston died six years ago, a piece of Hayes and I did, too. Then, our relationship cracked until the fissure was too big for us to cross.
Instead of letting him see how badly that breaks me, I smirk and say, “You caught me, Hayes. That’s exactly what I think.”
Unfortunately, there’s a sadness in my voice that I can’t hide.
“MJ—” Hayes starts, his face turning somber.
But I plaster on a smile and interrupt him before he can say something that will break me further. “Did you bring me the coffee I requested?”
He stays silent for a moment, watching me carefully, but then he nods and says, “Yeah, it’s over here.”
I follow him over to the bench on the sideline, trying to think of what to say that will lighten the mood, but for all the rounds I can usually go with Hayes, nothing comes to mind now. And man, I wished it would because maybe then that tattoo wouldn’t be like a blaring beacon of all the mistakes I’ve made in my life.
Once at the bench, he reaches down and produces an iced coffee that swirls with cream and sugar.
“You, sir, are my hero.”
“No—but I wish I could have been.”
“Me too, Hayes.”
______________________
We sit in silence for the next hour and a half as we wait for Tanner, me sipping on the iced coffee, and him flipping through a playbook.
Ten minutes after eight, he shows up with his equipment bag slung over his shoulder. His pace is sure and confident, but the set of his shoulders tells a different story.
Tanner reaches us, and Hayes stands to greet him. The hatred on Tanner’s face is palpable.
“Thanks for coming,” Hayes says. He has a football in his hand and is flicking it end to end and catching it. He is trying to appear casual and non-threatening to this kid, who looks like he finds life itself a threat. “You remember MJ?”
Hayes dips his head toward me, and Tanner follows the movement. If he’s surprised that I’m here, he doesn’t show it.
