Page 139 of The Hot Shot
The sad truth embeds itself like glass in my throat. “It might not be a matter ofmelovingher.”
I regret the words as soon as I let them out. It’s easier to pretend that I walked away. Admitting that I might not be the man Chess ultimately wants hurts so much I can’t breathe past it.
Jake stares me down. “They don’t call it risk because it’s safe. Tell her anyway.”
He gives me a slap on the shoulder pads and walks away.
I follow, my mind set. I’m going to lead my guys and win this game. I don’t need Chess to succeed at football. Whether she’s in my life or not, I am who I am on the field.
It’s off the field that I need her. And I’m going to find my girl and prove that to her, too.
Twenty-Three
Chess
James and Jamie take me to an Irish pub in lower Manhattan. It’s cozy and wonderfully warm, especially after walking six blocks in the icy wind to get there.
“I can’t feel my fingers,” I say, rubbing my hands together.
“We should have taken the subway.” Jamie’s nose is bright pink.
“The walk was bracing,” James insists. “And you two are wimps.”
Jamie takes off her fogging glasses and wipes them. “Pretty sure someone was whining about frozen balls in danger of falling off and shattering on the pavement.”
“That was a vivid description,” I add. “Maybe you should check your pants, James. Make sure everything is accounted for.”
“My balls have already checked in.” James unwraps his scarf and leads us through the crowd. “And they’re demanding a drink.”
“You talk to your balls?” I ask with a laugh.
“All guys do, Chess. Have I taught you nothing?”
“I thought they talked to their dicks.”
“They’re kind of a package deal, darling.”
We settle into a booth by an empty stage. James snuggles up next to Jamie, and I’m left by myself on the other side. Again comes the horrible, internal coldness running along my side. Idon’t mind sitting alone. I’ve done it for years. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m not whole. I’m missing a part of myself. And it’s annoying. Another person can’t complete me. I do that for myself.
“So who has final say?” Jamie asks James. “Balls or dick?”
James settles back into the booth and rubs his beard in contemplation. “Hmm. Dick can definitely act alone. He’s been known to perk up and want to investigate a situation, while Balls are shriveling and shouting, ‘Run away, fool!’”
“That’s because balls have a sense of self-preservation,” I say, shrugging out of my coat. “Dick is basically a brainless knobhead.”
Jamie laughs.
“True,” James says. “But as to the ruler of my package?
“Let me guess,” I put in. “Mr. Hand?”
“Har. That might have been the case a few months ago, but now the supreme ruler is Jamie, so she really shouldn’t be laughing at poor Dick.”
Jamie flushes pink and leans into him. “Aw, that’s so sweet.”
I suppose it is, in a weird way. Doesn’t stop me from wanting to leave the table so I don’t have to watch them cuddle.
You had that, you fool. And you had to think about “things.”
