Page 50 of Against the Clock

I pull him onto the couch next to me. When he moves to pull me into his lap, I grab one of my fluffy throw pillows and hold onto it instead.

“I need you to just… I need you to just listen for a minute, and if you start touching me, I’m not going to be able to tell you what I need to tell you.”

He holds his hands up in the universal sign for surrender, blinking at me.

I study him, the dark circles beneath his eyes, the start of crow’s feet at the corners, a slight tan across the bridge of his nose and cheekbones. He’s too big for my couch, my apartment, larger than life and mismatched with my oyster-cream walls and girly gold accents.

I clear my throat, and a frown pulls the corners of his lips down.

“You’re scaring me, Kelsey. If you don’t want me around, then just say it. Just tell me.”

“That’s the problem, Daniel.” My throat gets tight. “I do want you around. I like you.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t understand. How is that a problem? I want to be around you. I like you, too. A lot. A whole helluva lot, considering the little time we’ve spent together.”

“Daniel…” I try to form the words, try to tell him what I’m thinking, but I just stare at him instead.

He runs his knuckles across my cheek and I suck in a breath, my body coming alive at the gentle touch.

“Daniel,” I say again.

“Fuck, Kelsey, I like hearing you say my name.”

I scoot back on the couch, putting more distance between us. “My dad’s name is Warner. Warner Cole.”

Confusion mars the heat in his eyes, and he leans back against the couch too, draping one huge arm across the back. “Okay. Do you want me to meet him?”

I pull my knees into my chest. “Warner Cole played for the Texas Oilmen when I was a baby, then a toddler. Some of my earliest memories are of being at the games.”

“Your dad was a pro footballer?”

“Yes.” My hands knot against each other. “I rehearsed this speech the whole way home from the bar last night.”

Silence, and then he makes a small, comforting noise.

“Whatever it is you’re trying to tell me, I can handle it, Kelsey. Put it on me. I’m tougher than I look.” He leans forward now, focused on me, his elbows on his knees.

“Warner Cole played for three seasons, until an injury made it so he couldn’t play anymore. A head injury. The Oilmen cut him, the AFL didn’t care. My mom was a nurse, she worked so hard to pay the bills, and it was a good thing she was a nurse because my dad needed all the help he could get. He still does.”

I take a deep breath, closing my eyes, trying to get all the words out before I lose the will.

“Watching you get hit like that today, watching you lie on the ground after… I nearly lost it. I had to run to the bathroom. It freaked me out. My dad… he doesn’t remember things. He doesn’t remember how old I am, where I live. He can’t hold a job, and the AFL couldn’t give two shits about what happened to him. I hate football, and I hate the AFL. And I, and I… I just thought you should know that.” My hands are cramping from how tight I’m holding them, and a muscle twitches in his jaw.

“Kelsey.” He scrubs a hand over his face, then takes one of mine, squeezing it. “Thank you for telling me that. Thank you for sharing that part of yourself with me.”

It could have sounded patronizing, but it grates out of him, full of emotion, and I bite my lips, trying not to cry.

“I worry about my dad every day. I worry about him, and it makes me so tired. And now I worry about you. I told myself I would never, ever… get involved with a football player, and here you are, in my living room, and in my life.”

“I feel honored to be in both your living room and your life,” he says, quietly. Sincerely. Slowly, he pulls my hand from the pillow, drawing it to his mouth, where he presses a kiss against my knuckles. “I feel honored that you feel safe enough with me to share that about your dad.” A long sigh rips out of him and he rubs his thumb over the back of my hand.

He quirks an eyebrow at me and I stay silent. It feels good, though, the kind of companionable silence I’ve only ever had with a handful of people. I also feel empty, emotionally spent, after everything I’ve just told him. Deflated, even.

“Kelsey, I’m sorry about what happened to your dad. That’s… every athlete’s nightmare, I think. And their families’. We all pretend like we’re invincible, you know? We strap on the pads and helmets like it’s armor for battle, and the whole time, we know this time on the field could be the last. But we push it down, and we push through, because we love the game.” He gives his head a little shake, like he’s surprised at what he’s just said.

“Do you love it? Still?”

“I do,” he says, holding my gaze. “I love football, and I’m sorry that you don’t. I’m sorry for everything you just told me. But I’m so fucking glad you told it to me, because now I know even more about you. I want to know you, Kelsey Cole, the good, the bad.” He purses his lips, then grins at me. “Maybe not the ugly, but I’ll take it, too. I’ll take it all. Whatever you want to give me.”

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