Page 46 of Good Guy Gabe

“This was six years ago, yeah? And you were leaving a courthouse, where you’ve got cops and security guards and reporters and cameras and—”

“Nobody was covering it that day. The newsworthy stuff was over. It was just me.” I draw my feet up onto the counter to rest my cheek on my knees and vanish. Gabe comes back to me, but the way I turn my face away from him is enough to halt his footfalls. “I woke up in an ambulance. Whether anyone saw it or not, no one cared. You have no idea how much they hated me during the trial. I was paraded in front of everyone. I was the one trying to keep the money, you know? I think that day at the courthouse, that was my penance. The rock hit me in the forehead, and I fell down the stairs and was knocked unconscious. They got me to the hospital as quick as they could, but that night, I delivered and lost my baby.”

I accept Gabe’s embrace this time, not that I think I could push him away, but I don’t need it. Honestly, I’m just cold.

“The nursery?” he asks.

“I had a son. Aiden James Page. Was supposed to be Aiden Brian Edgars, but I couldn’t name him that, and the doctor who was so kind to me when no one else was, who let me hold him and didn’t insist on life support when we all knew he wasn’t going to make it, his name was James.” The numbness allows me to speak clearly even as it reminds me why I should never have agreed to go out with Gabe in the first place, why the world outside my walls, even the world on my lawn, is so awful. “His heart beat for an hour, but he never opened his eyes. Never cried, never suckled. He lay there in my arms sleeping, but he was pink, and he was warm, and he breathed in and out, sleeping like any baby, and I took him home in—” my voice cracks, my jawaches, my sinuses burn— “I took him home in an urn, and he’s—”

“Stop, stop, stop,” Gabe begs, his own voice unsteady, his hold on me so tight he might be trying to silence me by forcing the air out of me. “You can stop.”

I can’t, though.

“He’s been in his room ever since.”

Chapter 21

Gabe

“GREAT PRACTICE, GUYS.Really looking good out there,” Coach Keenan says as we file into the locker room. “Really great. This rate, we’re looking at a division championship. Proud of you boys. Looking good, Huang. That was a great catch, Merrick. Good scramble, Vedder.”

We’re all exchanging looks. Keenan is a good coach. No faults there. But this is weird. Something’s up, and since I’m at the back of the line, I have the entire team to see if he’s about to lock us in and flip his shit over some shenanigans — we’ve been good, but not stellar, and media likes to take nothing and turn it into something on slow days — or if one of us is about to get whisked off to his office.

The anxious part of me is going wild, taking the most absurd, impossible, devastating thing and running with it. Three weeks ago, it would have been that I was getting cut. It’s that time of year when teams, even winning ones, start to reconsider their lineup and replace the weakest links. I’ve done well overall, but I’ve also had my share of mistakes like anyone, and mine are more obvious than some other positions. I love being a center, it’s obviously a position I do well at or I wouldn’t be playing in the NFL, but I’m forever stressing about it. It’s my natural state. And I don’t know yet if I’m getting signed on again. This could be my last season.

That’s what I should be stressing about.

But my brain’s got its own ideas about what’s the most critical issue, and it’s spent over two weeks now fixating on Joss.

I fucked up.

I fucked up so bad.

And I don’t know how to fix it.

I keep bailing on overnights. The last two games were away, so that helped. I made up early practices and then actually did haul my ass down to the training facility at four in the morning to send her selfies of me working out with Merrick so I didn’t look like a liar. Then I had to lie to Merrick about wanting to get in better shape.

And then ate my shame with a dozen donuts before regular practice started. I nearly barfed on the field the second time I attempted it.

Dinner dates. Movie nights. Hanging around in her studio. I’m trying to act normal, but every time I come up with another reason why we can’t share a bed, she looks more and more rejected.

The worst part is she’s gotta be thinking it’s because of what she told me, and it’s the opposite of that. Or, it’s not what happened six years ago but what it’s forced me to consider about myself.

I amnota good guy.

It never once crossed my mind that she might have been pregnant before. I certainly didn’t consider that she might be grieving over a child. This whole time, I’ve been thinking that the way she reacts to anything baby related comes from a place of yearning, and it turns out it’s heartache.

And I never should have made that assumption to begin with.

I don’t know how to fix this. A vow of celibacy isn’t going to cut it, and not just because no matter how hard I try, I can’t avoid our physical needs. I’ve been skirting around them with oral sex, hand jobs, even pulling out. She actually sounded distressed when I did that, which made me feel awful. This is not sustainable, and it’s cruel to Joss, who’s just shared something so important and personal with me.

But I don’t know how to fix this without losing her.

So the dread that fills me as I near Coach Keenan and he continues with his bland platitudes isn’t of whether I’m about to get cut. It’s that somehow everyone knows about my lie and there are cops in his office waiting to arrest me for lying to my girlfriend.

My stomach flips as it hits me what I’ve been doing might actually be illegal. The more I think about it, the more I feel like it should be illegal. I’m going to jail.I’ll have to admit this to everyone and most importantly, lose Joss, but nearly as importantly, lose everyone else. And go to jail.

I don’t think I can handle jail. Sure, I’m a giant and strong as an ox, but I’m soft. I have fancy pillows for my sleep apnea. The cleaning lady has to wash my clothes in the expensive dye-free stuff or I get hives. I’m not cut out for jail.

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