Page 220 of Scoring the Player
Or why I want to fix whatever it is that has him looking so shattered.
“I tried to stay away and give you space…”
I nod for him to continue.
“But…fuck, I miss you so much it hurts. I’m sorry I hurt you by running and keeping things from you. For so long, I felt like, at best, I’m an inconvenience, and at worst, I’m harmful. I didn’tbelieve I deserved you. I’m so sorry I hurt you. I’ve never been in love before, and maybe everyone is better at it than me, but there’ll never be a day that I won’t love you, and that I won’t try to?—”
“You’re in love with me?”
He bites the inside of his lip as his head tilts slightly. “Yes.” His eyes water. “And I want to fix us. Show you I’m here. I don’t expect you to just take my word for it.”
I lean against the door. The ache of seeing him cry, of how much I’ve missed him…I rub my sternum, but it only spreads. “Uh.” I force the words out. “I need time.”
“Okay.” He steps back. “Can I come by tomorrow and we talk?”
“I said I need time, not that I want you to leave.”
His lips part slightly. “I don’t under?—”
“Let’s go to bed, Blue. We’ll talk in the morning.”
“Are you sure?”
“I wouldn’t sleep knowing you’re in town but not here.” I nod toward the steps, holding open the door.
“I would be right back here in the morning,” he says, taking a hesitant step forward.
Instead of stepping over Sim, who’s lying in the entryway and watching us, he kneels in front of him. “Hi Simba. I’m Blue.”
Simba licks his wrist as he pets him.
“He howled when you were at the door. He only howls for me and Denzel.”
“You howled for me?” he whispers, leaning down and pressing his forehead to Sim’s wet nose. “I have a feeling you and I go way back.” He stands. “I heard about the lead in Mexico.”
“Yeah. It’s something, I guess.”
“It’s a good lead,” he says, leveling a stare at me.
There’s something different about him. Like he’s cracked open and not trying to hide it.
I wrap my arms around my chest to fight the urge to pull him into my arms.
“You”—I clear my throat—“you, uh, hungry or thirsty?”
“Water?” he asks.
I nod and head to the kitchen and fill a glass. When I return, he’s standing and staring into the fire.
My steps falter as I get closer. He’s completely still, but tears are trickling from his eyes.
“Hey,” I say.
He looks up. “Thanks,” he says, reaching for the glass. It’s like he doesn’t even know he’s crying. He downs the water in seconds and doesn’t make any attempt to wipe his tears.
“Thirsty. Want another?”
“I can just hold on to the cup and fill it up in the bathroom sink.”
