Page 80 of Ella Gets the D
I’m still sorting out what all of this means, but I do know one thing: It’s making my life better.
Chapter 30
Ella
“Crouch. Bind. Set!”
There’s a series of grunts as walls of muscle press their might into each other. The ball goes between them, and the teams shift in a way that mimics a dance—or would if they weren’t trying to rip each other’s heads off. There’s a yell before someone on Julian’s team shoots out with the ball, tossing it to another person in a blue and white uniform until the opposing team knocks him to the ground.
“Did he just unalive him?” I flinch in search of the blond who got swallowed whole. “There he is,” I say, pointing to the pile further up the field just as Julian takes the ball and runs toward the other team’s goal. “He’s almost to the end zone. Go, Julie!”
“Tryzone.” Jackson shakes his head. “This isn’t football, Mom.”
“I knew that.”
The side of his mouth lifts. “Yeah, okay.”
Jackson watched hours of rugby footage on YouTube to keep up while schooling his mama in the process. He didn’t want tomiss Julian’s first game of the season since he’s been back, and he cheers every time he touches the ball.
Haile couldn’t care less. She wants Julian to win but shows no interest in the game. She hasn’t looked up from her books since she got here, just sits in silence next to Jackson and Duke, who are about to sprint down the sidelines to chase after the man who made me come in the tub during a phone call last week.
Julian wasn’t kidding when he said he had self-control. Outside of a forehead kiss, he hasn’t touched me since he’s been back. He’s still a flirt in person, but he doesn’t cross the line. But when he’s across the pond? All bets are off. The man has a nasty mouth and a filthy imagination.
Wind presses to Julian’s uniform with every stride. Heavy thigh muscles lift the tiny white shorts clinging to his skin, which is fine by me. An amazing ass in athletic hoochie shorts gets zero complaints.
Three men from the visiting team rush him on his approach, but they come up short when Julian pulls off a no-look pass to his teammate wearing a number six jersey who slides in for the score. The crowd erupts, but my focus is still on Julian.
The hit washard, but he shakes off the Mack truck collision to ruffle Number Six’s man bun. The two share a shoulder check and jog to the middle of the field for the kicker to put more points on the board.
Julian’s grin is contagious. This is the most relaxed I’ve seen him since he came back last week after another month away. Late hours with his father at the office have him home after eleven, but he still video calls Jackson after dinner to practice Japanese every other day. Exhausted eyes reflect on the screen, eyes that refuse to miss a chance to honor his time with my son, which always comes with a ten-minute bonus interlude from Haile about her day. Our time together, though separated by distance, has pulled us closer.
I broke down in his arms on Labor Day weekend over what he did for Haile. In one day, he brought her vision board to life, swapping out his home office for a bedroom she can call her own. Wisteria walls and new furniture to match her bed took over, with a light taupe sofa bed for my mom to use whenever she’s able to make the trip down. The act was so selfless it caught me off guard—to the point I was ready to offer him my ass on a silver platter with a side of titties as an appetizer. It was a good thing he went back to London that Saturday. It’s hard enough as it is to deny the man my kids adore. The manIadore.
I’ve learned there are three sides to DC’s most eligible bachelor. The first is his public persona, the one he dresses in custom suits. That Julian is confident and all about the company brand. The second Julian is laid-back and free from the demands of the family empire. He’s a brother, an uncle, and a friend whose loyalty knows no bounds. That Julian enjoys life to the fullest.
Then there’s the Julian who’s reserved for me. The one who watches rom-coms and teaches me about jazz. The guy who orders tacos for the house on Tuesdays because of the tough commute from my job to Jackson. A man whose face lights up when I order the savory chicken tikka masala from his favorite restaurant on the nights in the office when he forgets to eat.
In the space we’ve created for each other, he’s free from external expectations and the internal need to fulfill them.
“What’d I miss?” Erica shuffles in from behind and kicks off her flats to join me on the quilt. She scans our makeshift VIP section. “Who the hell plans a romantic picnic at a rugby game? Is artisan bread and fancy jam really necessary?”
We share a look and break into laughter.
Morgan.
Who needs ten-dollar folding chairs when your best friend outfits a portion of the field with imported textiles, farm-to-table goodies, and homemade peach tea served in the reusable plastics flutes she just happened to have lying around her kitchen?
Erica sits cross-legged in her jeans and reaches for the container of assorted olives. “Where is Martha Stewart anyway?”
I lift a shoulder. “Haven’t seen her in almost an hour. She missed most of the game.”
“I saw her car on the way in,” Erica says between bites of Manchego cheese. Here all of thirty seconds and already has a buffet in front of her. “Wait, here she comes.”
Autumn winds kick up colorful foliage, splattering the grass in crimson and gold. Afternoon clouds crowd the cerulean sky, drowning out the stroke of warmth from the October sun. I pull the edges of my sweater over my cotton overalls at Morgan’s approach.
Her mouth twists into a sneer that tightens the vein pulsing in her forehead. To any onlooker, Morgan is a runway model at a rugby game, wearing high fashion and the season’s trendiest riding boots. She tries to mask the storm clouds brewing behind her dark brown eyes, but her Chanel shades aren’t enough to hide her ice cold expression.
Morgan stepped away to give Joseph directions to the field. Nothing out of the ordinary, except the pain etched into his face speaks volumes about whatever conversation they had when he got there. One that clearly did not go well.
