Beauty and the Baller

“Your face is wet,” Sabine says. “Were you crying?”

I wipe at my face. I hadn’t realized.

Toby frowns. “You okay, Ms. Morgan?”

“Right as rain,” I reply to his earnest gaze.

“But were you crying?” Sabine insists.

“Just a little, but it’s fine now. The game really got to me. You played amazing, Toby. I took tons of video for Bonnie. Let’s go see her and show it to her,” I say, anxious to get away from Ronan. My satchel can wait until Monday.

We grab take-out food, then head to Toby’s house. We devour our food in the kitchen, then head to the den for Bonnie to watch Toby’s big plays. I chat with her while Toby and Sabine sit side by side on the floor, her head on his shoulder, his hand playing with her hair. He leans down and kisses her cheek, then murmurs he loves her, and she says the same, then snuggles into his chest.

Later, we pull up at the house, and Darth Vader is still in my window. I wince, pulling my gaze off him. Sabine heads to her room, and I sit on the couch, with something on TV that I’m not watching. My head feels blank. A little numb. My phone is next to me. It’s been blowing up with texts from Ronan since this afternoon. I never went to his office after the press conference. I stayed in my and Sonia’s closet, my head churning with thoughts. He sent more texts before the game. I can’t bring myself to reply.

Around eleven, I put Sparky’s leash on him and head outside. We turn right, away from Ronan’s house, and head to the front of the neighborhood. He prisses along but pauses to look at me a few times.

“I’m fine,” I tell him.

He seems to narrow his gaze.

I blow out a breath. “I swear!”

He turns back, sees a small frog, pounces, and then eats it delicately.

Crickets resonate, still hanging on to the last bit of warm air in Texas. Next week is Thanksgiving, and I center my thoughts on which of Mama’s dishes I’ll make.

We walk past Caleb’s house, make the turn at the stone entrance, and then start back. I’m almost to my house when I see a tall, broad form ahead of me, leaning against an oak tree in my yard.

My stomach pitches, my steps slowing.

I can’t avoid him. Words need to be said.

I walk over to him, stopping a few feet away. Sparky rubs in between his legs, and I pull him back, then undo his leash and tell him to go to the porch. He licks his paw, gives me a sniff, and then prances up the steps and goes inside the cat door I put in.

Twisting the leash between my fingers, I take in Ronan. He’s changed into Nike shorts, an old shirt, and sneakers. There’s no hat, and his hair waves around in the light wind. His arms hang down his sides, an uncertain expression on his face.

“Hey,” he says, his eyes searching mine. “Sabine said you went for a walk.”

“Yes.”

He straightens up off the tree and walks to me. “I wanted to tell you about the new offer, but school wasn’t the right place—you were focused on the pep rally; then the reporters showed up . . .”

I nod. “I get it.”

“The Stanford thing . . . I called Hite and took myself off their list. It never felt right.”

“But New York does?”

His hand brushes at my hair, his fingers rubbing the strands between his fingers. “Their quarterback coach, Dixon, has terminal cancer. They kept how serious his diagnosis was under wraps. When I found out he was sick a while back, I assumed it was temporary, because that’s what they told everyone. I didn’t dream they’d come to me. I don’t have any experience on that level and . . .” He drops his hand and rubs the back of his neck. “You probably don’t want to hear all this.”

“They’ll need you right away.” I know how football works. I also realize that on the NFL level, he’ll have to devote his life to it, especially since he doesn’t have experience. He won’t have time for a relationship with a girl in Texas.

“I’m flying out tomorrow to meet them. Nova . . .” His fingers skim down my arm. “This isn’t easy for me—”

“You wanted no entanglements. That was the plan, right?”

He tenses. “That was the plan, yes, but that’s not what happened.”

“You told me exactly how this would end. With you leaving.”

He takes me in his arms, his movements slow, his eyes soft under the glow of the streetlights. “You have every right to be angry.”

The smell of him lulls me, and I press my face into his chest, my hands clenching his shirt. “Yes,” I say shakily. “I promised myself I wouldn’t be, that I knew this was coming eventually, but I just thought . . .” That a job he wanted wouldn’t come for a while? That he’d fall just as madly in love with me as I am with him?