Bulldozer (Hard to Love 3)

He flicks a hand at me. “We’ll be fine. You do your thing.” His gaze returns to whatever he’s looking at on the iPad. Which reminds me. “Have you gotten the results back from the MRI?”

“Not yet,” he distractedly answers, his focus still trained on whatever is presently putting a deep scowl on his face.

“What are you going to do about pre-season games?”

“Nothing. I’m not putting pads on until September.”

I know more than I care to know about football, having borne witness to Calvin’s long and successful career in the NFL and now Will’s, who’s playing for Florida State. Any player will tell you that their body needs to be prepared for getting hit in regular season games by getting hit in practice.

NFL rules already limit how many days they can practice with pads. With Grant missing training camp and pre-season, waiting to be cleared by team and personal doctors, the idea of him getting thrown into a game at full speed does not sit well. In fact, it scares me. The thought of seeing Grant hurt gives me anxiety.

“Isn’t that dangerous?”

He continues to stare at that damn iPad, purposely avoiding eye contact. Meanwhile my head throbs. I press two fingers on my temples and massage.

“It’s always dangerous, baby,” he mumbles without thought.

Catching himself, his head snaps up. Embarrassment colors his cheeks.

There’s no denying we’ve gotten quite chummy the last few weeks. Grant’s a touchy person, tactile. A brush of his hand on my shoulder, the small of my back, a squeeze of my arm––they’ve all become commonplace occurrences and truth be told, I haven’t discouraged it. Nor have I wanted to. The more it goes on, the more I crave it. Nevertheless, a fine imaginary line has been drawn and neither of us has crossed it. Yet.

Taking into account his declaration that he doesn’t do relationships and my abysmal track record and lack of practice we’re a match made in hell.

If anything were to happen, it would surely end disastrously. And then where would I be? Adding another checkmark to the fuck-up list? No, thanks. Those days are over. I owe it to myself to do better and I owe it to Sam.

Stay in your lane, Amanda. This man is not for you.

“I’m…ah…I’m going to go get dressed. I’ll see you later,” I say in a stilted voice. It never happened. This conversation never took place. “And thank you.”

“Later,” he replies just as woodenly. Definitely a match made in hell. He’s as good at the denial game as I am.

Everything goes according to plan with the inspection. I think. At some point I started seeing spots while he was talking. Shortly afterward the nausea started. By the time I got back in the car to drive home, I could barely keep my eyes open. I pull into the driveway to find Grant and Sam shooting hoops near the garage. I wave and run into the house. I have to get into a dark room before I die.

Ten minutes later I’m in bed with the blackout drapes pulled tight and a cold wet cloth resting over my eyes.

“Mommy?”

“Come here,” I say, reaching out for him. I feel his small hand slip into mine and I pull him closer, until he’s sitting close to me on the bed. “I have a migraine. Did you eat lunch?”

“Grant ordered salmon steaks and salads from the restaurant.”

“Okay. Do you think you could make sure Roxy’s taken care of today? And help Grant out if he needs it?”

“Okay.” He gets up to leave.

“Love you!”

“Bye, Mom.” I can hear his feet pad out of the room.

“Hey,” a deep voice calls out from the threshold of my room. I lift the cloth and crack an eye open to see Grant’s outline closing the distance.

“What can I get you? What can I do?”

“Just watch Sam for me?” My eyes flutter closed. I feel fingers pushing my hair back.

“I’d do anything for you,” I think I hear him say. I can’t be sure, though. Sound is fading fast as sleep claims me.

I wake up some time later with the room still blanketed in darkness. It could be midnight or noon and I couldn’t tell you. What I do know is that there’s a man sleeping next to me. He sighs loudly and tuns to face me.

“You awake?” The deep baritone vibrates over my skin and sends a shiver down my back. So familiar now it feels like home…a home I’ve never had.

“Yeah. What time is it?”

“A little past one a.m. How do you feel?”

“Still in pain. Not nearly as bad.” I reach out and find his shoulder, brushing up and down the bare skin softly. “I don’t know how to thank you. You’re always saving my ass.”

Taking my hand, he pinches the fleshy part between my thumb and index finger and I almost scream, alternating between moaning and crying out. It hurts in the best way possible.