I swat at it. “Torzi, no. Cut it out.” But instead of my hand making contact with the springy fuzz I’m expecting, it meets skin, and eyelashes.
“Ow. Hey, it’s me.”
My eyes fly open, but I remain motionless on my side.
Above and behind me, Jet asks with a smile in his voice, “What have you and Torzi been doing in here?”
“Sleeping,” I grunt, pulling the covers further over my bare shoulder.
He slips into the bed and cozies up to my back, placing a peck between my shoulder blades. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Why are you in here?”
“I’m tired and want to sleep.”
“There’s a bed in my room for that, too.”
“I know.”
“You’re not going to be bothering me.” Goosebumps pop on my skin as he kisses a line down my spine.
I hadn’t considered I might be disturbing him. Instead of admitting it, I say softly, “This week has been so horrible.”
“Yeah. Being on the DL sucks.”
“Well, being the girlfriend of someone on the DL sucks about fifty times harder. You haven’t talked to me all week.”
He thinks about it for a while, then says, “Well, you’ve been doing your thing, and I’ve been trying to do my thing, which isn’t my thing at all. So that’s all.”
“You think it’s my fault you got hurt.”
“What?” He pulls on my shoulder with his wrapped hand, urging me onto my back. His nest disturbed, Torzi jumps down from the bed and shimmies through the cracked-open door into the hallway.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Jet asks.
Now that I’ve said it, it’s even more horrible. My stomach clenches. My eyes fill. My ears ring. I hope he doesn’t expect me to say it again, because I can’t talk at all, much less repeat the awful sentence that’s been pinging around my brain for days. Fortunately, he moves on without forcing me to reiterate my suspicion.
“Who told you that? No, let me guess. This has ‘Rae’ written all over it.”
I shake my head. Rae has said less to me than he has since she brought him home last Sunday. “Nobody has to tell me anything. It’s obvious. When you’re forced to talk to me, it’s more like grunting.”
“I’m talking to you right now.”
“You’re arguing with me right now. It’s the longest conversation we’ve had since you told me your pain pills constipate you. What’s worse is that you act fine around other people. Tonight, at the rally, you were that happy-go-lucky guy I fell in love with. Around me, you’re practically silent.”
He sighs. “People will jump all over it if I show that I’m worried or stressed out. But here at home, I don’t have to pretend. I’ve been so glad this week that you haven’t asked me a million times how I’m feeling or what I’m thinking about. Because I’m feeling like shit. I’m thinking this is New York all over again. Sidelined for something stupid, then it turns into a permanent thing.”
“That’s not going to happen this time.”
“Maybe not, but you never know. You can’t take it for granted. So, that’s what I’ve been thinking about. It doesn’t make me very chatty.”
I sniffle, contemplating whether I buy his explanation.
“What’s this about me blaming you? I was the one who didn’t see that guy coming until the last second. I’m the one who forced the pass, even though I knew I didn’t have enough clearance for my follow-through. I’m the one who decided to do anything not to take that sack. My hand came down on his helmet. How is that your fault?”
I swallow painfully. “That’s what everyone’s saying.”
“Who’s ‘everyone’?”
“Just… people. Fans. They think I’m a distraction, that I’m bad luck.”
His voice steely, he says, “There’s a reason I don’t read or listen to any of that crap. It’s toxic. I don’t want to hear it secondhand from you, either. They’re all a bunch of idiots.”
“Those idiots love you, though. They think you’re great. I’m the one they hate.”
“Nobody hates you.”
“Yes, they do. They think I’m ruining the team’s chances at another postseason run.”
“If anyone’s done that, it was that bastard, Busch. People are nuts, talking about the postseason. We’ve played one game so far! Which we happened to win. So why is everyone pressing the panic button?”
“We lost you, in the process.”
He pulls back the covers and sits on the side of the mattress, pointing his back to me. “You tell me this won’t be like New York, but in the next breath, you try to take credit for ruining my career. Which one is it, Maura?”
Openly sobbing and clutching the covers on either side of me, I moan, “I don’t know! I’m sad and confused and so alone. I don’t know what to think or feel. You’re so c-cold, and so m-mean, mad at me because I happen to see and hear the horrible things people are saying about me.”
“You seek it out! You have alerts on your phone to tell you when anyone’s talking about us. You’re torturing yourself with this shit. Who cares what they say?”
“I care, all right? I can’t be a curse for an entire city.”
“You’re not. I’m doing everything exactly the way I always have. But accidents happen. Injuries happen. And the one that happened to me last week had nothing to do with you.”
“But people’s perceptions—”
“Screw their perceptions! The people who matter know the truth. At least, I thought they did. But I guess you’d rather believe a bunch of asswipes who have nothing better to do than trash-talk and read into things that aren’t there.” Rising from the bed, he stomps to the door, yanks it open, and walks through it, slamming it behind himself.
Thirty
Reassurances and Upheaval
It doesn’t feel like I sleep at all, so I’m surprised when a soft knock on the bedroom door wakes me the next morning. The person on the other side doesn’t wait for me to answer; rather, he walks right in, bearing a huge tray with one
