I’d scoured through every box I brought with me, glad that I left a lot of my high school and younger memorabilia at Mom and Dad’s on Maui. Even with just my college and after keepsakes, trophies, plaques, awards, uniforms, and gear, I’d filled three boxes, and had a bunch of stuff that couldn’t fit in a box just lined up against the wall or along the top shelves of the closet. And when I closed the doors, I jotted down a note to get a lock as soon as possible.
I’d met with Belle on Monday, two days before our second date, to go over her official design and plan of attack for the condo. She’d been ordering furniture and rugs and plants and God knows what else all week, and I knew any day now I’d start getting deliveries.
And then she’d be here with her crew, unpacking, organizing, designing the space with the elegance that only she could.
I was reaching the point where I wanted to tell her about who I really was — mostly because I loved talking to her, and I wanted her to know my true passion. Every time we turned the conversation to work, I would find a way to change the subject, because I had absolutely nothing to say about real estate.
I could talk all day long about football.
The more I spent time with Belle, the more I believed that she really didn’t know who I was. Hell, if anything, she’d had the opportunity to call me out on my shit when that guy bought me a beer at Doc’s bar Wednesday night. But she hadn’t probed at all, just changed the subject easily back to my family.
But as much as I wanted to trust her, to think I already knew her, I also realized this was part of my issue when it came to the girls I chose to date in the past.
I got swept away easily. I got caught up. I convinced myself there were no red flags until they were all waving in front of my face and it was too late to get out without getting hurt. Yes, I wanted to tell Belle about football… but the truth was that I didn’t know her well enough just yet.
The nervous part of me wondered if she’d done it on purpose, ignoring the guy at the bar, the people staring as we walked to the bar. I wondered if she was playing a game with me like so many had before. Oh, wow, you play football? I had no idea! You know what I’d really love? To interview a football player on my podcast…
I mean, why didn’t she question what had happened? I sure as hell would have if it were her in the reverse.
Maybe she’s playing her own game…
Even as the thought hit me, though, it didn’t sit right. It was clear that Belle was successful as hell without me. She didn’t need my money or my network.
Still, there was something she wasn’t telling me, too. I could sense it. I could feel her holding me just an arm length’s away, studying me, like she knew something I didn’t.
It had kept me awake all night after I left her house on Wednesday — that and the fact that I had blue balls like a motherfucker. A long, hot shower session didn’t bring me relief, nor did the hours I spent tossing and turning, overthinking as I did so well.
It was then that I made a plan.
I decided the best time to tell her would be right after training camp. At that point, I would know if I had a chance at keeping my contract, or if I’d be hitting the road and trying to find another team to take me in. It would also mean that Belle and I had been seeing each other for a couple months. If we make it that long, I’ll have no choice but to tell her if I want to take things to the next level.
Until then, there was no rush. After all, we were still new. We’d only been on a couple of dates. What was the harm in taking it slow and having fun?
I could get to know Belle and she could get to know me.
Me, without the NFL.
The decision cemented, I pushed off from where I’d been leaning up against the closet and made my way into the living room. I needed to spend some time watching film, and then I was meeting up with Gerald at the high school for an evening of drills.
But when I rounded the corner, I heard a soft click. I frowned, leaning back into the guest room, and saw that the closet door had creaked back open, like it was mocking me, like it was pointing out the very obvious truth.
I’m not a secret you can keep for long, it whispered.
As if I didn’t already know.
Belle
On Friday night, Gemma was sprawled out on her stomach on my living room rug, fuzzy slippers swinging in the air, paper and fabric and flowers littered around her like a shrine. I was on the couch above her with my laptop between my sweatpants-clad legs, fiddling with my designs for Makoa’s condo, along with a few other projects.
Although, if I was being honest, Makoa had most of my attention — an annoying fact about most of my time recently.
A half-empty bottle of Malbec sat on my coffee table, and I topped off Gemma’s glass before my own, finishing the job. Gemma sat up long enough to take a sip before a long sigh left her chest, and she dragged all her gorgeous brunette hair up into a messy bun.
“Why is this all so hard?” she whined, staring at the computer screen where she’d left off. She was currently trying to decide what kind of wedding favors she wanted, and after hours of narrowing
