I deflated at the realization. “Self-sabotage at its finest.”
“Mm-hmm.” Gemma tossed another handful of popcorn in her mouth before she abandoned the bag and crawled toward me. Her petite arms wrapped around mine, and she rested her head on my shoulder, making a shelf for me to lean my head, too. “I wish I could tell you that there is absolutely zero chance of it not working out. But that chance is always there. It was there with me and Carlo, even after we got married. It’s there with me and Zach, even though we’re head over heels for each other right now. Love is scary that way, because at any moment, one person could change their mind and end it all.”
“This is a terrible pep talk.”
She laughed. “What I’m saying is, that niggling in your belly that’s freaking you out?” She leaned up, looking at me. “It’s trust.”
I swallowed.
“You trust him, Belle. And that’s a really, really good sign.”
“The last time I trusted someone—”
“I know,” she said, cutting me off. “But this isn’t last time. This is this time. And you’ve got to let go of the what ifs. Maybe Makoa is keeping some stuff from you right now. Maybe he’s been hurt, just like you. Maybe it’s going to take some time. But don’t judge him based off what you don’t know about him. Judge him by what you do know.”
My heart squeezed, and Gemma pulled all the way back, sitting in front of me. She held up her hand, fingers splayed. “Tell me five things you know.”
I chuckled. “This is silly.”
“Indulge me,” she said, wiggling her fingers.
“Well… he’s kind,” I started, and Gemma smiled, knocking down one finger. “He’s goofy as hell. He makes me laugh. He makes me feel safe.” I smiled, looking down at the floor as my words carried me away. “He cares about my job. He didn’t judge me when I told him about my past. He loves his family. He’s a Broadway nerd like me, and he’s terrible at trivia, but I find it adorable that he thinks he’s so great. He’s an awful cook, too, but I love that he wants to cook for us. For me. He trusts me with his condo, with everything in the design. He gives me room to be creative. He makes an effort with my friends, and the funny thing is that he doesn’t even have to because he’s him.” I bit my lip. “And he has, quite possibly, the most perfect cock to ever be sculpted by the dick gods.”
Gemma snorted a laugh. “I don’t think the dick gods are a thing.”
“Sure, they are,” I argued, frowning when I met her gaze. “There are pussy gods, too. I thank them every day for this tight little slip and slide.” I tapped between my legs with a proud smile, and Gemma rolled on her back in a fit of laughter.
When she sat back up, she watched me for a long while with a knowing smile. “Belle. I ran out of fingers.” She held up all ten to show. “So, if we’re going by what you do know about him… I’d say you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
Nothing to worry about, I echoed in my mind.
I wondered if I’d ever be able to believe it.
Makoa
Training camp was a strange kind of torture.
Any player would be lying if they said they hated it. Then again, any player would be lying if they said they loved it. Because the truth of the matter lay somewhere in between, and which end of the scale that truth landed on depended heavily on the day and the time of day.
Of course, we were all ecstatic to get out and play. For a lot of the guys, it’d been weeks since they’d touched a ball or ran a play. Even if they hadn’t taken a real vacation and had been running drills and working out as strenuously as I had, they hadn’t played with their team, in their colors, with that familiar adrenaline rushing through their veins and reminding them that each second ticked them closer and closer to the first kick-off of the season.
The slate was clean.
We all had a chance to make it.
And the team had a chance to make it to the big game.
It was exciting, to see guys you hadn’t seen in a while or, in my case, to meet a whole new team of guys. There was a lot of laughing, a lot of pranking each other, a lot of that high that comes only with getting the perfect snap or perfect catch or perfect block. There was a reason most football players would say their team is like their family, and much of that was born at camp.
All that being said, camp was also fucking brutal.
It was long days that started before the sun came up, and didn’t end until long after it went down. It was hours of meetings, two-a-day practices, scrimmages and drills. It was watching film until your eyes crossed, being twisted up and mashed on by an athletic trainer before being sent out for more work on the field, and lifting weights even when your muscles were so sore it hurt to lift a toothpick. It was fine-tuning techniques, pushing even when you were exhausted to try to stand out to the offensive and head coaches, and above all, treating every second like it was your last chance to prove you deserved a spot on the team.
It didn’t matter that no decisions would be made about who would be cut and who would stay for a few weeks yet. To even get that far, you
