Page 101 of Play the Last Card

I haven’t been back to the apartment since before Christmas, when Mom and Dad were visiting. I’d let them into the apartment when they arrived. Ivy and I had dinner with them a few times, but when it had been time to call it a night Mom and Dad had gotten into my bed there while I’d gone home with my girl and gotten into hers.

My home is wherever she is and she is most comfortable in her own bed, so that’s where we sleep.

Playing the Sunday night football spot means we stayed overnight in Pittsburgh last night and got through morning physical therapy before flying home this morning. Tomorrow, a Tuesday, is a day off meaning when I get into bed with Ivy tonight I get to wake up to her too.

Normally, I’m up and dressed before she’s even fluttered an eyelid. I’m kissing her goodbye before she’s fully awake. But tomorrow, I get to stay. I get to watch her morning routine, pick out her outfit, listen to her talk about the day she has planned.

Life before Ivy was different: football, my parents, and more football. My Tuesdays were another day of reviewing game tape, and stretching, and training at the gym.

Now, Tuesdays are about slowly waking up with her in my arms and lazy mornings. They’re about cleaning up the house while Ivy’s at school, about going to the grocery store to get her favorite ice cream if we’re out, about visiting her Pops over lunch to get to know him and talk football with him.

My career used to be everything.

Now, Ivy is everything. Football is a bonus.

As the Boston brownstone comes into view, I relax back into my seat. Somewhere in the last few months, I fell hard and fast for the Boston born girl that lives on this tree covered street. I’ve been hooked since day one. Football feels almost like it’s nothing if she isn’t there cheering me on, too.

I park in the usual spot alongside the street lamp lit sidewalk in front of her house. Her car sits in the driveway and there’s light filtering out of the front window and illuminating the small garden. I grab my bag from the back seat, wincing as I throw it over my shoulder and head toward the house.

Something flashes behind me, lighting up the dark street. Then another, and another.

What the fuck?

I turn around to find two people carrying large cameras, extra lenses hanging around their necks, stepping around a car a few yards away from my own. They continue to snap pictures. The continuous flashing blinding me as I’m rendered motionless.

The fucking paparazzi?

What the hell are they doing here? Do they really have nothing else to do?

I’ve seen the posts. The constant stream of those three photos that got leaked and continue to get posted over and over. A few of Ivy’s Instagram photos got reposted on gossip sites but following me home? Surely not.

“Hey, Harvey,” one of them shouts. “Rough game. Glad to be home? How’s the new relationship? Working out?”

I grit my teeth. None of that is his damn business. I hold my tongue, ignoring them and pulling my cap further down to hide my face. I’ve been through enough media training to know that I can’t answer them otherwise they get what they want but that doesn’t stop me tightening my grip around the handle of the bag thrown over my shoulder to stop myself swinging at the slimy idiot.

Does Ivy know they’re here?

Did they follow me home or were they already here?

I’d been so lost in my own thoughts; I didn’t notice until they started taking pictures.

I turn the key in the door, the feeling still new. After the Christmas day game, I noticed the new addition to my key ring. We didn’t speak about it but now, instead of knocking, I let myself in. I keep the door close to my body, shutting it as soon as I slip inside.

I kickoff my shoes and turn the lights out. I can hear the studio laugh track of what I think is aFriendsepisode echoing down the hallway. I leave my bag at the bottom of the stairs and make my way into the living room.

Ivy is sitting in her corner of the couch. She’s curled into the cushions and covered by one of the many blankets she keeps on the couch. As suspected,Friendsplays in the background but Ivy’s attention is solely on her phone as she scrolls.

I’ll bet my Mercedes SUV that she’s scrolling through those pap photos.

“Hi, baby,” I say, keeping my voice quiet so as not to make her completely jump out of her skin. I fail and Ivy flinches anyway. I laugh but itfeels hollow. “Sorry, didn't mean to scare you. I thought you would have heard me come in?”

She sits up, her hair falling over her shoulder as she stretches. The t-shirt she’s wearing lifts, giving me a nice view of the curves I love to trace endlessly in bed, or when we’re on the couch, or whenever I get my hands on her.

There aren’t any lights on. Just the reflection from the TV and the low light coming from the bright flames that flicker in the fireplace.

Ivy stares at me for a moment. Her navy-blue eyes look almost black in the low light but I can see her tracing my features. Like she’s taking notes. Committing me to her memory. I do the same when she falls asleep before me and I find myself not believing she’s actually real.

“Hi,” she whispers finally. She puts her phone down on the couch cushions beside her.