Page 40 of Play the Last Card
It’s different to most men. I can see that instantly. Most men would shy away from showing so much emotion in the first few dates but not Scott. He’s proud of his parents, of being their son.
It’s so blatantly obvious it couldn’t be more clear if I was hit over the head with it.
“They’re great. They’re—” He takes a deep breath, eyes falling to his lap for a moment before meeting mine again. “I’m so grateful for them, they’re the best people in the world.”
Something curls around my heart, aching deep in my chest coming to the surface. Not for the first time, questions on whether I would be saying the same of my own parents crawl up my throat.
A longing for them—to speak to them, to see them, to have them see me now—pulses beneath my skin. I suppress it.
“They sound wonderful. Well, your mom does if we take Big Al’s word for it.” I take the wine glass, now filled, and have a large sip. It dulls the ache.
“I’m adopted.”
The wine lodges in my throat.
“Oh.” I shake my head a little, completely caught off guard. I look up to find his eyes and it feels as though he is staring straight through me and into my soul. “Sorry, you caught me off guard."
He nods, the smile on his face still there. “I can tell. I guess that’s why I love them so much. Because they didn’t have to choose me but they did and I’m grateful.”
“Do they live here? In Boston?” I know the answer is no, seeing as he hates it here so much.
Like I suspect, he shakes his head. “Nah, they’re back in LA.”
“Is that where you grew up?”
He hums. “Yeah. Since I was five. Grew up in the same house they live in now even though it’s far too large for them both since I’ve been gone. But they’re the sentimental type so they refuse to move.”
He shakes his head, smiling and remembering whatever memory that’s popped into his head. I smile along with him as I imagine a small dark-haired toddler running around a garden. It is harder to reconcile the large man in front of me with the images in my head but it works.
“Will you tell me about your childhood?” I take another sip of my wine.
“Sure. What do you want to know?”
I look up at him. He is so genuine, so honest about his parents. So open about being adopted. Yet I sit here not wanting to share anythingabout mine because how do you admit that your childhood was spent angry, and upset, and confused as to why your parents weren’t there on the first day of school. Why my grandfather turned up to the daddy-daughter days at school, or why my grandmother was the one to get me my first bra (although I’m not sure I’d share that story with Scott anyway).
I avoid the subject of his job and where he works. I don’t want to talk about football or anything close to it. I don’t want to have to battle with the emotions that arise anytime I do.
There’s a chance if we get into his job, and he actually talks about it, we might get into my connection to football. Getting into my connection will drag up the past and I do not want to think about it.
I shake my head a little, almost as if I am physically trying to stop the spiral I’m about to go down and focus back on Scott.
Chapter Nine
Scott
Three weeks, three moreofficial dates.
More than three nights on Ivy’s couch, popcorn or chips between us and a movie on the TV. Many, many more than three kisses hello … and goodnight … and just for the hell of it.
I’ve never felt more like a horny teenager. Even when I was one. Ivy has me wrapped up in her orbit like no other woman before. If I’m not on the field, I am with her. If I’m not in the gym, watching tape, sleeping (still in my own bed) I’m with her. Or I’m thinking about her.
The week after our dinner at Big Al’s, I took her bowling.
I rented out the place again during the lunch hours on a Saturday because I had to fly out for a game that night. She slaughtered me in all three rounds, devoured half the pizza we’d ordered and celebrated every pin bowled down like she’d just won the fucking Super Bowl.
She might hate football but she is a natural at sports.
Though I’ll never admit that to her.