Page 39 of Married to the Scottish Player
“I can’t help it!” She laughs. “He and I were never going to last, though I doubt he would have dumped me. Dating in a small town is rough. It’s slim pickings when you know everyone’s entire life story or went to elementary school with them.”
“Fair,” I say, grinning. “So you went for the mayor’s kid to shake things up.”
She snorts. “Trust me, there was no shaking. He’s the world’s safest bet, and I wish him all the best—just not with me.”
I laugh again, the sound echoing along with the crackle of the fire. The storm rages on, but it has begun to feel oddly peaceful here with her, swapping stories in the flickering candlelight. Dare I sayromantic?
Nah. Not that.
Not us, we’re enemies, battling over the same cabin ...
I clear my throat, glancing at her as another gust of wind rattles the windowpanes. “So what do you actually want? Long term, I mean.”
“Long term? Hmm.”
I shrug, and when I do, the tips of my fingers brush against her shoulder. “Outside of work—or Tim, the mayor’s boring son—what doyouwant? Five years from now or whatever.”
“The only one who ever asks me that is Lucy.” She hums again. “I don’t know. I’d love to travel more; sometimes it feels like I’m stuck here. Have you ever seen that movieGroundhog Day, where the guy wakes up every single morning and it repeats day after day?”
“Uh, no.”
“Well, that’s how I feel sometimes. Day after day is the same. Tourists. Brides. Same coffee, same café. Town is the size of a postage stamp, and I never leave—which is why I came here, though I only drove from one side of the lake to the other.” Annabelle lets out a breath. “I don’t know what I want. Freedom? Not to feel suffocated.” She looks at me, eyes warm. “What about you? What doyouwant?”
I shift, the question heavier than I was expecting it to feel now that it’s my turn to respond. “I want to feel useful again,” I admit, voice low. “Whole. Football was everything, and then I hurt myself, and suddenly I don’t fucking know who I am anymore.”
Football was my identity, and now that I can’t play until I’m healed—I feel like I’m floating.
Aimless.
Useless.
Annabelle doesn’t rush to fill the silence. Instead, she watches me, steady and patient, hearing every word I’ve said. “That has to be hard,” she says softly.
“It is.” I drag a hand over my jaw. “It’s like—if I’m not the guy on the field, taking my team to the Super Bowl, I don’t know what else I’m good at. What if that’s all I ever was?”
She shifts closer, untucking her legs from beneath her. “Then you find something else,” she tells me. “You don’t strike me as the kind of guy that quits.”
I’m not. Wasn’t.
But maybe I am.
Lightning flashes, momentarily turning the room white, but neither of us flinches this time.
Annabelle pokes me with the tip of her finger. “If you could doanythingother than football, what would it be?”
I swallow, letting the question marinate. “Shit, I have no fucking idea,” I admit honestly. “I’ve never let myself think that far ahead. Haven’t had to think about it since I was in high school.”
I was the guy colleges and universities across the country were scouting by the time I was a junior. So I majored in business but never gave any thought to, well—what would happen if I tore my ACL.
“This is not a career-ending injury. But it’s made me question a lot of shit, which is how I ended up here.” I gesture around the room. “My teammates were here last week and couldn’t shut up about how‘serene’ it was.” I use air quotes. “Figured it couldn’t hurt. At least I can hear myself think.”
Phoenix, Arizona, isn’t exactly the epitome of chill vibes. Not for me, anyway.
She shifts closer, patting me on the forearm with one of her delicate hands. “I think it’s brave,” she says. “Most people would push through, stay busy, pretend everything’s fine.”
“That’s exactly what I’d do.” I snort. “’Cept my knee wouldn’t let me even if I tried.”
She laughs, light and sweet. “Do you have pets? I feel like I know the answer, but enlighten me. Dog person or cat person?”
