Beauty and the Baller (Strangers in Love)

Ronan’s drawn face bends toward me as he carries me into the house. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I want to hurl,” I say, willing the boiling lava in my stomach to settle.

He pushes through the door and rushes into the den.

Sabine stands up from the couch. “What’s wrong?”

My stomach rumbles again, and I wrestle out of Ronan’s grip. He doesn’t want to let me go but finally does. I cling to the staircase, my head spinning. “I don’t know; I never do this . . .” I stop, frowning. Unless . . .

Sabine reads my mind. “Did you eat shellfish?”

“You have a shellfish allergy?” Ronan bellows. “Why didn’t you tell me? Where’s the goddamn EpiPen!”

Sabine cocks her head at him. “Remain calm. She doesn’t need an EpiPen. It’s not that serious. Shellfish allergies can occur at any time, mostly when you’re an adult. It started when she was twenty-five and had lobster while we were on vacation in Maine. After that, Mama declared Maine was the worst place in the United States. Her reactions have happened two times since then, all by accident. Once she had clam in soup; the other was sushi. Mama said she never should have gone to that sushi place.”

“I ordered the veggie rolls,” I say weakly.

She ignores me. “Regardless, something went wrong. Nova doesn’t eat most seafood or chicken. I’m not sure why she hates chicken, but she does. When she eats shellfish, she feels faint, vomits, gets a rash on her stomach, and sometimes has diarrhea—”

“Okay, that’s enough,” I say, my shoulders slumping as I trudge up the stairs. “There might have been crab or lobster in the quiche. I didn’t ask, and I should have. I only had a few. Bring the Benadryl, Sabine.”

After clicking down the air on the thermostat, I make it to the bathroom next to my bedroom and throw up again. Leaning over the sink, I wash my face and pat it dry. The door opens, and Ronan walks in with the medicine.

Wearing a frown, he sits on the edge of my tub and pulls out his phone, scrolling.

I take the Benadryl, then grimace at my white face in the mirror.

His voice is abrupt. “Are you having difficulty breathing, swelling of your throat, or a rapid pulse?”

I chug the Sprite he brought. “Don’t look it up on your phone. It will only scare you. I’ll be fine in a few hours. You should go back to the party. For real. This is just a mild reaction.”

He stands, a scowl on his forehead. “If you think I’m leaving you, you’re crazy.”

I exhale. “Fine. Help me out of this dress.” I put my hands on the sink, clinging to the edge.

He unzips the back, easing it off my shoulders. His fingers trace a line down my back. “I’ve never seen you sick.”

“It happens.”

“You’re always so peppy and . . .” He takes a step away from me, picking up my dress and laying it over the hamper.

“This will pass,” I assure him. “And I’ll go back to being pissed at you.”

Wearing my thong and lace bra, I take small steps and hang on to the wall as I edge past him and turn on the shower. I glance at him over my shoulder. “Privacy?”

“Nova . . . there’s something I want to say. I fucked up the pantry moment for us.” He tugs at his hair, his face grimacing. “There’s a wall of fear inside me. I froze up and didn’t know how to handle us.” He lowers his head, then looks at me. “I hate us being at odds.”

Part of me relishes this open side of Ronan, but the other part, self-preservation, doesn’t want to be hurt. I push up a smile. “Okay, I’m glad you said that. May I shower now?”

He bites his lower lip as his eyes skate over my face. “What if your throat starts swelling? We need to make sure your reactions don’t worsen with each exposure. I want to hang around in the bathroom.”

“Ronan . . .” My words stall.

“I just want to make sure . . .” He scrubs his face. “Whitney died on my watch, Nova.”

“That wasn’t your fault. It was a storm. And I’m not even close to being that sick. I’ve been worse off with the flu.”

I notice the tremble in his hands. “Inside, I know that—I do—but . . . I feel like I’m at a crossroads, you know, a big one, and I’m going to screw it up because I can’t be relied on. I can’t. I worked all my life to be the best; I came from nothing, and I attained what some people never do. The Heisman. An incredible career. A team who admired me. A girl I loved. It’s like my world was so perfect for those years that I never imagined anything bad would happen, and I let down my guard! I failed!” He heaves out a breath. “This week has been shit, and tonight, seeing you sick just brings back those feelings of inadequacy. Even with this town, I worry about disappointing them, about leaving my players. They think I’m this great coach and person, but what if I let them down too? They can’t imagine it, but what if I can’t get them that trophy? They want it so much, and they’ve put all this responsibility on me, and sometimes it feels tougher than playing for the Pythons. At least then, I depended on other people in the game, and I have other coaches, but it’s me, all me. These people love me; they’ve put me on a pedestal, and that terrifies me. Their expectations, the belief that I’m going to save them. I talk big and bolster them up—hell, I’m great at getting people to believe in themselves, but I don’t believe in myself! I’m not brave anymore! I lost it somewhere along the way, and I don’t know how to get it back. How fucked is that?” He jerks to a stop. “Jesus, you’re sick, and here I am, bugging you . . .”

My heart softens at his admission. “Ronan, no, let it out. It’s good for you. Speaking your truth puts it in the universe so you can conquer it later.”

He turns and looks at me. His eyes shut. “The things you say . . . I’ve missed you—”

I sigh, interrupting him. “Ronan, I’m here for you as a friend, but . . .”

“Let me finish.” He inhales a deep breath, then swallows. “Nova, that night in New York, when we met, I think I f—” He stops abruptly, his hands clenched as he stares at the floor.

I manage a smile, unsure of what he’s trying to say, as my stomach churns with more nausea. “It was a tumultuous experience for both of us. Can we put a pin in this?”

“Are you okay?” He rushes over to me.

“The quiche isn’t going to keep me down.”

He searches my face, then nods. “Okay. I’m sure you’re right.” He drops the lid on the toilet. “Get in and shower, Princess. I’ll sit here in case you need me.”

Fifteen minutes later, I’m out. He stood outside the door while I dried off, then grabbed me an old NYU sleep shirt. My wet hair hangs around my face in a tangled mess as I walk to my vanity. I sit, and he brushes out my hair, then holds my arm as we walk to the bed. He whips back the covers on the left, and I slide inside. He tucks them around me.

He holds up the Art of War on my nightstand. “Are you reading it?”

“Don’t be weird about it.”

He gives me a half smile. “What’s your favorite part?”

“The part about musical notes and colors and tastes. How there’s only a handful of each, yet they each produce millions of sounds, hues, and flavors.”

“I know the one.”

“Of course you do. Your brain . . .” I mimic something exploding.

He smiles, then fiddles with a picture of me and Mama and Sabine on my nightstand. “You deserve all the wonderful things in the world, Nova. I’m not it.”

Our eyes cling. His words were soft, and I heard the ring of truth in them—that he believes. I don’t allow the sadness and disappointment I feel to surface. I push them down because I do deserve something awesome. And someday I’ll have it.

I pull my hand out of the covers and take his. “Hey. Here’s another quote I like, just for you. There’s a thousand battles and a thousand victories, and through it all, you must believe in yourself . . . and stuff like that. It’s not exact, but then you already know I’m not great at memorizing quotes.”

He squeezes my hand. “Funny.”

Sabine walks in the door. “Are you okay?” There’s an edge to her voice. “Mama went to bed and never woke up.”

Ah . . . I imagine after the flurry downstairs she’s had time to worry. I spread my arms wide. “Right as rain. You can sleep with me if you want.” She did for the first two weeks I was here.

She rubs her ring, her eyes darting to Ronan, who’s plopped down in a puffy chaise chair next to my side of the bed. Sparky walks on the back of the chair, then jumps down from Ronan’s shoulder and curls in his lap. Ronan gives him a dark look but doesn’t move him. “Weird-ass cat.”

“Is Coach going to stay?” Sabine asks.

I look at him.

He pets Sparky. “I’ll leave if it bothers you, Sabine.”

“It doesn’t,” she says. “I like you all right. Just don’t snore, ’kay?”

A smile flits over his face as he leans his head back on the cushion. “Got it.”

My limbs grow heavy as I relax into the cool cotton sheets. “Crawl in behind me,” I tell my sister.

“Can we sing?” she asks.

“Absolutely.”

“Dolly?”

“Who else?” I reply.

“‘Islands in the Stream’ or ‘Here You Come Again’?”

“You decide,” I say.

Wearing her shorts and a baggy shirt, she crawls in behind me, wrapping her arms around my middle. I clutch her hand, threading our fingers together as her voice croons “Here You Come Again.” I sing the chorus with her.

“I’m never leaving you,” I tell her, my voice groggy. She snuggles closer.

My eyes meet Ronan’s across the shadowy room. He hasn’t taken them off me.

Go home, I mouth.

He shakes his head. No.

I sigh, and before I can think of what else to say, exhaustion and sleep tug me under.

Later, I don’t know when, I feel hands on my head, the brush of his lips against my forehead, and then I’m back in dreamland, in a place where Ronan isn’t afraid to love . . .