Princess and the Player (Strangers in Love)

I walk into Coletta’s Italian Bistro and see Coach Hardy, the head coach for the Pythons. A tall and distinguished man with gray hair, he played quarterback for Virginia Tech back in the day. Being from the same home state bonded us in a way. I’m not so sure about that now.

He takes my hand. “Good to see you, Tuck. It’s weird not seeing everyone around all the time, huh? First playoffs we haven’t made in years.”

I wince, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Where the hell is your coat? Aren’t you cold?”

“Nah.” I nod to the maître d’, who tells me that Ben, my agent, is already waiting for us at a quiet table in the back.

We stroll through the restaurant and take our seats. Ben is there, dressed in a killer suit with his dark hair slicked back. We share pleasantries as our whiskeys are delivered. Seemed like the right thing to order. I need something to calm my nerves.

Coach Hardy adjusts his tie and clears his throat as he looks at me. “Tuck, you and I have spoken in my office about the upcoming year. I’ve met with the owner, and we’ve had some discussions. I want you to know that I wanted you to stay, but with the losses we took this year, the overall feeling is we need a fresh start. You’re the hardest-working player, and you’ve been with the franchise since you were drafted. We respect that. We admire your tenacity and dedication. But you’re older, and you’ve had some personal issues. Perhaps it’s time for you to take a break, maybe figure out what you want. We, the team, want to go in a new direction.” He exhales.

My chest burns.

I take a sip of whiskey, forcing my hand not to tremble.

I knew this was coming. My gut twisted and rolled with it for eighteen weeks of football. I went out on that field each time with the thought that it might be my last time.

They’re deserting me. Letting me go out to the farm because I’m old.

I wait for a wave of rage to hit, the anger that boils underneath, and it’s there, but my head is stuck in other places too.

Cece’s comment that forgiving is an attribute of the strong and that I should remember it with Francesca.

What the hell did she mean?

Why have I never seen Francesca drink alcohol since Decadence?

There’s other hints. The worry on Darden’s face when he sees us together.

A cold sweat breaks out over my skin, and the muffled sound of the other patrons dims even more.

“Tuck?”

I look at Hardy, my jaw tightening. “You’re moving on to younger players. My contract won’t be renewed. Got it.”

“What’s the spin on this, Coach?” Ben asks. “We’d want Tuck to announce he’s retiring before you release a statement.”

“I wouldn’t do it any other way.” Hardy takes his glasses off and wipes them. “I hate doing this, Tuck. I really do. I wouldn’t be surprised if you ended up on another team and breathing life into them. You’ve got what it takes.”

Another sip of whiskey hits my lips. “No. Apparently, I used to have what it takes.”

He grimaces. “I’m one of the longest-running coaches in the NFL. You’re one of the longest-running wide receivers. We’re not that different. At some point, we move on.”

A kid from the restaurant, maybe ten, appears at my side.

“Can I have your autograph, Tuck?” he asks nervously, his hand twitching with a napkin and pen.

I smile. “Sure, kid. Who do I make it out to?”

He tells me, and I sign it with numb fingers.

Coach hands over papers for me to initial, and he gives me a deadline to announce my retirement, says his goodbyes, and then shakes our hands.

Ben puts a hand on my shoulder after he leaves. “That was brutal.”

Another sip. “Yeah.”

It’s over for me and the Pythons.

Again, I wait for the rage, but it’s muted.

I accept it. It’s time to move on. I roll my neck. “What’s next?”

“First, you release a press statement to the media, via email or however you want. I’ll draft one and send it over. But now, today, we can talk about other opportunities. If you want to keep playing . . .” He arches a brow at me.

“Maybe.”

“Tennessee needs a veteran wide receiver. They’ve got rookies and not a lot of talent.”

I tap my fingers. Besides the team, my mother was another reason I stayed in New York. Now I have Francesca. I shelve that thought as he continues.

“There’s Kansas City. I’ve quietly inquired, and they’ve expressed interest.”

Both decent teams. Not as good as the Pythons, but . . .

“Salary?”

“Twelve million—I know, less than you’re making now, but there’s a bonus for making the playoffs.”

It’s not really about the money . . .

“Okay, what else?”

“Let me be frank as a friend. You’ve had a tough year. You’re a free agent, and who says you have to decide right away? Take some time away; take your yacht out, and let it simmer. If you don’t do football, we can check in with broadcasting. You’re damn pretty, you speak well, and people like your charm. You’d do well in front of the camera.”

“Broadcasting?” I scoff.

“Less stress while still being part of the world; feel me?”

“I’m starting a nonprofit.” I lay out the framework I’ve been working on and how I’d like to see it run.

He nods. “That’s a huge undertaking to fund. Are you sure you can handle that and play football?”

“I have more money than I know what to do with. My dad left me two billion. I can use it to help others.”

His eyes blink. “Fuck.”

I smirk. “Drinks are on me, right?”

He whistles under his breath. “Tuck, you can buy a football team—or invest in one at least.”

“Nah, if I’m not playing, I don’t wanna watch some other guys.”

“Okay, circling back to the nonprofit. We need a needs assessment, a market analysis, a board of directors, fundraising. There’s legal, accounting, and technical issues to tackle. I can put you in touch with some lawyers who specialize. Meet with them, maybe touch base with other similar people who’ve started big foundations.” He frowns. “I don’t know, Tuck . . .”

I finish my drink. “Yeah. It’s a lot to think about.”

He gathers his things. “So when are you taking your boat out? Going to the Caribbean or the Mediterranean?”

Once again Francesca pops in my head—her lying in the sun on my yacht. Jasper said he’s in for a couple of weeks, and Deacon too. I told them to invite whomever they wanted, but I haven’t talked to her about it. She has her job, and while it’s flexible, I’m not sure she can afford to take weeks off at a time.

“Not sure yet,” I tell him.

Just as the valet is bringing around my car, he stops and pushes a brown manila envelope in my hands. “Oh, almost forgot. Here’s the latest from the investigator. Sorry. I meant to drop it off at your place last week.”

I frown. “More? I thought I had it all?”

“Apparently, he dug a little deeper. I gave you an initial report, and this is the last of it.” He slaps me on the back. “Keep your head up. We’re gonna figure out this football thing.”

I look down at the envelope.

A terrible unease washes over me as I rub my fingers across it. Things between Francesca and me have been great. I’m not hiding my anxieties or worries about football. She sees the real me.

But this envelope, coupled with this niggling in my brain . . .

I shake it off. This is nothing.

So why do I feel as if an axe is about to fall?

I take a seat on the couch in Dr. Newman’s office. A psychiatrist in her late forties, she wears her hair in a ponytail that never looks quite straight. Potted greenery is scattered everywhere: in her windows, on her desk, on the floor.

She sits in the club chair adjacent and smiles as she pulls out her notes.

“Thanks for seeing me.”

She nods. “I had a cancellation.”

“I was canceled too.” It’s been a day since the team dropped me.

She glances down at her notes. “Have you been experiencing any aggression about the loss of your team?”

I recall dinner last night with Francesca, then making love in our bed. “No. I feel a sense of relief that they told me. I just went home to my girlfriend.”

“Let’s talk about her. What attracted you to her?”

I clasp my hands and lean forward. “Her eyes. She bumped into me, and they . . . sort of took my breath. I don’t know; is that weird?”

She smiles. “No, we’re all drawn to different things in another person. Tell me about how you met.”

“NDA there, but I couldn’t see all of her face, but yeah, there was this sort of instant vibe between us. I liked her tattoo, her lips, the scar on her hip. She said unexpected things, about how I was dark, and it . . . stuck with me. It felt like she knew me, but she didn’t. Well, she had seen me before—wow, this is confusing. She calls us fate. I call it coincidence.” I fiddle with my thumbs. “It’s just, I have strong feelings for her, but I feel as if she’s keeping secrets from me.”

“Why?”

I shrug, not able to grasp on to anything concrete. “Her friends will be talking, then stop when I come in the room. She’ll start to say something, then stop. She stares at me with fear in her eyes; I mean, I can see it, but I’m too scared to ask her what it’s about. What if she’s actually afraid of me?” I stare at my hands. “I keep waiting for her to give up on me. She wants . . .”

“Yes?”

“More of me.” I take a shaky breath.

“That makes you afraid because . . .”

“I’m always waiting for everything to implode. Maybe I’ll hit her. Maybe she’ll quit us.”

“Do you want to hurt her? Ever fist your hands at her? Threaten? Curse at her?”

“Jesus, no! Never!”

“Are you your father, Tuck?” Her voice hardens, as if she’s goading me.

“Fuck no!” I stand up and pace around the room.

“Hmm, have you ever hit a woman?”

“No.”

“Ever want to?”

“Never.” I sit back down and rake a hand through my hair.

She watches me. “Perhaps you use this self-talk of being like your father to protect yourself from caring. It’s a good argument in your head, a reason to push people away. You watched your parents’ relationship implode—so you don’t take chances. You don’t know what a healthy relationship looks like.”

I nod. “Understatement.” I tug on my bottom lip with my teeth. “She’s fucking amazing. Talented. Beautiful. Funny.” A small laugh comes from me. “What’s cool is I bought one of her sketches before we met. It’s like she’s been coming and going in my life for years, and I didn’t even know.”

She pauses. “What I find interesting is she’s the main thing we’re discussing—and not the end of your time with the Pythons. True, I brought her up, but she’s what’s on your mind. Is it possible she’s more important than your career?”

The world turned on its axis when my career ended. It’s still carving a scar inside of me, but if she left, how many scars would I have? I shrug.

“Since the breakup with the team, have you had any chest pain or anxiousness?”

“No.” I shake my head, and she quirks an eyebrow.

“You’ve had only a few close relationships. Ronan, your coach from high school, and now Jasper. So perhaps some of your mistrust for others has lessened? You seem to have made new friends, Darden, Brogan, and Cece?”

My lips twitch at the memory of a game night we had at Darden’s. Cece stole a ceramic angel, Brogan used a Russian accent all night, and Darden bossed everyone around with his cane. Francesca laughed the entire night, her face lit up.

“You seem calm for a man who lost his job recently.”

I inhale a deep breath. “Yeah.”

“You’re making inroads, learning to balance your life with the emotional upheaval of your childhood, along with your father’s suicide and your mother’s rejection. Those aren’t easy roads, Tuck, yet you’re sitting here and you’re not the same man from last year.”

“The meds?”

She inclines her head. “They can certainly help your brain chemistry, but some of this is you opening yourself up. This is the right path for healing.”

My stomach flutters. I want that. I do.

“And your mother? There’s no contact since her manic episode?”

“She’s on new medication and back to her normal routine. According to the director, she’s enjoying life.”

“How does that make you feel?”

Emotion claws at my throat every time I think of her.

“Abandoned. Angry.”

“Do you need her forgiveness? Is your happiness dependent on her love and acceptance?”

“I have no other family that I care about.”

“What if she calls you tomorrow and says she never wants to see you again and she’ll never forgive you?”

A wave of grief hits, and I lean over and scrub my face. “Devastated.”

Compassion flits over her face. “I suggest you write a letter to confront her with your feelings, then move on with whatever her choice is.”

My jaw clenches. “And that’s all it takes? A letter?”

“I don’t know. That’s up to you. But you need some kind of closure with her.” She pauses, her pen tapping against her pad. “Let me ask you this: What if you could live a perfect life? What would it look like?”

I swallow and look out the window.

Me playing ball, my mom and I reconciled, and . . . I rub my chest. Francesca.

How long will she stick with me before she wants a real family . . . ?

“A new team? Your relationship with your mother? Your girlfriend? Your nonprofit?” She stands, signaling the end of the session. “Envision your ideal life five years from now. Who are you? What have you accomplished? What makes you happy?”

I leave, thoughts churning. When I get in my car, the packet from yesterday is still on the passenger side. I pick it up to open it, then put it back down, my chest rising.

I told her I’d never investigate her again, but . . .