Page 129 of The Catch
Ugh. I should at least have kissed him.
Or maybe not? Do I want to hold his hand and walk into the maze with him? Yeah. I just don't know if it's the right thing to do. It may not be the best for us. Going unprepared may wreck everything.
None of that matters, the moment his face fills the TV screen.
They show a clip of him where someone asks him about the award. I press pause on everything else, especially my torn emotions. All I care about is getting this small piece of him.
He wears a bold shirt with a few open buttons. The design is some sort of paint splattering that resembles animal print. In shades of cream, sage, and golden hues, it shows off the deep bronze of his skin. With his earring shining and his hair nicely done, the smile curling his lips looks stunning.
I would be stunned, for sure, if it weren't for the hint of sadness in his eyes.
"You went from a few seasons where you never made it to the playoffs," a reporter asks, "to making it to the big game in just two years. How are you handling it?"
"I'm handling it like a pro, what can I say?" He grins and those sweet dimples show up again.
His chain peeks through the open panels of his shirt. Those times I actually bit the metal links come back to me, or when I pulled him from it and he so willingly followed instructions.
Desire pools so swiftly, I can't deny just how deeply into him I am. Not that I'm trying, anymore. If nothing else, lust is clear. The way we fit in sex and intimacy is immaculate. That part has never been an issue. What I need to define is if what our hearts bring to the picture is the right thing for us.
People laugh around him on the TV. His diamond earring glints at the lights shining on him.
"I've trained for this my whole life." His hand lands on his chest, like he's speaking from the heart. "I've worked for this. The changes we made when Logan came to the team have set us up for this. We're the team we need to be. We'll do this again and again. For us and for the fans. As long as we're together, we can keep the Strike on top."
I smile. He's hinting at wanting to stay, without revealing much.
The main reporter nods. "And now you got the league's MVP for the season. It usually goes to QBs but you've had such a great season. You broke those records, including most receiving yards. It's like you could read King's mind—"
"Exactly." Saint nods and makes a gesture like asking for more praise. "Keep going."
He gets more laughter at that.
His eyes still hold dejection, but he has them all in a trance. He plays the game. They fall for it. No one sees what I see.
My throat gets a little tight. I happen to know how much he likes to be told he's good. I want to tell him how good he is more than anyone. And I want to hold him and tell him he doesn't have to feel despondent anymore.
The interviewer responds to Saint's smile with one of his own. "How did you overcome those dry years to get here in only two seasons?"
"Like with everything else." Saint taps his chest, deep in thought. "Anything you want to excel at, you need to work hard to get it. Find the discipline to getthrough the days when you can't imagine you can keep going. Doing the hard things you know will get you closer to what you've committed to."
His words scratch my mind. I sit up on the bed.
"That's a whole lot of motivation," the reporter comments.
Saint nods. "It's easy when you know why you're doing it."
"Why do you do it?"
"Why else?" He taps his chest. "Love. Isn't that always the answer?"
Tap tap. Tap tap. Tap tap.
"For the love of success?" the interviewer asks. "Of the sport?"
"All of it. Anything you love, it's worth giving your whole effort to. And I love this game. My team. The life I want deserves this kind of commitment. I'll give it my all for as long as I'm here."
Tap tap. Tap tap. Tap tap.
I gasp. The covers end up all the way to the bottom of the mattress. I sit on my knees right there on the bed. To anyone else, the way he drums on his chest could seem like an unconscious move, the kind that shows he's thinking hard.
