Quarterback Sneak (Red Zone Rivals #3)(92)

I had casseroles from neighbors and life insurance policies from lawyers and a house full of things that smelled like him. I had a down payment on a condo downtown that I’d secured, thinking I would be walking away from him, away from his infidelity. I had an empty hole in my chest where a young heart used to beat, where love used to grow like flowers, now turned to weeds.

I had a secret to keep, one that would eat me alive every second it dwelled in the dark, unspoken depths of my mind.

And I had a plan.

To preserve control over my future, over my heart, my soul, my well-being, over the life I would lead after my husband — I had to eliminate the factors that were uncontrollable. It was just that simple.

And right there, in that first-row pew, with my dead, cheating husband’s mother’s hand in mine, I made one simple plan, with one simple rule.

Never fall in love again.

It was more than just a plan, more than just a goal. It was a promise.

And it was one I vowed to keep.

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Gemma

eight months later



“No.”

I only had one word for my best friend-slash-boss as we flowed with the crowd spilling out of Soldier Field, the warm, early-September air sweeping over us. Despite the fact that Belle and I had sweat through most of the Chicago Bears preseason game until the sun finally went down, I still smiled, reveling in the last few weeks of summer.

Soon, the heat would fade, and the Illinois winter would hit with all the subtlety of a Mack truck.

I was in no rush to be greeted with the kind of cold that hurts your face. Still, while I would miss summer, it was fall that was my favorite season. It had always held a special place in my heart for many reasons — my birthday, Halloween, pumpkin-spiced everything, and, most of all, football.

“Shut up. You don’t get to say no to me,” Belle snapped. She swept her long, strawberry-blonde hair off her shoulder before looping her arm through mine. “In our friendship, I’m always right. And trust me when I say I’m right about this.”

“I’m not ready to date, Belle. Drop it.”

“I didn’t say you had to date,” she stated, matter-of-factly, as she held up one black-lacquered fingernail. “I said you need to get laid. And this, my friend, is literally every man’s fantasy.” She gestured to the stadium we had just walked out of. “Free tickets to a football game and a hot chick to bang at the end of the night — with no strings attached?” She shook her head. “Honestly, I wish I had thought of this first. It’s genius.”

“I didn’t think of anything,” I reminded her. “I bought season tickets for my husband to give to him on his thirty-fifth birthday.”

“Your cheating husband,” she reminded me, steering us left toward the street lined with sports bars. And though my face didn’t show a single sign of weakness at those words, my stomach tightened into a knot.

Belle was literally the only person who would ever know that Carlo was unfaithful, other than the woman he cheated on me with — and not even she knew that I knew. I’d only told Belle after Carlo had passed away, mainly because I knew she’d speed up the process of his death before the good Lord could take him if she found out about his infidelity.

Belle was the kind of best friend who loved fiercely. She was honest with me always — bluntly so — and she never let me get too comfortable in my little land of control. Just when she saw me slipping into any kind of complacency, she would challenge me.

I hated her as much as I loved her for that.

Still, while I knew I’d need someone to talk to about Carlo’s infidelity, someone who knew the whole story, sometimes I regretted telling her. Where I was all about suppressing, boxing difficult emotions away and focusing on tasks I could complete, Belle was a processor.

She was not the kind of girl to let something go.

Especially this kind of something.

“And I say this with the utmost respect for you and him and all of God’s creatures,” she continued, drawing a cross over her shoulders with her free hand. “But he’s not here anymore, Gemma. May he rest in peace.” She paused. “And also, be castrated in the name of Jesus, amen.”

“Belle.”

“I’m kidding.” She paused again. “Sort of.”

I was ashamed of the small smile climbing on my lips in that moment. If he was still here, if my original plan had actually come to fruition, these types of jokes would be fine to make. After all, what woman didn’t support her best friend after she was cheated on? Comments of castration and ill-bidding were welcome, and most certainly expected.

But when he was no longer breathing, when cancer had taken his life before I could take my life back from him, it wasn’t the same. It was cruel, and heartless, and it produced a type of guilt that sat low and unsettling in your stomach.

This was my entire existence, it seemed, for the past several months.

“While I appreciate the attempt to make me laugh, I’m not ready to make jokes about Carlo like that,” I said softly. “I probably won’t ever be.”

“I’m sorry,” Belle said on a sigh, squeezing my arm as we flowed with the crowd. “Really, I am. That was too far. You know me, I can’t help but make jokes, even when it’s wildly inappropriate. Remember when my cousin had a funeral for his cat?”