The Romantic Pact (Kings of Football)(88)

What will make you happy in this life? What will bring you joy? Who will help you make the most of this precious life you’ve been given?

I know in my heart of hearts that that person is Crew for me, and I think he sees me as his soulmate too. And I guess time will tell what we do about that.

I just hope we make Pops proud.





The rest of the day has been pretty quiet.

After crying together, we sat on the steps of the castle for what seemed like hours. It wasn’t until I started shivering from the cold that we ended up leaving. Hand in hand, we walked down the curvy driveway to our car, and we drove to the hotel in silence.

We shared an early dinner together since we have a morning flight to catch and want to get some good sleep beforehand, and even that dinner was quiet. We didn’t talk about the letter. We didn’t talk about Pops or what the plan is for when we get home.

Instead, we spoke about the food, the decorations in the restaurant, and how we plan on packing our suitcases. Menial, fluffy topics.

Now that we’re back at the hotel, in our bed, and the lights are turned off, I half expect Crew to strip me out of his borrowed shirt. The shirt he loves seeing me in.

But instead, my back is curled against his chest and he’s holding me tightly.

A world of questions float around inside my head. A world of unease aches deep inside me.

What’s he thinking?

Does he agree with Pops? Does he think our souls are connected?

Did Pops’s letter freak him out?

Why is he so quiet?

Why isn’t he kissing me right now like every other night?

Why isn’t he teasing me, roaming his hands over me?

Is he pulling away?

The last question has tears pricking at my eyes, and before I can stop myself, I quietly ask, “Is everything okay?”

My voice breaks the silent night, and for a second, I wonder if he’s sleeping since he doesn’t answer right away, but then his arm grows tighter around my waist.

“Yeah. Are you okay?”

I have an opportunity to talk to him, to tell him how I feel. My worries and concerns. I consider Pops’s letter and how he spoke about solidifying that connection, but as my mind races with the truth, my mouth can’t seem to speak it.

My heart weighs too heavy and my answer comes out flat. “Yeah, I am.”

“Good.” He kisses my shoulder. “I did want to talk to you about something, and I don’t know how to address it.”

Oh God.

My heart twists in my chest from the unknown, from the thought of him telling me he’s not interested, that he doesn’t want to pursue this.

“What about?” I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral.

“When we get home, I was thinking, maybe . . . uh, maybe we do keep this secret for a little bit.”

As if a tidal wave of sorrow roars over me, my heart plummets, and I can feel the first initial tug of him putting distance between us.

“I’m not ashamed of what we have or what we built here,” he says quickly. “But I don’t want there being any complications when we get there. I want the focus to be on family, on Pops, and on figuring out what’s going to happen next. And I know if we go home showing us off, it’s going to distract from all of that.”

I nod, swallowing down my pain. “I understand.”

“Do you? Because you sound upset.”

I can’t respond, not unless I want him to hear me cry, so I keep quiet. But Crew knows me too well at this point and he rolls me to my back, hovering over me. The tears I was trying to hold back fall down my cheeks. I attempt to wipe them away but more keep falling.

“This doesn’t mean I don’t want to be with you, Hazel.” He helps me clear my face. “I just want to be able to figure everything out with a clear mind.”

“I get it.” I suck in a sharp breath and try to calm myself down.

“Hazel, talk to me. Please. I don’t want you being upset.”

My lip trembles, my heart races, and I try to come up with the words I need to say to him to help him understand my aching soul, but I can’t find them. I don’t know how to express the tumultuous feelings plaguing me.

Finally, I say, “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t.”

“But I feel like I already am. We haven’t spoken much tonight. I feel you pulling away. You didn’t even kiss me goodnight. You might not think you’re pulling away, but you are.”

“A lot is on my mind, Hazel,” he says, his tone of voice threaded with a hint of edge. “I’m not pulling away. I’m thinking.”

“Okay,” I answer, not wanting to get in a fight with him.

His eyes search mine. His hand reaches up to my face and his thumb gently strokes my cheek. There’s something he wants to say, I can see it. It’s resting on the tip of his tongue, but instead of saying it, he leans down, presses a gentle kiss on my mouth, and whispers, “Goodnight, Haze.”

We don’t have sex.

The next morning, we take separate showers.

On the way to the airport, he drives with both hands on the steering wheel.

On the flight back to New York, he sleeps and watches movies.

The entire time I mourn another crippling loss. First Pops, now Crew, and when we return, in the desperate, quiet solitude, possibly my home and livelihood. Because for someone like me, despite how much Pops has said he loved me as one of his own grandchildren, I’ll be irrelevant.