Everything for You (Bergman Brothers #5)(93)
“I know I might be too late. I might not even have you to lose in the first place, but if I let one more day go by without taking a chance, telling you what you mean to me—that I love you more than a ball beneath my feet or the heart in my chest—that would be the greatest loss of all.”
Once again he brings his hand to my heart and says, quiet, reverent, as he searches my eyes, “This past month, all I’ve wanted is to wrap you in my arms, drag you to bed, and never let you go. To cook with you and watch you sing along to musicals and give you hell for your eyeball-singeing wardrobe, but I had to do this first, Oliver. I had to face what will be: the end for me and the beginning for you. I had to watch you have everything that I’d lost and know I could do it, to prove to us both that while I loved soccer, I love you better, best, beyond.
“This past month has been agony, wanting you, feeling nothing but love and pride, but it’s shown me what I can do—that I can share this world with you, be happy for you, cheer you on, that it will never come between us like I once let it.”
Oh God. The pieces fall into place, that night when we were so close and yet he once again pushed me away, the weeks following, full of only professionalism and politeness. They were all for this moment. For us.
I cup his face, my voice is unsteady. “You’re sure? I don’t want to hurt you. I never want my life, my world, to hurt you. I couldn’t take it.”
He leans into my touch. “You won’t. I told you how I spent the past month, and I’ve spent the past two years confronting it then, too. Two years facing what you are and will be, what I have been and never will be again.”
“But you didn’t love me all that time,” I point out.
His mouth tips in a wry smile as he drifts his knuckles along my cheek. “Didn’t I?”
Thank God I’m leaning against a tree. I’d fall on my ass otherwise. “What?”
“Oliver. It was distance myself or drop to my knees and fall at your feet,” he says roughly as he leans into me, as our bodies touch and ache. “I saw you and felt like you’d blasted a hole in my chest. I couldn’t let myself feel how much I wanted you, admired you, longed for you. Not when you had everything in your clutches that was slipping through my fingers.”
Tears blur my vision. I stare at him, stunned, thrilled, disbelieving. “I didn’t know,” I whisper.
“I didn’t either,” he admits. “Not at first. Not for a good while. I knew you made me feel like my blood was on fire and my heart was incinerating my chest, like I was battling this consuming feverish something that I felt only for you. It was so easy to call it hatred for your gain while I lost, to fixate on my resentment and envy of you, to never look too close or too long. When I finally had to, when Coach shoved us together and forced me to face you head-on, and I realized, God help me, what I was up against, I buried those feelings like I’ve always buried uncomfortable, unclear shit.”
I remember what he said that night in my house, when both of us admitted how badly we wanted each other, when I was almost as stunned and surprised by his admission as I am now:
I am very, very good at hiding what I want and feel and need.
“I wanted you, too,” I tell him quietly, twirling a soft, dark lock of his hair around my finger, spinning it, savoring how close he is, not just his body, but his heart, all of him. “I have. For so long.”
His eyes search mine, cautious, hopeful. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” I say through the knot in my throat.
“I know I’ve given you reason to doubt me, Oliver, but I promise that’s behind us. I’m here. I’m yours.” He brings my hand to his chest. “I promise it all—my body, my soul, my life, for you, everything for you, to care for you and love you, if you’ll let me. You’re the fucking sunrise of my heart, love. All I need is to wake up beside you, to hold your hand and keep you steady when you need me, to watch you with pride and admiration, to give you hell for not being more selfish on the field and too generous off of it. I love you. Do you believe me?”
Nodding, frantic, I tell him, “Yes.”
I pull him close, kiss him soft and slow, and he kisses me, too, his mouth firm, smooth, so gentle, remembering mine. “I love you,” I tell him. “I love you so much.”
Air rushes from his lungs as he wraps me in his arms. “God, Oliver, I want you. I want to make you happy. And I want to be happy, too, or at least, not completely miserable.”
I smile against our kiss, running my hands through his hair. A groan tears out of his throat as he presses me against the tree. “I’ve missed you,” I whisper.
“I’ve missed you, too,” he growls. “After that awful press conference nonsense, I couldn’t get here fast enough.”
A contented sigh falls out of me as he kisses me again, the corner of my mouth, my cheek. “You’re really here.”
“I’m really here.” Dragging his hands down my waist, he clutches my hips.
I bury my hands in his hair, kiss him, feverish, hungry. “I love you,” I tell him. “And I’m terrified.”
He pulls back only enough to meet my eyes and search them. “Of what, love?”
I swallow roughly. “Of how much.”
His eyes soften. He nods. “Me, too. I’m rubbish at this. But I’m learning. I’ll be better. You’ll be able to count on me, Oliver. I’m not going anywhere. Do you trust me?”