Ballsy Read online

  “Right,” I say faintly.

  “We should compare notes some other time. I have some blanks I need your help filling.” Kieran’s attention is being held captive by something else, though, so he doesn’t notice my pale expression or the nervous tics that are surfacing.

  “Mm-hmm.” I stare at him. Swallow hard. “I’d love to.”

  “You’re probably wondering why I brought you out here,” he says, turning back to face me.

  I snicker, more out of desperation to react in some way than because I’m amused.

  “Well… I’ve always wanted to do this with you.” Kieran twines his hand in mine and plops down on the ground. “Watch the sunset from here. It’s wide open fields from here all the way to the horizon.”

  I blink once. Twice. Three times.

  Oh.

  Kieran is serious, I realize.

  I inspect the grass to make sure there are no bugs. I fold myself down, booty hitting the ground with great aplomb.

  “Look, Jo,” Kieran murmurs.

  I do, lifting my hand up to cover my face. The sun may be going down, but it’s still glaring blindingly bright if you look directly at it. A gorgeous splash of colors slashes through the pale blue late afternoon sky: pinks, oranges, and purples, all creating the most magical skyscape.

  My nerves loosen as the minutes pass. Kieran lies down and beckons me to join him. I give him a big smile—genuine this time—and nestle in his chest, my head resting between his arm and torso. His heart beats in a steady rhythm.

  In a lot of ways, this is the most intimate moment we’ve ever spent together.

  I could stay here forever, I think, as I silence the voice—my better angels, probably—telling me to come clean, that I have to come clean, that I must come clean.

  The time for that is over. I chose a different path. Now I have to move on.

  So I do. I give myself permission to enjoy this. To let go for real.

  And I stay with Kieran as afternoon turns to evening, snuggled up against him and basking in the glow that spreads when everything finally falls in place.

  *

  I’m shaking like a leaf as I walk into the restaurant. Hoity-toity is the perfect way to describe it. High, vaulted ceilings, late-French style windows, and beautiful wood panels create a tasteful blend of rustic and chic I only now discover might just be my favorite style.

  I approach the hostess—a short, full-figured woman with an air of elegance (which is greatly amplified by her pixie cut)—and tell her, “Hi, I’m Joy-Lynn. I’m looking for my brother, Baylor, or my, uh, husband, Kieran? The reservation should be under their names?”

  Truth be told, I’m not sure what the proper protocol in a place like this is. Besides, I’m so nervous I could vomit.

  I’m not entirely convinced I won’t.

  Thankfully, the hostess perks up with a warm smile and nods. “Yes, of course. Follow me.”

  I trail behind her as she strolls past a handful of tables, all occupied with demure couples. She heads toward the back, and then proceeds to climb a set of twisting stairs. I stare at the smooth slats of wood from which the steps are built. Deep breath. Knots form in the pit of my stomach. I hear my pulse in my ears, as weird as it sounds.

  Do people notice all of this? Does how rotten I feel on the inside leave any trace on the outside? I try to distract myself by recalling times when I distinctly remember being as nervous as I am now—weird as that may be, since I think this is all very unprecedented. Before I can arrive at a conclusion, the hostess stops in front of a fancy-looking set of double doors and half-pivots.

  “They’re right in here.” She gestures inside.

  “Thank you.”

  She nods again and swiftly walks away.

  My brother booked a private room?

  I look down and assess my outfit. I thought this was going to be nice-but-casual. I don’t know if the emerald halter top, which goes perfectly with Kieran’s eyes, and the stretchy dress pants I have on, get the job done. The pair accentuate my curves in all the right places, which is ninety percent of the reason I settled on wearing them.

  The door swings open. It’s Leroy, chugging a bottleneck straight from the source. He nearly spits the beer when he sees me. He lowers the bottle and coughs for several seconds, gasping for air.

  “Are you okay?” I make like I’m going to pat his back to try to shake the air loose, but he stops me.

  “Yeah.” Leroy’s voice is raspy. “I’m good. Damn, that went down the wrong way, if you know what I mean.”

  “Ha,” I say, and feel pathetic.

  I should have taken a pill while I was home.

  Now, I’m barely functional at my, uh, reception dinner? It would have been perfect, too, because Kieran and I had split ways, each going to their own place to get ready. We agreed to go home together, though, which I’m really looking forward to.

  “Kieran, your girl is here!” Leroy announces.

  My anxiety skyrockets as I step inside and see the whole team—with the exception of Desmond, obviously—gathered around the table. Kieran’s already making his way toward me. He greets me with a proud, proper kiss, causing my adrenaline to surge. I kiss him back, and I can almost feel my nerves loosen, but then someone starts wolf whistling at us. Kieran pulls back with a boyishly charming smile on his face. He gives the finger to no one in particular and steals a quick peck before taking my hand and leading me to what I assume is a seat that was saved for me.

  “They’re rowdy tonight, but Baylor is in a good mood, so let’s let them have it,” he whispers. “I won’t drink, though.”

  “You won’t?” I whisper back.

  “No.” He lowers his voice so it’s barely audible even as he’s speaking directly in my ear. “I want to make love to my wife tonight. No alcohol.”

  A shiver runs down my spine.

  I bite my lip in that way I know drives him crazy. “I like the sound of that.”

  “What are you two lovebirds talking about?” Leroy booms. He downs another bottle of beer, tosses it to the side, and gestures toward the champagne-style ice box that holds five or so more. “Jo, tell your man over here he doesn’t need to be so square. Come on, it’s your night. Have a drink.”

  “I’m telling y’all, drop this,” Kieran taunts.

  “Are you speaking for your girl, too?” Randy asks. “I haven’t heard her turn down a good beer.”

  “Oh, pfft,” Baylor sputters. “Jo doesn’t drink.”

  Shit.

  Kieran shoots Baylor a quizzical look. Before he can say anything, though, I chime in.

  “That’s right, no alcohol for me,” I say with a laugh. I grip Kieran’s arm tighter and try to tug him for the remaining two steps that separate us from our seats. “Let’s sit down, babe.”

  “Really?” Leroy asks, like it’s the most absurd thing he’s ever heard of. “No alcohol? Like, not tonight or…?”

  “Not ever,” Baylor replies for me.

  I give him the stink eye, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Meanwhile, Kieran glances at me. Upon seeing my expression, he does a double take. He fixes his gaze on me.

  “What?” he asks with a healthy dose of incredulity. “You don’t drink?”

  “Not since she got out of college,” Baylor says. Apparently tonight is the night he chose to perfect the art of putting his foot in my mouth. “’S no big deal, really.”

  The growing tension in the room isn’t lost on anyone. The side conversations and merriment die down as one by one, all of the guys turn to look at Kieran and me.

  “What’s going on?” someone whispers.

  Baylor takes a look around the room and frowns. “What the hell? Kieran, grab a beer and grab a seat. Joey, you too—you know, except for the first part.”

  Kieran doesn’t say anything. He only stares at me.

  “Kieran,” I finally say. I clutch to him. “Let’s sit down.”

  “Were you drunk that night?” Kieran asks, his tone even and measured
.

  “What night?” I ask with a thin and unconvincing veneer of innocence.

  “The night we got married,” he says.

  “Uh, what’s going on?” Baylor asks again.

  “Nothing,” Kieran says brusquely. Turning to me, he says as discreetly as he can, “Joey, answer me.”

  “Uh, let’s go outside?” I suggest.

  “It’s a yes or no question,” he counters.

  I look deep into his emerald eyes. I’m startled to find a sudden... hostility in his expression. Or am I imagining things?

  “Kieran, please?”

  “Yes or no?”

  The entire world comes to a standstill. It’s like an immobile tug of war: a battle of wills that’s being waged in complete silence.

  And I find myself losing. I can’t bear to look at him, so I avert my eyes. My gaze is glued to the floor as I, defeated, whisper, “No.”

  Kieran inhales sharply.

  Baylor gets up and positions himself between the two of us. He tries to give us both a side hug, but Kieran shrugs him off.

  “What’s happening?” Baylor asks.

  “Bay,” I plead. “Give us a couple of minutes, would you? Kieran, let’s go outside?”

  Kieran purses his lips but complies in a sort of loathing resignation. I follow him out the door, leaving a very perplexed Baylor behind me.

  “Kieran, look, it’s no big deal,” I start to say in a preemptive move to gain some common ground.

  He puts his hands up. It’s a gesture I read as a wordless ENOUGH.

  “You’re right it’s not a big deal,” he says through gritted teeth. “It really isn’t. Except that you’ve been weird ever since we got back. And apparently you were uncomfortable enough to look guilty as hell when Baylor blurted out that you don’t drink.”

  “You’re putting words in my mouth—”

  “When you keep things from me, what choice do you leave me?” he retorts, fiercely defiant. “You should’ve seen your face back there, Joey. God, I spent two weeks thinking you were going to divorce me. You have been so fucking weird and guarded about everything and here I thought it was my fault. I don’t even—

  “Kieran, please.”

  “No.” His tone is quiet and intense. Lethal. “I don’t know why, but I feel… This feels wrong.”

  “What do you—”

  “I’m done,” Kieran interrupts. “I just—” He shakes his head. The way he regards me makes me feel like I ate a magic mushroom from Wonderland and shrunk three sizes. “This feels like a betrayal, Jo.”

  He steps around me, heading toward the main guest area. I catch his arm and try to stop him.

  “Wait, let me—”

  “Jo, I don’t want to have to ask you again,” Kieran says without looking at me. “Let go.”

  I hastily try to think of something to say, but the words evaporate. Silence fills the already fraught air around us until it engulfs me with a shame I can’t shake. I hesitate before loosening my grip on him and watch as he takes a deep breath and marches out.

  And that’s it.

  Only one question remains:

  How the hell did this all happen?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  KIERAN

  I take things one step at a time when I arrive home.

  For the first time in as long as I can remember, I call Coach Allen and tell him I’m in no shape to come in. He must have sensed something in my voice because his only reply was to ask if I need anything or anyone to stop by. None of his hard-ass standard reply of telling me to suck it up and get my ass in line.

  I told him no. We agreed that I’ll call him next week.

  I turn my phone off. The very last fucking thing I want is to have to deal with a deluge of messages both in text and voice forms.

  And that’s that. I have a few days to myself to work through the pure, unadulterated resentment and disappointment that’s overpowering everything else.

  Those days pass by slowly.

  The game is postponed due to adverse weather, which in turn makes my wallowing all the more convenient.

  I stay in.

  Bored.

  I try working out. The result is a dropped dumbbell that nearly lands on my foot in a split-second haze of distracted anger.

  I rule that option out. At least until I can think clearly and stay in the moment.

  On the second day, I try another type of exercise. Taking a jog helps some.

  But not nearly enough.

  God fucking damn it. I feel like smashing something. Like pummeling a punching bag until my knuckles are bloodied and my energy is spent. Like yelling into a void until my throat is raw. Like drinking until I pass out, frankly.

  On the third day, I go to the easel and put up a brand new, blank canvas. I stare at it for God knows how long before I turn my brain off, grab a few brushes and paints, and just... flow. My strokes come fast, almost violent. My wrist flicks back and forth, alternating between dabbing the brush on more paint and splashing it across the surface. I don’t know what it is I’m painting, but this works.

  This fucking works.

  I spend all afternoon and the majority of the evening lost to the process. It only becomes clear to me what it is that I’m painting when I step back. Somewhere, in a quasi-liminal plane between the obvious image at the forefront and the background, is a shape. A silhouette formed with shadows and light.

  Joey.

  I shut my eyes and breathe slowly. That’s when I realize it’s raining. More than that, there’s a storm raging outside. A torrent of water falls with a vengeance, splattering hard against the concrete on the ground. I peek out of the blinds and discover I can’t see more than a few inches in front of me. The downpour creates a curtain, blinding me from inside.

  I turn back to the easel. I sigh.

  I can’t keep pushing this away.

  I trudge over to the refrigerator, grab a can of beer, and slam it shut.

  My ridiculously stereotypical bachelor pad-style reclining armchair—sourced from one of the guys on the team who tied the knot and needed to re-home the damn thing—beckons. I push against its plush cushions and flick the TV on, chug from my beer.

  It all feels so mechanical. Stilted. I can’t fucking relax.

  Thud.

  Thud.

  Thud.

  Three pounds on the door. I startle before realizing it’s probably someone knocking. I debate whether to answer it or not. If I have to guess, it’s probably Joey. Or a proxy.

  I really don’t have it in me, is all.

  “KIE-RAN!” bellows someone on the other side of the door as they continue pounding. “I KNOW YOU’RE IN THERE. OPEN! UP! OPEN! UP! OPEN! UP!”

  It’s Baylor. Of fucking course.

  The slamming continues. I snap my eyes shut. Massage my temples.

  “OPEN UP!” he continues chanting. “O-PEN! UP!”

  I summon the inner strength to deal with him and swing myself off the chair. I stomp toward the door.

  “I WILL KICK DOWN THIS FUCKING DOOR.”

  I swing the door open and almost find myself at the receiving end of Baylor’s fist. I dodge it just before he makes contact and throw a punch of my own. It hits him squarely in the gut. Not too hard, of course. I only put enough weight behind it to get him to stand down.

  He doubles over, gasping for breath. When he finally manages to say something, he groans. “Oof.”

  For some reason, the scene makes me feel better.

  “Wanna come in?”

  Baylor looks up and grunts. Begrudgingly, he takes a tentative step inside. He glowers at me, panting. “Fuck, man. What the hell?”

  “You started it,” I point out.

  “I was going for the door, you slimy fucking—” He cuts himself short. “Never mind. I’ll let this one go.”

  “Want a beer?” I ask flatly.

  “Oh, you’re drinking tonight?” Baylor quips, smirking.

  I don’t respond.

  His
shit-eating grin vanishes. “Jesus, man, what is wrong with you?”

  “I thought walking out of the party, calling in sick and turning my phone off were all pretty clear signs I didn’t want anyone to make any house calls,” I retort.

  Baylor gapes at me.

  For some reason, the bewilderment on his face softens my anger.

  “Sorry,” I say at last. “I’m in a fucking awful mood. I’ll get a beer for you. If you don’t want it, I’ll drink it myself.”

  Baylor doesn’t wait in the living room, though. He follows me to the kitchen and hops on top of the counter. I shrug, hand him his beer, and lean against the opposite counter.

  “What’s up?” he asks.

  “Oh, you know. Taking a few days to myself. Self-care. Ennui. It’s all very important,” I deadpan.

  Baylor cracks a smile. “Sounds awesome, man. I’m down for some mani-pedis.”

  “Ah, I regret to inform you that I ran out of your pink nail polish.” The corner of my lip quirks up.

  We both take a long swig from our individual beers.

  Baylor takes a deep breath. I recognize the signs. He’s about to launch into one of those long speeches of his. I ponder on whether I should stop him or not but decide against it. If he thinks what he has to say is worth braving this godawful weather, I guess I should give him room to talk.

  “Something tells me you’re not really interested in having a heart to heart with anyone, least of all me,” he starts. “But I think it’s time for us to bury the hatchet.”

  “We’ve already done that, though. I’m not mad at you.” I take another gulp of my beer. “I’m not even really mad, exactly, at your sister. Let’s just get that out of the way.”

  He gives me a puzzled look. “You’re not?”

  “I’m something. And whatever that something is, it feels like absolute shit. But I don’t think it’s seething, white-hot hatred or anything.” I shrug. “I don’t think it makes a lot of difference one way or another. I’m tapped out. That whole revelation of hers a few days back…”

  “Yeah, I talked to her. She kind of told me the whole thing.”

  That comes as a shock.

  I must have the most idiotic, baffled expression on my face, because Baylor bursts out laughing.

  “I’ll try not to be offended by the look on your face,” he says.