Hope for Us (Hope Series Book #3) (8 page)

I freaked out about last night, all day and all night. With Jackson busy with his family, I didn’t have to talk to him about it. He sent me a text telling me goodnight and that he would call me in the morning.

Our night played over and over in my mind. I woke up and stared at him for a long time before getting out of bed. He had the cutest, satisfied grin across his face, and I felt sick to my stomach.

When he scared me in the kitchen, I saw it all over his face. I comforted him, but didn't want to get into it.  It was not like I didn’t ever want to talk to him about how I felt and my emotions, my fears. I did and I would, but today was not the right time. I pushed my feelings aside, because he didn’t need any other distractions the day before his big game. When Jack came home, Jackson took my sigh as frustration, but it was a sigh of relief. It was getting hard to pretend with his hand squeezing my breast.

I was wide-awake when he called early the next morning.

“Hey.”

I reminded myself to smile even though I knew he couldn’t see me and sang. “It’s game day.”

“Yeah, it is.”

“How’d you sleep?” I asked.

“Pretty good, but I woke up early.”

“Game’s not until three. Maybe you can get a nap in later.”

“Maybe. At least some quiet time. How did you sleep?”

“Good. How’s your family?”

“They’re fine.” He dragged out the fine a little too long.

“What’s wrong?”

“Well, I sort of told them about you.”

“What did you tell them exactly?” I sat up.

“I told them you were coming to the game and that we are together sort of.”

“Together sort of.”

“Listen, I know you wanted to keep this quiet, but I needed to explain why you were there.”

My face flashed hot at his description of us. The ‘
we are together’
statement annoyed me, while the addition of the
‘sort of’
after it, hurt. I groaned, fell over and buried my head under the covers.

“Hey, don’t freak out. It’s no big deal.”

“Then why did you hesitate?”

“Because you freak out about everything.”

“Jackson, we haven’t so much as had a conversation in the last five years. How do you know what I freak out about anymore?”

“I think this conversation proves my point.”

“Shut up.”

“Are you still coming to the game?”

“Who else will be in the suite?”

“My brothers and my agent. Michael's trying to get me some local endorsement opportunities. I think he invited some people.”

“And when they ask me who I am?”

“Tell them what you want.” Jackson clears his throat and lowered his voice.” “Listen, I have to go. I’ll see you after the game." He paused, waiting for me to respond. When I didn’t. He signed and hung up.

Knock, knock

“Mama, you up?”

I groaned. “No,” I yelled, my thick comforter muffling the sound. 

The door creaked open and Jack’s socks scooted across the floor. “Mama. I made you breakfast.”

I pushed the covers off and found my son standing in my room carrying a tray with frozen waffles and orange juice. I smiled and sat up. He handed me the tray, grabbed the remote off the nightstand, and crawled into the center of my bed.

“What time do we need to leave for the game?” he said as he flipped on
ESPN NFL Countdown.

“The game starts at two thirty-five, so we can leave here around one thirty.”

“Can we leave at twelve thirty? I want to watch pre-game warm-ups.”

“Let’s split the difference. One o’clock?”

“Okay. We eating at the stadium?”

“We can.”

“Then we can hang out with Jackson after the game?”

“I’m not sure. His family is in town, so he might have plans with them.”

“We are his family, too?” Jack asked and turned toward me.

My heart thumped in my chest. I took a bite of my waffles and stalled, hoping the appropriate response would surface.

He turned back to the television. A story about Jackson came on and he turned the television up.

“Jackson Mitchell looked great in the preseason, but is he ready to lead a new team?” the broadcaster said. Jack's eyes glazed over watching his hero on television.

If we had any more close calls like this morning, I would need to talk to Jack about Jackson and I. I kept my dating life away from him. He had never seen me with someone, but I hesitated because Jackson and I didn’t feel together. It didn’t feel like we were on the same page.

“Jack, turn that down. I want to talk to you.”

He sighed and muted the television.

“Jackson is a great guy and he loves you, but you have to understand that he has his own family and friends.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I don’t want you to get your hopes up and think because Jackson is here now, that we will be hanging out all the time. He has a huge responsibility with his team and we have to let him do his job.”

My son gave me the best
mom, you’re talking nonsense
look. He was right. I had no idea what I was trying to explain, but I knew what I was doing, protecting both of our hearts from getting hurt.

We arrived at the stadium. The parking pass allowed us to park underneath.

The attendant guided us to a spot, and as soon as we got out, Jack said “Mom, that’s Jackson’s car. We are parking with the players.”

I slid out of my car and looked around. I concentrated on breathing.

“Hi, Carrington.” A tall thin black guy in a red golf shirt and slacks approached. “I’m Brenden, Jackson’s assistant.”

“Oh, yeah. Hi.” I shook his hand.

“You must be Lil’ Jack?” He shook Jack’s hand. “You guys want to follow me up. I’ll show you to the suite.”

“Is this where the players park?” Jack asked.

“Yeah, the players, coaches, and their families.” I knew we didn't qualify as a player or a coach. I didn't think of myself as family either. I couldn't shake the feeling I shouldn't be here.

Jack turned to me and giggled; satisfied he had proven his point from our earlier conversation.  I shook my head and followed Brenden as he pointed out other player’s cars and points of interest in the bowels of the stadium. 

At the end of a long corridor, we entered an elevator. 

“Can you press number four?” Jack stood on his tiptoes to reach it.

We rode the elevator in silence.

On the fourth floor, the elevator opened onto a concourse full of people. Lights and sounds reflected off every shiny surface including the high gloss shiny cement floor.  Every visible wall had a flat screen monitor with the game day broadcast showing the field.

Jack reached for my hand and I squeezed it as we followed Brenden to a suite with Jackson’s number nine jersey framed and mounted next to the door. Brenden pushed open the door and twenty pairs of eyes turned to watch us walk in. I stopped in my tracks, feeling like a deer in headlights. My heart raced and I would have turned around and walked right back toward the elevator and back to my car, but Jack pulled me inside. He had never felt insecure a day in his life. I envied him for that.

“Carrington,” Jackson’s mother said.

“Mrs. Mitchell. Hi.” She approached with a hand extended, but dropped it and pulled me in for a hug.

“It’s so good to see you. How are you?” she asked.

“I’m good.”

She looked down at Jack. “Oh my goodness, is this Jack?”

“Hi,” Jack said and waved.

“Hello. I haven’t seen you since you were a little over a year old. You are too cute.”

“Thank you,” Jack said and grinned from ear to ear. He dropped my hand and moved further into the suite. “Mama, can I watch pre-game?” I opened my mouth to answer.

“You go right ahead, sweetie,” Mrs. Mitchell said. “Carrington, why don’t we have a drink? I’m so nervous.” I forced a smile as she took my hand and led me over to a bar in the corner of the suite.

“I’ll take a glass of champagne,” she said to the bartender. “Carrington?”

“I’ll have the same.” She handed me a glass and led me over to a set of high tables near the back of the suite. 

“Well, I think it’s time we get to know each other.” She clanged my glass and drained half of hers. I took a small sip, bit my lip, and continued to smile.

While Jack felt at home in any environment, my heart raced out of control, and an anxiety attack festering below the surface. My therapist taught me how to deal with these types of situations, but I couldn't remember one technique. The top of my hand was sore from all the pinching I had done and I told myself to give it a rest. The champagne would have to do.

Mrs. Mitchell asked me question after question, which gave her a complete rundown of everything I had been up to in the last five years. She did all this in pre-game, firing questions at me like we were on a timer. I guess we were because right before opening kickoff, the questions stopped.

Mrs. Mitchell headed to the front of the suite, but I remained in the back of the room. I had no clue where I belonged in this setting or in Jackson’s life for that matter. I watched my son work the room. He spent a lot of time talking to Jackson’s brothers who, besides a wave from their seat, ignored me.

A short man, wearing an expensive suite and a confident smile walked into the room with a flourish. Several men in cheaper suites and less confidence followed.

It was Jackson's agent. I recognized him from draft day. Michael greeted everyone but me when he walked into the suite, but one of his guests spotted me. He made his way to the bar, first. With drink in hand, he pulled himself up into the chair next to me.

“Hello, beautiful.” He extended his hand and I took it. Regretting it as soon as our hands touched. He squeezed and winked. 

"What's your name, lovely?"

“Carrington Butler.” I shuddered when he rubbed his fingers through my palm.

“Hi Carrington. Why are sitting back here all by yourself.”

A number of crude remarks came to mind, but my son was a few feet away along with everyone who was important to Jackson. I didn't want to embarrass anyone, but if this guy didn't stop eye fucking me, I was ready to grab his nuts, squeeze and tell him off.

“Taking it all in," I said and smiled.

“Sam, let me introduce you to Jackson’s family,” Michael called from the other side of the suite.

“Excuse me, beautiful.” Sam winked at my chest and scurried back across the suite with his drink.

Michael whispered in Sam's ear; they both looked back and then turned towards the game.

Michael looked over again. What had Jackson told him about us back then and now? Was I the crazy ex-girlfriend or the one that got away? Even after the short time we spent together, I thought of him as too good to be true.

I turned my attention back to the television.

Jackson threw two touchdowns and the defense only gave up a field goal at the half. As everyone stood to stretch their legs, I got Jack’s attention. He had Mr. Mitchell’s hand and brought him along.

“Hi, Carrington,” he said as he leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. “It’s been a long time. How are you?”

“I’m good.” I looked down at Jack, “You hungry?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He climbed up into the empty seat and watched the highlights on the television above his head.

"I'll grab him something," Brenden said.

"No," I said a little too loud. Brenden's eyes looked from me to Mr. Mitchell. "I'm sorry, just he's allergic to a lot of stuff."

I left to talk with the suite staff, but when I looked back at Brenden and Mr. Mitchell, they were huddled up talking about me, no doubt.

I filled a plate with chicken fingers and nachos. All the stuff Jackson loved, but never ate because I wouldn’t allow it. I grabbed another glass of champagne and headed back to the table where Jack was talking to Brenden and Michael. 

“Michael Murphy, this is Carrington. She’s a friend of Jackson’s.”

“Yes, we met on the phone. Nice to meet you in person.” He turned to Jack. “You must be excited to have Jackson so close, now?”

“Yeah,” Jack said with a mouth full of chicken fingers dipped in ranch dressing.

“Jacky, don’t talk with your mouth full.”

“He talked to me.”

“He’s right about that. I’ll leave you alone. I don’t want you to get into trouble.” He patted Jack on the back.

“Carrington, can I get you anything?” Mrs. Mitchell said on her way to the bar.

“No I’m good.”

Everyone kept checking on me, studying me as if I was under a microscope. They were waiting for me to freak out or explode or something.