Chapter 5

5

TORI

I don’t quite know how I ended up on Groupon. It must be some convoluted mixture of trying to find a way to say thank you to Luca and attempting to explore what exciting options I can embrace now that I’ve decided to go full Spice Girl and spice up my life.

But paint nights and laser hair removal and spa packages just don’t scream “Thanks for saving my life, Luca!” Neither do they feel quite like the personal revival I’m looking for.

There’s a knock, and I look at the clock on my laptop. Time is officially out.

I make my way to the door, grateful I’m not wearing a hospital gown this time. I open the door, and my view fills with Luca. I’d forgotten how large the man is. His head nearly reaches the top of the doorframe, and his shoulders fill the width of it.

He’s wearing a beige T-shirt and short tracksuit and a pair of bright-white Nikes. His hair is tied back again, and in his hand, he’s got my leather cross-body purse and a half-full plastic bag.

The fact I didn’t realize I’d lost my purse speaks to how many directions my brain has been going since yesterday.

“Hey,” I say with a smile. “Come on in.”

He hesitates and looks at my hands. “Got your mace?”

“If I told you that, it’d spoil my surprise attack, wouldn’t it?”

He chuckles softly, then steps inside.

Maybe I shouldn’t invite a near-stranger into my home, but I’m not scared of Luca. That could be dumb of me—he is gigantic, after all, and pretty dang grumpy—but the man saved my life at serious risk to himself and his career, and he made sure that cute little granny at the hospital got her pink sprinkle cookies.

“Here’s your purse.” He hands it to me as he stands in my living room, taking up more space than any other human who’s been here.

“Thanks,” I say. “You didn’t go snooping in it, did you?”

“What? No.” He’s horrified.

“I’m totally kidding. My purse is a very boring place—unless you’re looking for old gum wrappers or an assortment of leaking pens.” I hesitate for a second, unsure how to handle things now that he’s accomplished the purpose of his visit and I still have no game plan for expressing my gratitude. “Have a seat.”

He sits on the loveseat, taking up most of it as he sets his plastic grocery bag next to him. If a girl were sharing the loveseat with him, it would be a cozy fit. His shoulder would provide an ample place to lay her head too.

He leans his elbows on his knees and looks at me. “How’re you doing?”

“Awesome!” I purposely leave out the whole quarter-life crisis. He’s asking about my brain, which, in all fairness, is the source of my crisis, but not because of a concussion.

His brown eyes narrow like he doubts my response.

I must have overdone it. I tend to do that.

“No symptoms of concussion?” he asks.

“Nope. Fit as a fiddle.”

He looks around, though for what, I’m not sure. “Do you live with someone?”

“Nope. Just me.” My brother Troy owns a few properties around L.A., and he’s been nice enough to let me live here for the past year. He could get a lot more money if he rented it to someone else, which makes me feel like a terrible sister whenever I think about it.

Luca frowns at my response. “You really shouldn’t be alone after a head injury like you had.”

“It’s okay. At discharge, they suggested I set alarms for one and four a.m., so I did.”

“Really?” he seems impressed.

“I think so. I slept through them, but hey”—I put out my arms—“I’m still here.” I kind of freaked out when I woke up this morning, knowing I’d slept through the alarms, but he doesn’t need to know that. His frown is already plenty intense.

“What about your arm?”

I hold it up, even though the sleeve completely covers it. “Ship shape!”

He looks at me for a second. “Can I see?” When I hesitate, he adds, “I promised the doctor I’d check on you.”

“It’s not a big deal.” But I roll up my sleeve anyway, revealing the bandage.

“When was the last time you changed the dressing?”

“Um…”

His brow cocks. “You haven’t changed it.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement. And an accurate one.

“It’s in an awkward place,” I say. “Besides, it’s fine.”

He scoots to the edge of his seat and motions for me to give him my arm.

I don’t move.

“Do you want gangrene?” he asks.

I let him take my arm, and he unwraps the bandage.

I cringe when the road rash appears. It looks…not great. I think I can see a few pieces of L.A. street lodged in there.

Luca’s gaze flicks to mine, then he grabs the sack beside him. “I’ve had road rash. It can get infected really easily. They should’ve sanitized it yesterday.” He pulls out various items from the bag: gauze, ointment, soap, and tape.

For the next few minutes, I do my best not to show how much the cleaning stings. For a man with such large hands, he’s surprisingly gentle, though. It’s clear he has some experience with injuries. I guess that makes sense. He rams into other large human bodies at full speed as a job.

His bandaging work is neat, and I turn my arm to admire it.

“I’m going to come check on you again tomorrow,” he says.

“You really don’t need to do that. I don’t actually blame you for the road rash, obviously.”

“I’ll be here at the same time tomorrow.” He gathers up his things, then starts walking to the door.

“Again with the bossiness,” I say, following him.

He stops at the door and looks at me. “I’ve been around a lot of head injuries, Victoria. They’re not something to take lightly. But if you really don’t want me to come, I won’t.”

Super rude of him to call my bluff. If I’m being honest, there’s something kind of nice about his insistence on taking care of me. “Fine. You can check on me again.”

He nods. “Make sure your phone volume is turned up all the way for your alarms. After tonight, you should be fine to stop doing that.”

I salute him, and a hint of a smile flickers over his lips before he walks toward his car. “See you tomorrow,” he says.

At bedtime, I turn up my phone volume, but it’s a call rather than an alarm that wakes me.

“Hello?” I say groggily into the phone.

“It’s one o’clock,” Luca replies. “Just making sure you’re okay.”

I blink and rise up on my elbow to look at my phone screen. It’s 1:05. I must’ve slept through my alarm again.

“Get some sleep,” he says, and the line clicks off.

The same thing happens just after four.

He comes to check on my arm and change the bandage after I’m home from work, and this time he brings a burrito. It’s not a burrito from one of those trendy places that add all sorts of foreign objects that have no place in a tortilla, like kale or quinoa. This one is from a hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant. It’s divine and incredibly messy, and it distracts me from the sting of the soap.

Meanwhile, my road rash is starting to look better. No gangrene for this girl.

Luca comes the following day with a different burrito variety and his bag of medical tricks, and I sink deeper into the hole of indebtedness. If it were anyone else, I’d wonder if he was trying to make a move on me. But there’s absolutely zero evidence of any interest on his part. He’s all business. Brooding business.

And still, I have no idea how to thank him. He doesn’t seem like the type of person who likes receiving gratitude anyway. But he saved my life .

Today, his frown seems particularly deep and he’s even less talkative than usual as he tends to my arm.

“How are you?” I ask.

“Good.”

I narrow my eyes at him until his gaze flicks to mine. Our gazes hold, and he’s totally unfazed.

“At the hospital, you said you had a lot on your mind,” I say.

He refocuses on wrapping my injury. “Still do.”

“Was it my comment about sweaty hands? Because I was joking about that. It was a perfectly normal amount of sweat given the situation I put you in.”

He laughs softly as he puts the old bandage in a small garbage bag, and a little zing of pleasure shoots through me. What is it that makes getting a laugh out of someone as stoic as Luca so satisfying? “It’s not that. Just visa stuff.”

“Visa,” I repeat. “As in the credit card company?” I didn’t take Luca for a shopaholic, but that is a nice shirt, and those shoes are probably well upwards of $100.

“No. I’m here on a student visa.”

“Oh.” My brows pull together. “Here from where?” The man looks like a home-grown, all-American boy.

“Canada.”

“Really?” Gilbert Blythe immediately pops into my head. “Huh. Say about .”

He glances up at me quizzically. “Aboat,” he says with a perfectly Canadian accent. Gilbert himself couldn’t have done better. “Believe me?”

“You passed with flying colors. So, you’re Canadian, but you’re going to play in the NFL?”

He puts his medical supplies back in the bag. “ Was going to play in the NFL.”

I search his face. He may be a stoic, but those brown eyes betray at least a bit, and that past-tense verb is crushing the man. “It’s the visa keeping you from it? Haven’t there been players from other countries before?”

“Yeah. I just…don’t qualify for the visa they usually get.”

“Why not?”

His gaze fixes on mine like he’s trying to decide whether to answer my question.

“Sorry,” I say. “I’m being nosy.”

He shrugs. “It’s fine. If you really want to know. It’s not pretty, though.”

“I massively overshared with you while in a hospital gown the other day, so it only seems fair.”

“Fair enough.” He doesn’t look up. He just works on cleaning my road rash. “There was an…incident a few years back. I ended up with a criminal record.”

My brows go up. That’s…not what I expected. The pink-sprinkle-cookie-giver does not give criminal vibes, brooding as that brow might be. I should probably shoo him out of my house or grab the mace—which I actually don’t have—but I’m more curious than anything.

“What sort of record are we talking about here?” I ask.

His gaze meets mine for a few seconds again. I get the impression this man doesn’t share anything without seriously considering it first.

“You sure you want to know?” he asks.

“I’m sure.”

He looks back down at my arm and gently spreads ointment over the injury. “I lived with my grandma during high school. She’s about the sweetest lady you’ve ever met. But gullible, especially as she got older. I was at school and football practice a lot, so she was usually home alone. One day, she let in a handyman who offered to do some work for her. I didn’t think much of it—I was eighteen, and like most teenagers, my mind was elsewhere. Anyway, he kept coming back. He’d leave his work unfinished, then return later and find other things that needed repairing. All sorts of unnecessary stuff he wanted her to pay upfront for— over pay upfront.”

He puts the ointment aside and gets the bandaging ready. “She was living off of Social Security, plus paying for all my football stuff, so it’s not like she had money to burn. I told her not to let him in anymore, but when I got home from practice the next day, he was there.” His brows knit, and his jaw clenches, but he starts wrapping my arm. “He was in her face, getting loud, threatening her. I confronted him, and…it got ugly. I shoved him, and he fell into the doorjamb, then to the floor. Got a concussion and a broken nose. He pressed charges.”

“Sheesh,” I say softly. No wonder he’s been so bossy about my head injury. He’s probably been worried I’ll sue him too. “But…didn’t the court understand the circumstances? Couldn’t your grandma testify about what happened?”

“She’d passed by the time the case got to court. Heart attack. The guy made me look like the aggressor.” He shrugs and secures the bandage. “He was a really good liar.”

“And you’re not.”

His eyes flick to mine, questioning my meaning.

“No offense,” I say. “But I’m not sure you really sold the fiancé thing to Tyler.”

The edge of his mouth ticks up, and the contrast between that and the look he wore when he was thinking about the scammer is wild. “You didn’t give me much prep time. And no, I’m not a great liar. I’m more of a straight-shooter. The scammer was a smooth-talker, and I intimidate people on a good day.”

“Not me,” I say.

His gaze holds mine.

“Objectively speaking, it would make sense for me to be,” I say. “You’re enormous and grumpy and bossy and apparently have a criminal record.”

“Speaking of straight-shooters,” he says dryly, putting his medical kit tools back in the bag.

I smile. “ Should I be scared of you?”

His gaze returns to mine. He’s got really pretty brown eyes. Maybe they’re the reason I’m not scared of him. They might be on the broody side, but they’re soulful. Deep. And kind.

“No,” he says.

“Good,” I say, “because I don’t actually have mace in my purse.”

“You shouldn’t offer that information up to people. And you should get some. I can’t always be here to save you.”

I scoff, but I’m also smiling, and he is too when his eyes meet mine briefly. “So, what?” I say. “The NFL is just out of the question now?”

“Yeah. I went to court to ask for my record to be expunged, but the judge denied the petition. Without a clean record, I can’t get the visa.”

“Jeez. That’s…ridiculous. So much for the justice system.” How can a scammer take advantage of and threaten an old woman, but it’s the person who confronts him who pays the price?

“I’m so sorry,” I say, wishing I could help. Maybe I should’ve bought him a spa package. The man deserves a break. “And there’s really no other option?”

“No. I mean, I could get married, according to my agent.” He grimaces. “So no. No other options. Without the right to work here, I can’t play professionally. Besides, the draft is in a few weeks. There’s just no time. Anyway, that was more than you bargained for. And I didn’t come here to talk about me. I came to check on you. You sure you’re doing okay?”

“Yeah,” I say distractedly. My mind is buzzing with an idea. An absolutely insane idea. Off-the-charts deranged.

Or is it? For the past few days, I’ve been racking my brains to figure out how to thank Luca for saving my life, and now I know exactly what he needs most.

“ I could marry you,” I blurt out.

He blinks. “Sorry, what?”

A laugh I’ve never produced before comes out of my mouth. It sounds almost as insane as what I’m about to say. “I could marry you.” I say it like I’m offering to give him a ride to the bus station. “Hey, we got engaged already, right? Marriage is the natural next step.” Not even I can tell how much of me is joking.

Luca looks at me like I just hopped off a spaceship and am inviting him to board. Or maybe he’s wondering if my head injury is having delayed effects.

Maybe it is.

My eyes widen as a thought occurs to me. “Or maybe you already have a girlfriend, in which case, that would be a great option too. Do you guys need a witness? A maid of honor? Best woman? Wedding planner? Registry organizer? I can be whatever you need.” I finally manage to stop the word waterfall, and it goes quiet.

“I don’t have a girlfriend,” Luca says, perfectly brief.

We stare at each other for a few seconds, and in his eyes, I see him playing through this scenario I’ve offered up, entertaining the idea of getting married so he can pursue the dream he thought impossible.

The more I think about it, the more it makes sense. Unless I save his life—a highly improbable scenario given how capable the man looks of taking care of himself—I can never fully repay him for what he did for me. But this…this would be huge for him.

And I have no plans of getting married anytime soon. Or possibly ever.

This, at least, feels like something meaningful I could do. Something exciting too. Just the thought of it has my mind and heart racing. Isn’t that what I’ve been looking for?

He breaks his gaze away. “No.”

I scoot a couple feet closer toward him. “Why not? You saved my life, Luca.”

His head shakes. “That’s different. Helping you was one second. This would be…”

“Longer than one second?” I offer.

A scoffing laugh escapes him. “Yeah.”

“I only have those seconds thanks to you. Besides, it’s not like it’d be permanent.”

He stares at me, his jaw shifting.

“Look,” I say, “I’m just saying it’s an option worth considering. And maybe your only option?”

He’s quiet, his eyes searching my face. “You can’t be seriously offering to get married.”

I raise my brows. Ryan spent so much time telling me what I should and shouldn’t do that I’m suddenly in a double-dog-dare-me mood. “Can’t I?”

“You’re in your prime, Victoria. You should be dating and falling in love and…all that.”

“Not interested,” I say flatly. “Tried it. Not a fan. Zero out of ten recommend. But if that’s your way of saying you want to be dating and?—”

“No.” His response is firm and hard, and the room goes quiet. Something tells me there’s some history to that answer. When he speaks again, his voice is gentler. “I just want to play football.” He looks at me. “Why would you even offer that? What’s in it for you?”

I lift my shoulders. “I could use a little spice in my life. That near-miss with the semi has given me a distaste for playing it safe. And I want to help you.”

“You’re actually serious.”

“Yeah,” I say. Because, weirdly, I am. It’s crazy and impulsive, and it’s got my pulse racing in a way it hasn’t for a long time—maybe since I volunteered at an improv comedy night a couple years ago. “It doesn’t have to be a big deal. It’d be an on-paper marriage. And temporary, right?”

“Right,” he says, still watching me like any second I’m going to say just kidding!

“People get married and divorced all the time. How long would we need to be married?”

“I don’t know. Just until I get my visa squared away or my appeal makes it through the system. Maybe a few months?” He shifts in his seat, a new energy emanating from him as he thinks things through. “I don’t think you’d have to do much. A lot of wives and families stay behind during training season. Assuming I get drafted.”

I heave a big sigh. “But then we find that the distance has just been too much for our marriage in its infancy, and we get quietly divorced. So tragic.” I wag my brows. “See? I feel like this is a no-brainer.”

His gaze holds mine, then he shakes his head and laughs incredulously. “This is insane.” He points at me. “And you’re crazy.”

“Hey. Is that any way to talk to your fiancée?” Is it weird that I’m excited about this? No way can Jess say I’m boring. I’m the antithesis of boring. Compared to me, she’s a complete snooze-fest.

As a bonus, this means my hospital story about being engaged to Luca would actually come true! Take that, Ryan. I’m not a loser secretary who you dumped for another woman. I’m about to get married to a successful football player.

Luca sits up straighter, that same energy taking hold of him. I feel it too.

“So, what?” he asks. “We just go to the courthouse?”

I think for a few seconds. “Time is of the essence, right? And we’re so infatuated with each other that eloping is the only option. Obviously.”

He nods, taking my story as gospel. “Okay, but when?”

I grab my phone and pull up my schedule, looking through the week and the various meetings and tasks Bob has assigned me each day. When can I squeeze in a trip to the courthouse?

I stop suddenly, then turn off my phone screen. Looking through her schedule and meticulously planning when to take a break to marry a near-stranger is something boring Tori would do. It’s something Ryan would expect of me.

“How about tomorrow morning?” I suggest.

Luca’s brows go up. “Tomorrow?” He bites his bottom lip for a couple seconds as he considers it. Then he nods. “Okay. Yeah. Let’s do it.”