Chapter 55

Fifty-Five

SCOTTIE

I can't breathe.

My hand hurts, and the room turns on its side.

"Scottie."

My heart beats too fast. I push my palm into the center of my chest to make it stop, but it won't.

"Shit. Baby."

Why won't the fucking room stop spinning? I'm present, but I'm not. The pain in my hand grounds me to reality, but the deep ache of fear clouds everything until I'm in a spiral.

But then, it stops.

Suddenly, air fills my lungs, and the thoughts evaporate.

Even the sting of pain running up my arm disappears.

His lips are calming, and the taste of him against my tongue is like a remedy. When the room rights itself, I stare up into Emory's worried eyes, too afraid to look away, yet embarrassed enough to want to.

"Who is William?" he whispers, wiping my wet cheeks.

"Wh…what?" My body grows with heat. I'm sweaty but also chilled to the bone.

"Shit." Emory pulls my hand close to his face and inspects it. "Your hand."

He sweeps me off my feet, and the confusion follows me until he places me on the kitchen counter beside the sink. His grip never leaves me. Even as he reaches for the dish towel and wets it under the stream of water, he keeps his hand on my leg.

"Come here," he mutters softly, pulling my hand closer. One by one, he loosens my fingers and reveals my sliced palm. I jerk at the touch of the cool towel. A hiss slips between my teeth from the sting, but it disappears when Emory winds his hand up my neck until his fingers are buried in my hair.

"Who is William? Did he come into the house?"

"What?" I shake my head at the absurd thought. "No."

"The door was open," he argues, bouncing his eyes back and forth between mine. There's a worry line in between them, and I hate that I'm the reason it's there.

I'm mortified and embarrassed. It's been years since I've done this. I can hardly look Emory in the eye because he probably thinks I'm certifiable.

My bottom lip trembles for the second time in less than twenty-four hours. "I am so sorry." I swallow the tight lump in my throat. "No one is in the house."

I lean forward slightly and look at my feet to see if they're covered in dirt.

Thank God, they aren't.

"Scottie, the door is open. Are you sure no one came inside?"

I nod, fully confident that I was the one who opened the door. "I'm so sorry. I had a nightmare…" A tear slips down the side of my cheek, and I turn away to hide it.

It was because I saw her.

Stop crying.

"Don't do that." Emory speaks so softly I hardly hear him.

I clear my throat after swallowing the tight lump in my throat. "Don't do what?"

I'm doing my best to act unfazed, but I know it's a pathetic attempt.

"Don't shut me out. Let me be here for you."

My chin wobbles as I contemplate running out the front door and never looking back, but I'm a realist, and I know I wouldn't even make it out of the kitchen without Emory pulling me backward.

"I was trying to give you space earlier." He grips my chin and brings me to look at him. "But you don't need space." He pauses. "You need me."

The first thing that rushes to mind is how I don't need anyone.

But the longer I stare into his calm eyes and the more his thumb brushes against my chin, the more I feel myself teetering.

It has nothing to do with trust.

I trusted him the moment I cornered him in the bathroom and tried to exploit him.

It's about me being afraid to need someone, as much as I don't want to admit that.

Emory pulls my face closer to his, and our foreheads rest against one another. "For better or for worse, Scottie. I took vows. Give me a chance to keep them."

I pull away and stare into his eyes. I don't worry about not crying, because it takes too much effort, and if I'm going to do this, I'm going to need all the strength I have left.

"Before I tell you everything, I need you to promise me something," my voice croaks.

"Anything."

It's surreal to see such a strong, willful man become so soft and genuine. It's hard to believe that he wants to be like that with me.

"I don't want you to try to fix it." His eyebrows furrow, but I keep going before he interrupts me. "Promise me that nothing will change. You and I have a deal, Emory. After a year is up and the contract ends, that's when you pay me. Nothing changes."

Otherwise, it's too easy. No matter who Emory is to me, this is not his responsibility. We started this on simple terms, and I won't go back on them because he feels sorry for me.

He looks like he wants to argue, but instead, he nods. "Alright."

Shutter jumps onto the counter, and I expect Emory to shoo him outside, but he doesn't pay him any mind, not even when he climbs onto my lap and rubs his face against the back of my injured hand.

"William is my brother," I start with the most important thing. "And he's in prison."

Emory's tense shoulders loosen, and I furrow my eyebrows. "Why do you look…relieved?"

He sighs quietly. "With the way you said his name, I knew he meant something to you. I was afraid it was an ex."

The smallest smile falls to my lips, but it only lasts a second.

Emory pulls the towel away before pressing it back down. He scoops me up into his arms and walks us over to the door. He shuts it with his foot, and as he's walking us toward the stairs, I watch Shutter follow on quiet paws.

"You know Shutter is still in here, right?"

"Yes." Emory places us both on the bed but keeps me on his lap. "He can stay."

I'm shocked. I glance at him as he watches Shutter lay in a comfy spot at the foot of the bed. "He can?"

"The dumpster cat came all the way upstairs and woke me up. Then he led me to you." Emory pulls me in tighter. "So yeah, baby. He stays. Now tell me why your brother is in prison and why you're hiding a stack of lawyer letters under our bed. Tell me what has you so twisted in your sleep that you felt you needed a knife."

"You found those?"

He nods against my back. "I didn't open them, but yeah. I saw the letterhead."

A shaky breath slips from my mouth, and Emory places a soft kiss on my shoulder. "Take your time," he reassures me. "I'm not going anywhere."

He shifts us on the bed, and it causes Shutter to look back at us. He hisses at Emory.

"Apparently, neither is he," Emory notes.

The touch of a smile grazes my lips, and I relax into his sturdy chest. "It started when my dad died."

I feel Emory's grip tighten against me.

"My mom was always the chaotic one of my parents. She liked to party and go out with her friends, which left my dad at home with me a lot."

"Were you close with him?"

I nod.

"After he died and my mom was left to take care of me, I think she became resentful. One thing led to another, and she wound up pregnant with William—father unknown. I didn't realize it at the time because I was too young, but she didn't take care of her body like she should have."

Emory's hand skims my leg back and forth in the most comforting way. "What do you mean?"

"She drank while pregnant. Probably did some drugs." I shrug. "William is technically undiagnosed, but after years of raising him and researching, I'm certain he has lasting effects." I choose not to divulge the entire medical definition to Emory because we'd be here all night discussing my brother's cognitive impairments. Instead, I go the easy route. "Long story short, he doesn't make the best decisions. He's easily influenced, impulsive, and he doesn't grasp social cues. It was a struggle all throughout his adolescence, and as soon as he turned eighteen, he caught himself in a mess."

I take a deep breath.

"He was caught breaking and entering. They tagged arson onto his sentence too." Frustration skims up my spine. "He wasn't even the one to do it. He was blamed, and he took the fall for it because, again, he's easily influenced and just…doesn't understand."

Emory remains quiet for a few minutes, and I start to feel anxious.

It isn't until his hand rests against my side and he gives it a quick squeeze that I relax again.

"So you're trying to help get him out. That's the reason for the lawyer's letters and why you need money." It isn't a question, so I don't answer. "You've been taking care of him all his life, haven't you?"

My lip slips beneath my teeth, and I nod.

"Is that what your nightmare was about? Protecting William? Is that why you had a knife?"

I shut my eyes in hopes that it'll give me the confidence to answer him.

"Yes." I swallow a gulp. "I didn't grow up in the best home, and after seeing my mom, it brought up some unwanted memories."

Emory pulls me into his chest and kisses the top of my head. I hold in my tears, but emotion chokes me up regardless. "You're safe with me, Biscotti."

I know.

It's been four days since I confided in Emory, and each day, I feel a little bit lighter. Every morning that he's still lying beside me with a lazy smile on his face is another morning that he doesn't serve me with divorce papers from realizing how much baggage I have.

I wasn't sure what to expect after I told him about William's condition and the situation that landed him in prison. For the woman who is supposed to help his reputation, I have a pretty fucked-up background that goes against everything the media has said of me thus far.

Neither Emory nor I thought we'd get this much attention, but after I posted our wedding photos and his Scottie Biscotti interview went viral, we've been idolized. The Chicago Blue Devils are projected to be in the fight for the Stanley Cup, and that comes with even more media coverage.

If it leaks that I'm an ex-stripper from the Cat House who Emory met one day and was married to the next, paired with my mother's background and the fact that my brother is in prison, well…let's just say not all publicity is good publicity.

Shutter purrs from somewhere that feels like the top of my head. I peek one eye open, and his tail flicks me in the face.

"Really?" I groan. "Good morning to you too."

I turn toward Emory, but instead of seeing him lying there, a box is in his place.

Sitting up in my groggy state, I slowly reach out and pull it onto my lap. I laugh softly when I see tiny teeth marks on the side from Shutter. "Did you think this was for you?" I ask, giving him a look.

He sighs and turns his head, like he's upset that it isn't.

After pulling the top of the box open, I freeze.

There's a piece of torn notebook paper with Emory's messy handwriting.

This battery should last longer than twenty minutes.

Good luck today.

My eyes gloss over.

He got me a new camera?

Without even thinking, I grab my phone and call him.

"Morning, Biscotti."

He's out of breath from conditioning, yet he still answered.

"Are you serious?" I ask.

My phone makes a noise, and I roll my eyes when I see he's trying to switch it to FaceTime. I quickly run my fingers through my hair and blink a few times so he can't see my teary eyes. As soon as his face fills the screen, my stomach fills with butterflies.

"Dead serious," he says.

"Emory. This is too much."

But I love it.

He takes the back of his hand and wipes his face after chugging water. Sweat drips over his cheek, and it's insanely hot. "Considering what I want to do? It isn't."

He's referring to paying the legal fees off right now instead of following through on our terms. But I made him promise, and he isn't one to break promises.

I give him a look, and the only thing it does is deepen his grin. It drives me wild, and suddenly, I find myself smiling too.

"Look at that," he coaxes. "My wife is smiling in our bed with nothing but that thin T-shirt on."

Heat coils in my stomach, and my teeth sink into my bottom lip.

"Stay right there." Emory moves through the weight room, and I watch in silence as he enters the quiet locker room, away from his teammates. "I'm coming home."

I laugh. "Stop it."

He pauses. "You stop it."

"Stop what?" I ask, laughing again.

Emory's flirtiness fades. My heart beats harder when he opens his mouth, but then he closes it before opening it one more time. "Stop making me fall in love with you."

I drop the phone.

It slips right out of my hand and onto the bed.

I look down at it and repeat what he just said to me inside my head.

Did he?

Emory is still staring at me when I pull the phone upright again. In complete denial, I take a breath and quietly ask, "Who's with you?"

"Not a soul," he says, leaning back onto his locker.

"Show me," I challenge, unsure if I believe him.

The camera pans around the empty locker room, and my mouth runs dry. When his face comes back into view, he raises an eyebrow at me. "I didn't say it for anyone but you, Scottie."

"You're not falling in love with me," I say.

He nods. "You're right."

I pinch my thigh to distract myself from the complete and utter disappointment I feel. But then he smiles. "I'm already there."

My mouth parts, and something warm buries itself inside my chest.

"Olson! Get back to your reps!"

Emory's attention shifts, and he flicks his chin at his coach before looking back at me. "I'll see you later. Good luck today, and that camera is a gift. There are no take-backs."

Emory stands and begins to move through the locker room.

"Wait!" I shout.

Emory's eyebrows shoot to his damp hair.

"I love you too." The four words flow out of my mouth effortlessly, but I'm not surprised.

I've known that I've loved him for far longer than I'm willing to admit.

And with the look he gives me, I think he's known too.