49. Fallon

Iwake up in full dread mode. It’s Sunday, our last day at the beach house, where I never expected to stay and now never want to leave. Though the curtains are fully closed, I can tell it’s early. I start to roll out of bed, but Corey tightens his grip around my waist, and he shifts so his entire body is flush with mine.

“Not yet,” he says, eyes still closed.

“I could skip the flight.”

His free hand tangles in my hair as he opens those golden eyes. “Not a fucking chance. I’m just not ready yet.” He stares at me, and I swear I hear silent words passing through what’s left of my defenses.

I nod and lean forward, pressing a kiss on his jaw where a faint yellow bruise from that night at the bar remains.

“I’m not ready, either.”

A lead weight fills my chest as I slide behind the wheel of my car. I already miss Corey, and he’s only a car distance away. How will I survive being four thousand miles away?

As we set off in our caravan, I call Lexie.

“Can I have your first autograph?” She asks as way of answering on the second ring.

“I don’t know that they’ll choose me.”

“How could they not? You’re going to play professional soccer! In Spain! I mean, I know Madrid hasn’t really been on your radar, but this is pretty damn cool.”

Though moving abroad to play has always been a possibility, she’s right, Spain wasn’t on my radar. I’ve always hoped to stay and play for the US team. “I don’t even know how this will work or how many women I’ll be competing with for the position. I have so many questions.”

“Sometimes you just have to roll with it. Right now, I say roll, Fallon.”

Over the next hour, Lexie tells me about all the sightseeing spots she wants to see when she visits me in Spain, as though everything is already finalized. More than once, I find myself slipping into this alternate reality, imagining us wandering the streets of Madrid arm in arm as we laugh and soak in all the sights.

“How’s Corey taking the news?” Her question grounds me and skins both my knees with the impact.

That weighted feeling returns as I tell her how he had been instantly supportive, insisting I go and buying my airline ticket so I didn’t have to consider the financial risk. His support and compassion are amazing qualities that I praise until I’m repeating myself, but selfishly, there’s a part of me that wishes he’d told me not to go, which might stem from my bruised ego or insecurity, or simply my heart.

“He’s definitely a good one. And he’s right, Fallon. This is your dream. You can’t ignore that, not even for the perfect guy.”

Sadness scrapes at my chest. “I just wish this would have come next year.”

“I know, but if you two are meant to last, you will. And think about it, Fal. You’ll be able to escape the Bellatrixes and all the drama with Kelly.” She cackles. “I wish I could see their faces when they learn you’ve gone pro.”

“It’s not a sure thing,” I remind her again.

“Fallon, you’re the only one betting against yourself. Stop it.”

I don’t know where the next twelve hours go. It feels like just a second ago we were rushing to escape the bar fight, and Corey finally kissed me. A mere breath since Janessa called and invited me to change the trajectory of my week—year—life.

Corey pulls up outside the airport entrance, and nerves that I’ve never been so far from home, much less alone, and am leaving after the most perfect week of my life have my emotions on a highwire.

“Let me know when you land,” he says. “I don’t care what time it is. Call me.”

“I will.”

He offers a tight smile and then gets out of his truck. I follow him to the back, where he gets out my bag and the carry-on that is packed with juice, snacks, and medical equipment.

“Will this be a problem with security?” Corey asks.

I scoff. “I’ll leave the fun surprises that come with traveling with me for another day.”

He winces but then paints another reassuring smile on his face.

I know it’s for my benefit. Though I haven’t shed any tears, I’ve been on the verge of being weepy all morning.

“I’ll be here to get you Friday.”

I hold onto his promise like a kite string in a windstorm as I nod. “I feel bad that you’ll have to go to Media Training without me.”

Corey waves off my words. “I already told you we’ll pass. All you have to worry about is showing everyone how amazing you are. Blow their minds, Fallon. Don’t hold anything back.” He softly drags his thumb across my lower lip, erasing the frown that keeps forming as an ongoing list of pros and cons for this opportunity keep changing and being recounted in my head. Currently, the pros are winning by a very small margin.

Then he leans down and kisses me, so soft and gentle that tears form in my eyes because it feels entirely too much like a goodbye, like he’s trying to savor and memorize me.

He kisses me a final time and then pulls away.

I swallow and paste a watery smile on my face, nearly choking to hold back the words I want to tell him about being afraid of this opportunity, of not being ready—of loving him and being terrified that I might lose this—him.

Once again, I’m thinking of that night in May when he kissed me while holding my phone to capture the moment and how it consumed me and changed so many definitions in my life, how I’d feared never experiencing his touch and all the ways he made me feel.

That same fear consumes my thoughts, prompting my admission of how much I care about him to the tip of my tongue, but reality fights for footing, reminding me I’ve only known Corey for a couple of months, and we’ve been dating for a mere week. Still, the words burn more potently, with an insistence that feels impossible to deny, wanting to make a new proposition like that night. Only this time, the idea of rejection threatens to shatter me rather than just embarrass me.

So instead of telling him those three little words that feel entirely inadequate for all that I feel for him, I lean up and kiss him again, hoping he feels everything I’m too afraid to say.

He places a gentle hand on the back of my neck, keeping our foreheads pressed together. “Don’t hold back,” he whispers, then gives me a chaste kiss on the forehead and steps back.

An ache forms in my chest and grows substantially as I grab my bags and head into the airport.

I go through security in a daze, then wander past the gates without any sense of direction. I’m too numb from opposing emotions to care if I look lost. I am lost. I have no idea what I’m doing or what I’ll be walking into, and it’s a terrifying realization that I might be leaving more behind than I’m heading for.

Still, I find my gate.

Time comes to a standstill as I sit in an empty bank of chairs. Without a mile-long list of things to do and pack, the rush of last-minute see-you-laters and good luck wishes, I have nothing left to do but wait.

It’s uncomfortable to sit with my thoughts, though, and the elation of this opportunity still tastes too bittersweet. I rely on familiarity and pull out my phone to study Spain’s team.

The distraction I find watching tape disappears when they announce boarding. My stomach fills with unease as the ache in my chest throbs while I inspect my ticket to see which group I’m in for boarding. My nerves spike higher when I realize Corey purchased a first-class ticket for me.

They scan my ticket, and I pass through the boarding bridge, which feels like a million degrees, and onto the plane.

My heart pounds like a war drum as I find my seat. I’ve only ever flown in economy, always seats near the back where the engine roars, overhead space is traded for firstborn children, and legroom is a forgotten commodity. Up here, not only is my seat wider and my screen larger, but I also have enough room in front of me to straighten my legs. I do, stretching my ankles.

I feel so out of place that I keep my hand fisted around my passport and boarding pass as the rest of the plane boards, fearing I’ve misread something and will be asked to move to my seat in the back of the plane where I belong.

My phone vibrates with a text, distracting me from my restless thoughts.

Corey: You’re going to do amazing.

Me: I’m not sure my alter ego works in Spain.

Corey: Your alter ego?

Me: It’s kind of an inside joke, but every time I take the pitch, I get in this headspace where I feel invincible. I accredit my alter ego for kissing you the first time.

Corey: So all this time, it was your alter ego I needed to appeal to?

Corey: Next time I need to convince you of something, I’ll add a wager to challenge you.

Me: Darts?

Corey: I’ll be playing to win.

I start and erase a dozen flirty innuendos asking if he hopes to win me, but before I can find the right words, he texts me again.

Corey: I have to go to practice. I’ll talk to you tonight, though. Have a safe trip, babe.

A lone tear rolls down my cheek, and I lean back, hating how, once again, it feels like I’m being forced to choose between soccer and Corey.