Chapter 18: Xavier

Chapter 18: Xavier

She’s coming to meet me. That’s bloody great. Despite having played in cities all over Britain and the US, I’m still not super comfortable with public transit. I’d much prefer to be in a car driving.

Fewer people, more freedom.

Plus, I’m not a big fan of being underground. I think it’s because I got lost on the Tube that one time. My parents freaked out and Philip was visibly annoyed that I’d ruined the day, but it’s not like I got separated from them on purpose.

Although, after seven hours on this train, I’m not sure I smell very good. As soon as I step off, I head toward the nearest loo to brush my teeth and add another coat of deodorant.

Not because I have expectations of anything. Other than her proposing, it was quite the platonic conversation. It was rather enjoyable, really. Actually, it was the best time I’ve had in a while. With the exception of family and friends from before my career began, not that there are many of those, people usually put on a show for me. With Ophelia, there was no show. Simply a lot of telling, not to mention laughter. Then it became apparent she was quite sloshed. I was half in the bag myself, so I’m in no place to judge.

Enjoyable times and laughter aside, it’s not the purpose of my trip. With amazing speed that makes me question what exactly goes on with Tony’s agency, he emailed me a rough draft of a contract. I really don’t care to know how Tony drafted an entire business contract for a marriage deal in a matter of hours. Thinking about that makes my stomach churn.

Perhaps I should take some comfort in knowing that as professional athletes, we’re expected to make all sorts of sacrifices for our careers. I never expected to have to marry a total stranger just to be able to set foot upon the pitch again.

At least I’ve talked to her a bit. It’s not quite as bad as posting an ad on Craigslist or having ClikClak set me up.

Maybe I’ll have Tony put in a line about how I’m not allowed to whip it out in public if only so she’s reassured that she won’t have a repeat of last night.

Heavens, was it only last night?

I scroll through the document Tony’s sent. I guess it’s pretty standard if there is such a thing. Our finances remain separate, though she will be financially compensated. The marriage has to last at least three years. We have one residence with separate bedrooms. She can still maintain her own flat if she wants, but her legal address has to be the one we share. She’ll have to attend home games. She can’t tell anyone, at least without having them sign a nondisclosure first.

What’s not in here is that she’s going to have to lie to the government and possibly everyone in her life.

No big deal really.

It was her idea.

Honestly, I wasn’t even thinking about it. I was simply mooning about with this unsolvable, impossible problem when she shouted it out. It seems like as good a solution as any.

We get on fairly well if our brief text conversations and three-hour long FaceTime are any indications. There’s obviously the distinct possibility that she’s insufferable, which is why I hopped on a train up here.

Between seeing her in person and the surprise element, it will be hard for her to hide too many bodies in the closet, so to speak.

Though I didn’t expect her to meet me at the station. It’s polite of her, so that’s a check in the right column. I used to be that bloke, doing the polite thing.

Doing the right thing.

Fat lot of good it did me.

It bloody well ruined my life.

All because I’m a nice guy.

I should probably warn Ophelia that being nice won’t get her anywhere. That’s not to say that I’m mean or ornery now. It’s more … I keep to myself. It’s easier that way. The fewer entanglements, the better.

Of course, I say this as I’m on my way to iron out the details for the biggest entanglement of my life. I reckon this won’t be a big deal. I’m moving anyway, so I’ll simply find a place a little bigger than I normally would. My schedule is grueling and packed anyway.

This isn’t going to be that much of a change.

It’ll be nice to have a friendly face to talk to outside of practice. My mates have almost always been on the team, which suits me fine since that’s where I spent most of my time. However, for those rare moments when I’m not doing something team related, it can get a bit lonely.

On the other hand, I don’t want to be with someone who has a packed social calendar and expects me to be her arm candy, bankroll escort for it all.

Oh, I know it sounds like I’m complaining, which I’m not. There are plenty out there who’d sell a testicle for a chance to be a professional footballer. But there is a cost.

And with this latest venture, it seems like the cost just went up.

But all that slips my mind the moment I see her standing in front of the Dunkin’ Donuts shop, just as she said she would be. She’s staring down at her phone, plaits falling over her shoulders. She looks up and glances around.

She looks tired.

But then, that look fades as she sees me. She pulls her mask down. A small, tentative smile spreads, and she gives an equally small, tentative wave before replacing her mask.

I wave back. "Hullo," I say, approaching her. This time it’s me with the rolling bag. I’m glad I have it in my hand. Otherwise, I wouldn’t know what to do. Do I shake her hand? Hug her?

One seems entirely too formal and the other is entirely too familiar. I’m not quite sure there’s a defined etiquette for how to greet your fiancée who’s a virtual stranger.

"Did you have a good trip? Are you hungry? We could get something to eat down here. Do you like seafood? I do, but I’m still kind of pukey so I don’t know that we want to do that. How long are you staying? Where are you staying? Why did you say we’re getting married? Oh, by the way, I tend to ramble when I’m nervous. I’m very nervous."

I have to laugh.

"Are you? I couldn’t tell." I tilt my head. "Pukey?"

"I may have grossly overestimated the amount of wine I can drink without getting pukey."

"Oh, that’s terrible. I thought you might be a bit sloshed. Or at least I did when you rolled off the couch."

She rubs her hip. "Is that why this hurts?"

My gaze travels to the easy curve of her pelvis. I have to make an effort to drag my attention to her face if only so she doesn’t think I’m a perv. "Can’t say for certain, but could be. It was a slow-speed fall if that makes any difference."

Her face turns seven shades of scarlet. "Um, I’m gonna go hide in the bathroom until after you leave, if that’s okay."

I put my hand on her arm but then pull it away. "If it’s any consolation, I was a bit pissed myself. But I had an enjoyable evening. I haven’t laughed that much in a long time."

Ophelia furrows her brow. "I’m getting sick of being the laughingstock all the time."

This time, I put my hand on her arm and leave it there. "I believe you misunderstood. I was definitely laughing with you, not at you. I’d never do that."

She shakes me off. "Why not? Everyone does." Ophelia looks at me for a long moment, her dark blue eyes stormy. If I’m not mistaken, they’re filling with tears.

"I’m sorry that I appeared to be making fun of you. I’m not. Believe me, I’m not. I understand what it’s like to be the butt of the joke." The paparazzi were relentless after the incident. I don’t think I got on the internet for at least a month.

My mum had to drag me out of my room and force me to answer Tony’s phone calls. I think he believed the hype and thought I was really a bad boy and that managing me would be lucrative for his career.

He’s been quite disappointed at my hermit lifestyle.

No one ever believed that the story wasn’t true. My mum and dad said they did, but I know Philip thought it was all my fault.

"And if it’s any consolation, I had a bloody good evening. Probably one of my best in a very long time."

She sniffs. "You don’t look like a loser. You’re too hot to be one."

I bite the inside of my cheek to avoid laughing. I don’t think that would be well-received. It’s one benefit of the mask, though. It gives me a moment to reset my face. "You’d be surprised. I wouldn’t mind getting a bite to eat," I say, to change the topic and hopefully bring a smile back to her face. Seafood would have been great, but I’ll have plenty of time for that once I’m in Boston. "What won’t make you feel pukey?"

Ophelia gazes up and off into the distance. "There’s the South Street Diner. It’s not too far from here, maybe a five or ten-minute walk. Is that okay?" I see her looking at my bag.

"Certainly. I believe I can handle that amount of physical exertion."

Her face reddens again. "I’m sorry. I mean, I guess I know that you’re like a professional athlete and all—"

"Not ’like’ a professional athlete. I actually am one."

"No, I mean, I know that. I … it’s just … I’m used to being around normal people."

"I think you’ll find I’m quite normal about most things. I even put my pants on one leg at a time." Her eyes crinkle, indicating I’ve earned a smile. We head out into the brisk November air, the evening already dark. Once outside, we both pull the masks off. Many of the buildings look dark as well. "It seems like most things are closed around here. Is that because of the pandemic?"

Ophelia, struggling to keep pace with me, says in a breathy voice, "Some, but it’s Sunday. This is more of a business district, so there’s a lot not open. But the diner is open 24-7. It’s been in a lot of movies and is popular with the after-bar crowd."

I slow my pace a little for her. "That’s interesting. I have to say, I don’t get out exploring in Baltimore much. I don’t have that much downtime and when I do, I like to volunteer at a rescue facility, similar to my mum and dad’s. It’s outside of the city though."

"So what you’re saying is you’re more of a country mouse than a city mouse."

Her phrasing confuses me, but I think I get the point. "I’ve never heard that before, but yes, I’d prefer to be in the wide-open spaces with nature. Sometimes I feel too closed in with all these buildings around. I need room to spread my wings."

It looks as if she shudders a bit. I wonder if she’s cold. "How much farther?"

She points and I can see the large coffee cup on the roof of the building, neon lining the windows. It does look like every diner I’ve ever seen in a film. I pull out my phone to snap a picture. Then I turn it around to take a selfie. "Come on," I tilt my head.

"Really?" Ophelia asks.

"Yes, really. Come over here."

"I look terrible." She immediately begins swiping at her bangs.

"Nah, you look great. Come here."

She does, albeit reluctantly. I stretch out my arm and get a good picture of the two of us. I’ll post it once we’re inside.

We’re quiet as we step into the bright, harsh lights of the restaurant. Her complexion looks a little drawn in this light, dark circles showing under her eyes. I hope she’s okay with all of this.

"What looks good to you?"

"My normal diner go-to is an open-faced hot roast beef. But today, a BLT sounds like it would hit the spot. Or maybe a grilled cheese? What are you getting?"

I’m a bit more lax with my diet this week, but I still don’t want to go overboard. "I think the lobster egg white omelet if the smell won’t be too much for you."

"Oh, that’s considerate. Don’t worry about me." She shifts in her seat but doesn’t say anything else.

As soon as our orders are placed, I pull up the photo of the two of us. "Do you mind if I post this?"

She shakes her head but still doesn’t say anything. Perhaps she’s really not feeling well. I make quick work of posting the picture with the caption, "Iconic city, iconic restaurant, incredible company. The perfect trifecta." I tag Ophelia in the post.

I look up from my phone and she’s staring out the window. This does not seem at all like the vivacious, funny woman with whom I chatted last night. I wonder if something happened today to upset her.

"Ophelia," I start. Her head moves slowly, finally turning to look at me. "Is there something bothering you?"

She shakes her head, biting her lip a bit.

"Right then. It’s just, well, you seem a bit off."

She stares, her eyes wide. It reminds me of the way an owl looks through you.

I’m starting to get a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. What if she’s not mentally stable? I’d better have Tony put in a clause to protect me if she goes off the rails.

And while it seemed brilliant last night, I’m wondering if marrying Ophelia is truly a terrible idea.