Chapter 24: Xavier

Chapter 24: Xavier

As my hand takes hers, the thought that runs through my brain is:

Not a proper snog?

What the hell do I even mean by that? I said it so she wouldn’t think I was forcing myself on her or trying to take advantage of the situation.

It’s not like I find the thought of kissing Ophelia distasteful. Truthfully, it’s quite the opposite. Ever since she’d talked about doing kinky things in lingerie, it’s been on my mind. She’s on my mind. Frequently. I can’t help that—I am human after all. But I never thought about doing it for show.

I’d been so focused on the logistics of becoming a US citizen to enable the trade. On talking with Coach Janssen and packing my apartment and asking Tony for the hundredth time for the contracts to sign that I didn’t think about the actual marriage thing. Or making people think we’re married at the very least.

Ophelia and I will definitely have to have a longer conversation once her friend leaves. It’s probably wise to put some parameters and stipulations in the contract that keep this a strictly business relationship, especially knowing some of the other thoughts I’ve had about her.

No, this shall stay strictly business.

With public displays of affection.

Her hand seems small in mine. I reckon I don’t view her as overly petite, probably because her personality and spirit seem to fill any room she’s in. Her whole energy is the opposite of mine. In the past, I used to find perpetually-in-motion people grating. However, with Ophelia, it’s … amusing. Entertaining. Distracting.

Attractive.

She reminds me of the way a kestrel flaps its wings to hover over prey. Still, but with a flurry of activity.

And with my life in the pot right now, I need the distraction.

"Marley, we’re going down to City Hall for a three-thirty appointment. Do you want to be our witness, but more importantly, do you want to help me figure out what to wear?" Ophelia glances up at me, her hand warm in mine. "Are you okay if Marley comes with us, babe?"

Nicknames, is it? Though not one for the games typically associated with dating, it’s imperative I play along. "It’s fine by me, my little chickadee." It seems fitting since she reminds me of a sparrow hopping about here and there. I give her hand a little squeeze before dropping it.

If I’m not mistaken, I see her nose wrinkle slightly. I don’t know why, nor do I have the energy to guess. This charade is enough for me to manage.

Marley’s mouth opens and closes a few times as she looks between us. "But … this … this can’t be real. You barely know him!"

"It is, Mar." Ophelia flops onto the couch next to her friend. "When you know it’s the right thing, you know. Why wait?"

Marley takes her friend’s hands in her own. "Ophelia, you’ve had a rough few weeks with Trent and ClikClak and everything. Are you sure?"

I see her give me the side-eye.

"Is this the safest decision? You don’t have to do this."

I wander over to the other side of the room by the desk. I appreciate the care Marley has for her friend. I will not appreciate it, however, if she talks Ophelia out of this. When I talked to Tony last week, he said this was my only shot at getting traded now. I need to get traded.

The thought of staying in Baltimore has me almost as low as I was after the Phaedra debacle.

Yet when I’m in the same room with Ophelia, that feeling seems very remote.

Ophelia stands up and walks over to me, standing behind me and putting her hands lightly on my arms. "I want to do this." I turn to face her, and her hands return to my biceps.

She continues, gazing at me. "From the first message, I was smitten. How could I not be? I’ve never had a connection like this with anyone. Ever." Ophelia turns her head to look at her friend. "Mar, you’ve known me since we were little. When have I ever fallen like this? I don’t believe in insta-love. Hell, you know I hate that trope. So for me to do this, you know it’s gotta be big."

Ophelia, looking deep into my eyes, is so convincing that I almost forget that we’re virtual strangers about to commit fraud and that there are no real feelings here. Unable to help myself, and not acting in the least, I smile at her, and she returns the expression. My hands have found their way to her waist, so I pull her closer to me, digging my fingers in slightly. She’s soft and sensual without even trying.

"Ugh, get a room." Marley throws a couch pillow at us, breaking the moment. I deflect the flying object, and it bounces off Ophelia’s desk, scattering papers and books.

Both Ophelia and I reach to pick up the mess. Her desk is never neat, to begin with, but now it looks as if a cyclone went through. I shuffle a pile of papers together and pick up a purple notebook.

"I’ll take that." Ophelia snatches it out of my hands. I wonder if that’s the book she’s scribbling in whenever she thinks I’m not looking. What could be so important in there that she doesn’t want me to see? "Marley, can you help me figure out what to wear?"

They dash off down the hall. I too should figure out what to wear. The lion’s share of my wardrobe is activewear, and even most of that is in storage. I did have the good sense to keep my Armani suit with me in case I needed it for an interview, thus making the decision easy for me.

I text Tony again.

Me: Headed to City Hall in a bit to finalize this thing. Any progress on the paperwork?

I’m sure it’s not a big deal to go forth with this project. If there was any reason why I shouldn’t, Tony would’ve called me. It took him virtually nanoseconds to send over a draft contract. I hope the delay in the final copy doesn’t indicate a complication.

I send another text to Coach Janssen.

Me: I’ll have an update about the citizenship thing by the end of the week. Things are chugging along, and it should be smooth sailing.

Janssen: Good to hear. Front office is just waiting on your paperwork.

Me: Hopefully soon. Good luck next week.

The Buzzards are in the championship game. Envy floods me. Why couldn’t I have been sacked with Janssen and Kenley? Then I too would be on my way to the championship, instead of moving heaven and earth to play one more game.

Janssen: We’re having a small reception tonight at The Tower for the media. You should stop by.

There’s so much weight to this. When someone from the organization makes this suggestion, it’s not actually a suggestion. And media.

Things must’ve progressed faster than I’d realized. Perhaps no news is good news.

And speaking of news, I glance toward the bedroom door where I can hear Ophelia and Marley giggling. I’m sure I don’t even want to take a gander at what’s going on in there. My phone buzzes again.

Ophelia: I have my great-grandmother’s ring if you want to use that for me. I’ll get you one as soon as I can.

Bugger. I hadn’t even thought about that.

Ophelia: Only because Marley will ask. I’m going to go to the bathroom in a minute. I’ll leave the ring on your toothbrush.

I glance around and the inflatable mattress immediately catches my eye. That’s sure to draw suspicion. I deflate it and roll it up, shoving it behind my pile of suitcases in the corner.

I hear the bedroom door open and close, and then the bathroom one. After a few moments, I hear the reverse. I call, a little more loudly than necessary, "If you don’t mind, I’m going to get dressed right now. I’ll just use the bathroom since Marley is here."

I see the delicate gold ring on my toothbrush, as promised. It’s plain, a small cloudy solitaire on a gold band. I can do better than this. I have to do better than this. No one would believe that I would give this to the woman I love.

It’s noon now. Perhaps I can make this work. Pulling out my phone, I do a quick search for jewelers near us. I find one down Beacon Street. Immediately I order an Uber. I call to the girls, "Going out for a bit, be back by two at the latest."

Once in the car, I send another text to Tony.

Me: I’m buying her a ring. You need to include in the contract that she keeps it.

It’s only fair. She’s doing a lot for me.

I send another text to Coach Janssen.

Me: I’d love to stop by. Is it okay if I bring a date?

I should have typed my wife, as we’ll be married by then.

Wife.

My stomach clenches into a tight fist and small beads of perspiration dot my forehead. What’m I doing? This whole thing is bloody barmy.

It’s my last chance to play football.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

I dash across Beacon Street, donning my mask as I walk into the store. I must look like a fool because an elderly gentleman flocks to me, ready to separate me from my money.

"What can I help you with today?"

"I’m sorry, but I need a ring. A wedding ring. Or engagement ring? I bloody don’t know. I’m getting married in a few hours." The words feel like marbles in my mouth. The mask isn’t helping.

"That’ll be no problem. We have some in this case here that are ready to sell, but we also have estate rings on consignment. What size do you need?"

Size? This is a detail that should have occurred to me, but it didn’t. Hell, I didn’t even think about a ring until about thirty minutes ago. Wait! Her grandmum’s ring is in my pocket. I fish it out.

"This is hers. Well, it’s her grandmum’s, but we were going to use it. Except, well, it’s not a very nice diamond."

The jeweler, Gregory, asks to see the ring. He dons one of those eye magnifying glasses like you see in a James Bond movie. "That’s because this is a white sapphire, not a diamond. Based on the age of the ring, it’s definitely natural and not synthetic. Are you looking to trade this?"

"Heavens, no. I simply wanted to get her something …" I falter. Nicer? Hers? "I’m not sure it’s her style, but I know it has sentimental value."

"What is her style?"

It’s a simple question. One a fiancé would know. Should know. Yet, I’m standing here like a nob. I’ve not seen Ophelia in anything besides pajamas and lounge clothes, other than the jeans and hoodie she was wearing that night in Baltimore. Hardly enough to tell her style. Instead, I fill the void with everything I know about her.

"She’s romantic and impulsive and not too stuck on her appearance. I do believe she’s genuinely a good person. Caring and giving, perhaps to a fault. But definitely romantic at heart."

That’s not a whole lot to go on.

"Oh, and she loves all things British."

"Naturally," Gregory replies. "I can see why." He puts his finger up to his chin as his gaze darts around the store. "Oh wait! I’ve got the perfect solution." He dashes off to a glass counter on the opposite side of the store where he carefully extracts something. "Voila! This is what you need. This blue sapphire ring guard will enhance her grandmother’s white sapphire, without detracting from the stone as brilliant diamonds would. These are marquis cut sapphires which tend to have a feminine and romantic feel, and they blend nicely with the original ring."

He puts the two together, and I know he’s right. "Sold. That was easy."

Gregory whisks both pieces off to the back to clean and polish them. About ten minutes later, the sparkling set is nestled snugly in a ring box in my breast pocket, where it feels like ten stone against my heart.

"I hope your bride-to-be likes this. Please remember us for all your future needs."

If I weren’t in this suit, I’d consider running back to Ophelia’s place. I need to do something to burn off some of this feeling churning in the pit of my stomach.

I pull out my phone and call my parents. I need some sage advice. NDA or no, if I don’t tell someone, I’m going to absolutely rupture.

"Hullo?" It’s Philip. Great. He’s not going to be of any help. Mostly because he thinks I’m a nob and the feeling is quite mutual most of the time.

"Mum or Dad in?"

"Hullo to you too. Both out," he grumbles. It sounds as if he’s got a mouthful of food.

Bollocks.

"Well, I need to talk to them. To someone."

"You got me, you bloody eejit." Brotherly love at its finest.

"Do you know when they’ll be back?"

"Nah. Out in the aviary. Someone brought in a barn owl with a broken wing. They’re looking after it."

"Why aren’t you out there? That’s your specialty." My voice is rising. Why isn’t Philip pulling his weight there? I’m here, literally selling my soul and country, to make sure they have what they need. And Philip is relaxing in the house while our parents are out in the cold aviary tending to an injured, and no doubt surly, bird. "This is reprehensible, Philip. You are supposed to be running the show, not letting Mum and Dad do everything while you sit back and stuff your face."

"No need to throw a wobbly. I’ve been out there for the better part of two days straight. I just came in to clean up and get a quick bite. Now, are you going to tell me what’s got your knickers in a twist? It’s obvious you didn’t ring for a straight chinwag."

I exhale, covering my eyes with my hand. "Oh Philip, it’s a disaster. I’m getting married in about two hours, to a bird I hardly know. She’s agreed to help me out so I can become a US citizen." Saying it out loud makes me want to retch.

"Being a US citizen would be infinitely better for your career, no? You’re not playing back here anytime soon, so what’s the problem?"

"Right, but marrying a total stranger? Doesn’t that seem extreme?"

I can hear his sigh from all the way across the Atlantic. "Brother, your whole life has been extreme. Do you think most people play football the way you do? You’ve given up your friends and family, your social life, and even your name and reputation for the chance to chase a ball around a field. So this is one more sacrifice in a long line of sacrifices. It would seem foolish to give it all up now. As if all of that was for nothing."

I’m speechless for a moment. Philip’s never been my biggest fan. Or fan at all, for that matter. Yet here he is, giving me sound and solid advice.

"Sorry about the comments earlier. I know you work hard there. The birds are lucky you take such good care of them."

"Eh, I’d rather be with them than people anyway. Ain’t got no use for most people."

"Myself included, I believe."

He ignores that comment. "As for the marriage thing, treat it like you would your playbook. You follow the script. You know the tactical moves. You know when to strike. This is another offensive move that will brush right past the defense."

Philip’s words are starting to make sense. I need to do what I have to do to play, and that means having a convincing enough marriage to grant me citizenship.

There’s a grunt from the other end of the line, which is Philip’s usual way of dismissing the conversation. "Right then. Thanks for the advice. It’s actually quite helpful."

I need to go into this marriage like I would a game. Tactical and prepared.

It’s time to get my bride her bouquet.