Chapter 26: Xavier

Chapter 26: Xavier

If I didn’t know better, I’d say Ophelia is crying. Or at least trying not to cry. Bollocks.

I don’t know what I did, but more importantly, I don’t know how to make her stop. Marley’s not-so-gentle words echo through my head.

You’d better treat her right because she is the most wonderful person on the face of the earth.

There was also a not-so-thinly veiled threat to remove my manhood from my body should I break Ophelia’s heart like "all the other losers she wasted time on" did. Fine. It was an outright threat with awful details including a pair of pliers and a long needle.

I’m glad Ophelia has someone like Marley looking out for her. I’m slightly disturbed as well, but Marley’s concern and caring for Ophelia came through in her threats. Ophelia needs that. She, from what I can tell, wears her heart on her sleeve way too often to avoid the heartbreak that accompanies it.

Without warning, I feel very protective of her. I want to take her in my arms and tell her not to cry. But I can’t do that. That would be too real.

And all of a sudden, this has become infinitely more complicated. It did seem too easy, all of this falling into place. I’ve never been one to rush through things, but the past three weeks have been at warp speed.

And now Ophelia’s in tears.

I reach out, my hand hovering over her bare knee for a moment, but decide that’s entirely too familiar. I let my fingers rest on her forearm. "You alright, love?"

She doesn’t turn back to look at me, her gaze transfixed out the window. I snap a quick picture of her. It’s rare that she’s not smiling.

I don’t think I care for it at all.

I clear my throat. "Right, so you spoke with the clerk, and we’re all set to get the marriage license immediately?"

Her hair bobs up and down, indicating a nod of agreement, but she remains silent. I put my hand back on her arm. "Ophelia, what’s going on?"

Finally, she turns to face me, her eyes dull. "It’s nothing. I’m fine."

"If you say so." She’s obviously lying, but I’m not going to push her. God strike me down, but I don’t want her changing her mind. Not with Coach Janssen wanting me at the event tonight.

I should probably mention that to her, but the Uber has come to a stop in front of a large brick plaza leading up to a cold concrete building that looks totally out of place with the historic charm of the city.

I give Ophelia my hand as she slides out of the car. Once on the plaza, I tuck her arm in mine, as she’s wearing ridiculous shoes that women like to wear and that are no match for the crevices.

She’s a broken ankle waiting to happen.

Though they do wonderful things for her legs. And I thought she had quite nice legs to begin with.

After a moment she says, "You know, I’ve walked by here and through here getting to the Government Center T stop, but I never really thought about going in this building."

"Well, I believe today will hold a lot of firsts for us." I give her a smile, hoping she’ll return it.

"I just never thought this is how I’d be getting married," she says, barely audible above the din of the city.

Ah, that explains the tears.

I have to give her one last chance to pull out. I don’t know what I’ll do if she does, but I also can’t coerce her into anything. "I do appreciate this, Ophelia. I hope you know that. I still don’t know why you’ve agreed to help me, especially since you’ve dreamed of more sentimental things. You don’t have to go through with this."

She stops, midway up the wide granite steps, her arm dropping from mine. "You see, Xavier, that’s the problem. My whole life I’ve wanted it all. An exciting career and a great romantic love story. I’ve done tons of stupid things trying to craft it for myself. I’m thirty years old, and I don’t think I’ve ever even been in love. I’ve certainly never been loved. So for once, I’m not trying to create a romance. I know that Hugh Grant or Colin Firth is not going to come swooping in and sweep me off my feet. I have to accept that my imagination wants the great adventure, but it’s not my reality. So this will do. Let’s face it, it’s more than I’d ever get otherwise."

I feel a tightness in my chest that hasn’t been there since I lost my spot on the National Team. "You can’t possibly mean that. You can’t give up."

She looks down and shrugs. "I make really stupid decisions when left to my own devices. Hell, that’s why we’re here, isn’t it? I’m too impulsive for my own good. I’m much better off taking the safe route like I did with my career. You’re safe. There’s no risk here, and no chance to make an ass out of myself."

"You sure?" One more chance.

Ophelia nods and pulls up her mask. "Let’s do this."

I pull up my mask as we walk up the rest of the stairs and into the brick lobby. "City Clerk, sixth floor," I tell the security guard as we walk through the metal detectors. Nothing says romance like being checked for weapons. I let Ophelia go first, so she doesn’t see the ring box that I put into the bin with my cell phone and wallet.

After the elevator, we follow the signs to the clerk’s office, which is a window separated by plexiglass. Ophelia says, "You know, early in the pandemic, they weren’t even doing weddings here. And the ones that had already been scheduled, they did in a hallway. So we’re lucky we can do this."

Having to marry a stranger to save my failing career doesn’t feel the luckiest.

The clerk pushes a stack of paperwork on a clipboard through the slot. "You have to fill out the marriage license paperwork first. It’ll be $150 to expedite this, and you both need to sign here and here that this is voluntary on both your parts. Take a clean pen."

Ophelia giggles. "I know you can’t see all of his face with the mask on, but trust me, I really want to do this."

I try not to roll my eyes. We go and sit down on some chairs in the hall. "Laying it on a bit thick, aren’t you?" I whisper.

"In case she gets questioned by immigration or TMZ," she says, not taking her eyes off the paperwork. Her pen is poised in mid-air, not making contact with the paper.

"Is there a problem?" She hasn’t moved in at least a minute. I know she’s literate. Her apartment is filled with books, most with shirtless men or cartoon people on the covers. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know she reads a lot of romance.

"I don’t know what to write here." She taps the line. I lean over her shoulder and instantly smell lilac, even through my mask. It makes me think of the hedgerows at the front of the property at home, bursting forth with pinks and purples, signaling spring. I shake my head and focus on where she’s stumped.

Last name.

"What should I put?"

I pull back, raising my eyebrow. "Don’t women usually take the husband’s name?"

Ophelia’s eyes narrow. "We don’t have time for a history lesson on the patriarchal and misogynistic suppression of women right now."

I raise my hands in defense. "Right, point taken. Do what you want to do. No pressure here."

In all honesty, it’s not something I’ve ever thought about. I’m guessing most men would say the same thing. It’s not my decision to make.

"It’s just, I’m Ophelia Finnegan. It’s who I am."

"Then stay Ophelia Finnegan."

"But if I don’t change my name, will it draw suspicion? It’s so much more legit if I take your name. I mean, who would get married and change their last name if they weren’t really in love?"

She seems so much more concerned about fooling the authorities than I am. I’m not the first athlete to do something like this, and I probably won’t be the last. Perhaps I’m naive, but I can’t imagine, with all that’s going on in the world, the government spending its time and resources to track me down. It’s not like I’m violating my visa or anything. I’m simply accelerating my path to citizenship.

"I can’t predict whether or not we’ll draw government scrutiny. I don’t have a say in this matter. It’s totally up to you." But even as I say it, I know I’m lying. I want her to take my name.

But I don’t know why.

Nor do I have time to examine this feeling.

She sighs, scribbling what will be her new moniker. Her forehead creases into a frown as she stares at what she’s written.

Ophelia Henry.

"Oh."

"What is it?"

"My initials. They’re going to be O.H. Oh. O. Henry."

Like the candy bar. I haven’t thought about those in years. The name makes me smile. "Those were the best."

Ophelia looks at me like I have three heads. "What? Isn’t O. Henry a poet or something?"

I shrug. "Perhaps? But I’m talking about Oh Henry! The candy bar. I don’t know if you can even get them anymore, but when I was a kid, I loved them. I tried to tell people they were named after my family, but then Seinfeld did a whole storyline with a character who was the heir to the Oh Henry! fortune, and it ruined it for me when it ran in syndication back home. But not the candy. That was still scrumptious. I mean, chocolate fudge, peanuts, and caramel, all coated with chocolate. I don’t know if I loved them because of the taste or the name, but they were my absolute fav."

I should probably shut my trap. Here we are, rushing against the clock to get married, and I’m wagging on about a childhood treat.

"That sounds delicious. Okay, fine, I’ll be Ophelia Henry." She wrinkles her nose as she says this.

I put my hand on hers. "Remember, it’s temporary. You don’t have to be Ophelia Henry forever."

She looks up at me, her eyes deep and serious. "I know. It’s just …"

"I know. Not what you had planned. Trust me, this wasn’t my script either. I never thought …"

"Are you two done yet?" the clerk calls, her Boston accent heavy.

Ophelia jumps up. "Yup. We’re all set. We were just …" she looks back at me, "trying to process the moment."

"Process when you’re not on the clock. Judge Mahoney leaves at four-thirty."

I glance at my watch. It’s already ten ’til four. "Right." She processes our paperwork, takes our payment, and then points to a door at the end of the hall.

We head through the door and into an empty room. There are stacks of chairs against the wall and a white floor runner down the middle. At the end of the aisle is a large sheet of plexiglass on a stand, like a mirror, but transparent. I suppose in non-COVID times, the room would be set up to accommodate a few guests. Instead, it’s rather depressing.

Ophelia is looking around, her shoulders slumped. Yes, I agree, this whole thing is a downer. Of course, that’s how my life has been ever since I got into that car with Phaedra Jones. This is simply one more thing.

Judge Mahoney comes in, wearing an ill-fitting gray suit and tie, his mask down around his chin. He heads behind the plexiglass. "Okay, you’re my last. Let’s make this quick. You can take your masks off if you want to."

Both Ophelia and I remove our masks, and she slides out of her coat. We step to the end of the aisle and wait for Judge Mahoney to begin. He reads in a monotone voice, not looking up from his papers. "Xavier," he begins. Due to his local accent, it sounds more like Xa-vya. It actually reminds me of how my dad says my name. "And Ophelia. You come in today as two individuals but will leave as one. As you stand here before your friends and famil—Dammit, Charity, she was supposed to give me the updated version." He swears under his breath.

He continues to drone on. I should pay attention, but all I can do is look at Ophelia. Her gaze remains on the floor, and her hands clutch the small bouquet so hard her knuckles match her dress.

I’m not sure where Judge Mahoney got this script from, but it can definitely use a once-over. Or a thrice over. He speaks so fast that I can barely process his words. I’m grateful because if I could hear what he was saying about love and commitment and relationships, I’d probably bolt faster than my fifty-yard dash.

Xavier Henry, how did you break the world record for speed?

Running away from a sham of a marriage meant to ensure I can keep playing football.

"Uh, Xavier, do you take, um, Ophelia to be your lawfully wedded wife? In good times and in bad, in sickness and in health, until parted by death?"

I finally hear his words but feel as if there’s a large wad of cotton in my throat.

This is bloody ridiculous. I can’t go through with this.

Judge Mahoney coughs.

Ophelia is staring at me, her eyes wide and huge. I see her head nod ever so slightly. In for a penny, in for a pound.

"Right. Yes. I do. Of course."

When it’s her turn for vows, I know I should maintain eye contact, but I can’t seem to keep my gaze from wandering around the room. Though this has all moved faster than a forward with only one defenseman to get by, it doesn’t make the situation any less serious. Philip was right. I’ve sacrificed so much for this sport. To feel the adrenaline coursing through my veins when I’m on the field. To push my body to the point of breaking—and beyond. To win.

And now simply, to play.

Softly, I hear Ophelia say, "I do."

Finally, I meet her gaze. Her eyes, which are normally sparkling and full of life, seem listless and dull.

This is a terrible mistake. I shouldn’t make her do this.

"Then by the power vested in me by the state of Massachusetts, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."

Bollocks.