Chapter 30: Xavier

Chapter 30: Xavier

It’s only when Ophelia returns that I realize she was gone a long time.

"You okay?" I inquire.

She nods. "Better now. Just chatting it up."

"You already met someone new?" I mean it as a joke, but my tone comes off dour. Perhaps because, and I haven’t the foggiest idea why, the thought of her talking to any bloke in this room agitates me.

It shouldn’t, I know.

It’s simply because I don’t want people thinking the wrong thing about my wife, and in turn, me. I can’t afford it.

That’s it. It’s not because I’m picturing her smiling for someone else, or someone else enjoying that wide, generous mouth the way I did a bit ago. That would be ridiculous.

"Oh yes, I was off making sweet passionate love with some guy who passed me by in the hall."

"Ophelia, hush. Someone might not know you’re joking. No bad publicity, remember?" I lean in and whisper into her ear. I try not to notice the pulse beating in her neck. I straighten back up. Best to put some distance between my mouth and her milky white skin before I do something foolish.

Like bite it.

That’s it, I’ve got to lay off the liquor for the rest of the night. My inhibitions need to stay firmly in place. Before I can say—or do—anything else, I feel a firm hand on my shoulder.

"Ah, Xavier, glad you could make it. Aren’t you going to introduce us to your companion?"

I don’t need to turn around to know it’s Coach Janssen. I stand up as straight as possible and give Ophelia a tight smile. This is it. The moment where everything either comes together or falls apart horrifically.

I turn quickly. "Yes, this is Ophelia. Ophelia, this is Coach Janssen."

Coach extends his hand. "Bjorn, please. I’m only Coach on the pitch or in the weight room. Lovely to meet you. Xavier isn’t one to bring a plus one very often, so you must be quite special if he wanted to include you."

Ophelia giggles at the Dutchman, a lovely pink blush filling her cheeks. "I … I’m …" Bjorn takes in her appearance from head to toe, which makes me want to growl at him. Instead, I ball my fist and listen as my former and hopefully, future, coach says, "Quite special indeed." Finally, he turns his attention back to me. "I know I’ve asked you to a social event, but do you mind if we talk business for a moment? Is it alright to speak here, or would you rather do it privately?"

"Here’s fine, I reckon." I glance at Ophelia, who gives a little shrug.

"Okay, Miller wants the paperwork this week. He wants to be able to announce plans for next season the day after our final game. He’s having trouble getting in touch with your agent."

That makes two of us.

"I’m on it. I assure you, Coach Janssen—Bjorn—that this is my number one priority."

I see Bjorn’s gaze dart to Ophelia, who’s standing more still than I knew she was capable of.

"I need your word on that. No distractions, no bad press. Just i’s dotted and t’s crossed and everything ready to go."

Apparently, Ophelia hits her threshold for immobility as she leans forward, putting her hands on Bjorn’s forearm. "I assure you, Mr. Coach. Um, Bjorn. I’m not a distraction. Not in the least. I’m part of the plan to make this all happen. That’s why we got married. Now Xavier can get his citizenship and everything’s all set." She leans over and says to me, "I figured he should know. I mean, he’d probably guess, since he knows you weren’t a citizen, and then if suddenly you are? He needs to know how serious you are about being traded to the Buzzards. That playing for them means everything to you."

A small smile spreads across Bjorn’s face. "You got married? You already took care of it?"

I nod, the tightness back in my chest. This is simply another thing to put on the already very long list of sacrifices I’ve made for football. I mean, it could probably fill one of Ophelia’s many notebooks. Why stop now?

"I expect Tony to send me the final paperwork any time now." I pull out my phone and frown again, as my messages to my agent remain unread. "And as soon as possible, I’ll file the citizenship stuff. This is a done deal. No problem. And for tonight, I’d just like to celebrate my bride and me."

I see some heads start to swivel in our direction, so I slip my arm around Ophelia’s waist and gently tug her toward me. Somehow, she fits me perfectly, like my favorite cleats.

Good news travels fast apparently, and the only thing that could upstage my being here in the first place is the fact that we’re here on our wedding night. It’s as if the cocktail party to celebrate the Buzzards has become our personal reception.

This is not good.

I can see the ire forming on several faces. Not a good start. Not at all. "Buggers." I lean down and whisper into Ophelia’s ear. Again. "We’ve got to do some damage control. I’m not the sort of wanker to come in and nab the attention. This night is supposed to be about the Buzzards and their successful season, as well as their playoff bid."

She nods, "Got it."

I want to kick myself. Showing up here with Ophelia was a stupid move. It’s just going to draw attention that I don’t want or need.

It’s so much easier just to play the game and train and only focus on being an athlete. All of this other stuff is too complicated. For the briefest of moments, I look around this posh room, filled with talent and money and opulence, and wish for a dirty old barn filled with crotchety birds. Life there certainly is much more simple.

And it’s good, honest work, saving owls and hawks and the like.

And while yes, you get bit and covered in shit, at least it’s in the literal way and not the figurative way that this life I’m currently in seems to do.

"Xavier, are you okay? You don’t look too good right now."

I glance down to see Ophelia staring up at me with concern. "I was just thinking about … home." I don’t know how else to put it.

"Oh, did you want to go? I’m sure Sunny is wondering why we’ve been gone for so long."

Her vision of home is nothing like mine. This is all a terrible mistake. I can’t get any air. What have I done? I’m starting to feel like I did the night of the accident, as the car was speeding down the road, knowing that Phaedra was out of control and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

Except I’m the one who’s made this car veer out of control. I’m the one who makes poor decision after poor decision. I’m incapable of being smart unless it’s on the soccer field. I have no business—

My off-the-rails train of thought is upended when Ophelia’s lips crash into mine. Her hands, soft yet strong, hold my jaw, keeping my face flush with hers. Without thinking, my mouth parts, yielding to her. My hands seek her waist, pulling her close to me. As my fingers curl into the fluffy fabric of her skirt, I feel the panic recede, replaced by a more intense need.

"Good," she says into my mouth. "Now that I’ve got your attention, it’s time to leave." She takes me by the hand and pulls me toward the exit. I’m barely aware of what I’m doing. I head toward the stairs, but Ophelia pulls me back. "Coat check."

Right. Of course. I nod and pull out our tickets and some cash to tip.

"Taking off so soon?" I turn to see Callaghan Entay leaning against the wall. He’s the keeper for the Buzzards. He played for a few years in Manchester, one of the few Americans to play in the BSL.

"Yes, well, I didn’t want to focus on us. It’s your night. You should be celebrating. Best of luck to you next week."

"Are you really coming to us?"

I shrug. "Tryin’ to. I’d be happy to play for Janssen again."

I see Callaghan’s gaze focus on Ophelia for a brief moment, looking her up and down, before returning to me. "I hear congratulations are in order."

I have to remind myself it would not be a smart career move to growl at Callaghan simply because he appreciates a beautiful woman. I’ve always known she was beautiful. Now that she’s dressed to the nines, she’s practically glowing for everyone else to notice as well.

I’m not a fan of the Ophelia fan club.

I don’t share well with others.

"Yes, well, we’re going to go off and finish our celebration, if you don’t mind."

Callaghan laughs. "Yeah, big night. See you soon."

He doesn’t seem irritated by my presence, which is good. If the keeper likes you—and trusts you as a defender—it’s a good omen for playing time.

We’re relatively silent for the Uber ride back to Ophelia’s. I search my phone again for some sign of life from Tony. It’s not like him to be this radio silent for so long. I hope nothing’s wrong. I say as much to Ophelia.

"What if he’s in the hospital with amnesia and doesn’t remember what he’s working on for you? What if he is being held hostage in his house? What if he took off with all his clients’ investments to some island nation never to be heard from again?"

I can only stare at her after that bonkers train of thought. My expression must read clearly because she immediately blushes, a bright pink stain filling her cheeks.

"I know. I’m stupid. I read all these books and watch these movies and sometimes I have trouble distinguishing real life from fiction."

I take the keys from Ophelia and unlock the door. I then step aside to let her in first. As she’s talking about her fantasy life, it occurs to me that I should probably pick her up and carry her over the threshold like they do in the movies.

But I wouldn’t want to give her the wrong idea.

The idea that I liked how she felt in my arms and how her lips felt on mine.

That would not be the right idea to be perpetuating.

No matter how true it is.

"Yes, well none of that’s real, you know."

Ophelia flops down on her ugly couch. "I know. I think it’s why I’m always disappointed. Men never live up to the movies. Love isn’t like the songs."

I take off my tie and shrug out of my suit coat. My feet are pinched from my wingtips. Dressing up is for the birds. "Depends on which songs. Some songs hit the nail on the head." I listen to a lot of music while running and traveling. "Be right back, I’ve got to take this suit off."

I grab my shorts and T-shirt, and after a visit to the bathroom, I feel much more like myself. As I return to the living room, Ophelia’s disappeared, so I set to work re-inflating the air mattress.

The first priority tomorrow, after getting ahold of Tony, is to find an apartment with two bedrooms. This is bloody ridiculous.

Ophelia returns, her hair still in its fancy style, but her face devoid of makeup and her dress replaced by her oversized shirt and ratty flannel pajamas. Somehow it does nothing to diminish her appearance. She goes into the kitchen and returns with a glass of wine and a bottle of beer. She holds the bottle out to me and I take it.

"Cheers!" I say, holding it up for a toast. "Another toast. Now it’s a proper wedding. To us."

Ophelia laughs but clinks her glass against my drink. "Well, we didn’t have a proper wedding. No cake, no dance, no bouquet toss."

No wedding night.

I shake my head to rid it of that intrusive thought. Ophelia, the saint that she is, did not sign on for a horndog harassing her simply because he finds her bum attractive.

It is, by the way. Cute and round. She’s curvy in all the right places. Soft and feminine.

She reaches over to the flowers that lie on the coffee table. She picks them up and tosses them over her shoulder toward the kitchen. The cat scurries after them.

"There. One more thing to cross off the list, and then my dream is complete." Her voice is flat, and I can’t help but feel immense regret and remorse that I prevented her dream.

"Surely, it’s more about the marriage than the wedding day." As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I wish I could snatch them back in. This is reason number one why I prefer being on the field. I don’t have to speak. I don’t have to say the wrong thing. I just play. "You know what I mean."

"Well, no one’s writing a love song about us, that’s for sure." Then she looks as if she’s been struck by lightning. She jumps up and scurries over to her desk where she pulls out that purple notebook and hastily scrawls something down.

When she’s done, I ask, "What was that about?"

Her gaze drops to the floor. "Oh, nothing. I just thought about something and I didn’t want to forget it. Something I’m supposed to do for work tomorrow. You know, work. Like a work thing."

Her babbling makes me think it’s anything but work, but it’s not really my business in any regard.

She returns to the couch, tucking her fuzzy-sock-clad feet up underneath her until she’s folded into an impossibly small ball. "It’s a good thing we didn’t have to do a dance or anything. It’s not like we have a song."

Ah, she’s back to the wedding thing. I think this has bothered her more than she let on. "I’m sure we could come up with a proper one. What’s a love song that you like?"

She takes a sip of her wine, considering my question. "Um, what about ’Need You Now’ by Lady Antebellum?"

I can’t remember the song so I pull it up on my phone. Sure, the piano, in the beginning, is pretty and haunting, but as soon as Hillary Scott starts singing, the song comes flooding back. "No."

"No?" she asks.

"It’s not a romance song. It’s a drunken booty call."

"Alright. Um, how about ’Wildest Dreams’ by Taylor Swift? You can’t mess with the Queen. It was good enough for Bridgerton. Surely it could be good for a couple."

I play that song as well. "It’s a secret romance, and they can never be together again. Not exactly a happy ending." I shake my head. "I’ll give you one more try."

Ophelia thinks for a minute before jumping to her feet, pointing her index finger in the air like an exclamation point. "I’ve got it, and it would be perfect for us." She reaches over and grabs my phone. In a moment, the opening chords for "One" play. "It’s U2. You can’t object. They’re Irish."

"Well, I’m English, so that’s grounds for objections right there. But aside from that, the song is about resigning to the fact that the relationship is done. Bono has given interviews about being asked to play this song at weddings and refusing because it’s about splitting up." I take my phone back. "Here, listen to this."

I put on Billy Joel’s "Leave a Tender Moment Alone."  "Now I know it’s not at pretty sounding as your songs, but listen—really listen—to what he’s saying. It’s real and honest." Before I know what I’m doing, I grab Ophelia and pull her into my arms, swaying to the harmonica as the bass, piano, and drums pick up.

This song reminds me of my parents, this music playing on an old radio in the barn. I’m nostalgic and homesick, and suddenly, I’m very aware that this has become my own tender moment.

With my wife.