Chapter 36: Xavier

Chapter 36: Xavier

Well, I certainly have made a terrible mess of everything. It’s bad enough to totally botch my own life, but now I’ve pulled Ophelia smack dab into the middle of it.

If the thought of never playing football again didn’t make me feel like I was removing my own intestines with a salad fork, I’d pack my bags and head straight home. Not that there’d be a home for long without my financial support.

The whole thing has me gutted, and I don’t know what to do. Ophelia’s place is too small to get a proper mope on, not to mention I can barely look at her. I’ve gone and ruined her life for nothing.

But I had to go jump the gun and give up my Baltimore place as well. My eagerness has always been an issue, on and off the field. It’s led to more than a few yellow—and even red—cards as I’ve been too excited to charge a player for the ball.

I did the same thing now.

This time, a red card won’t suffice. My career is done. My parents are probably going to literally lose their farm. All their birds will probably die because they can’t survive in the wild. I’ll be responsible for a mass avian execution. But worst of all is that I conned Ophelia into marrying me. I know it was her idea and all, but she did it for me.

Forever, she’ll have to explain to someone how she married a bloke she didn’t even know and that it wasn’t a real marriage.

But of course, we did have to go and sleep together, so she can’t even say there wasn’t anything between us. Not that there is.

But not that there isn’t, either.

And now my head is pounding.

It’s been pounding for the past week since I left Ophelia. Every time I looked at her, I felt sick. What was I supposed to say? How exactly does one apologize for ruining one’s life?

Flowers don’t seem to say enough.

There’s not a proper greeting card to express this sentiment either.

She’s been a rock star though, researching law and loopholes. She’s found no answers yet, but I appreciate her effort. She texts me frequently, often with pictures of the cat.

I’ve resorted to responding with emojis, as I can’t always come up with the words right now.

"Still nothing yet?" Alastair asks. I’ve been crashing on his couch since returning to Baltimore. Camacho is being shady and evading my calls. I’ve half a mind simply to storm into his office and demand he trade me.

"Bloody crickets. He’s being a wanker on purpose." I’ve no doubt he’s trying to make me squirm. The Terrors grapevine confirmed he’s trying to get in good with Edmund Jones, possibly to work a telly deal between the leagues. Also, I came down here at the worst possible time. It’s Thanksgiving week, so there’s the slight possibility the office is simply closed, but I’m not giving him that much credit.

"No doubt. But you’ve got to do something. The movers are coming in an hour."

"I can’t believe you’re actually leaving me."

Alastair shrugs, continuing with the last of his packing. Boxes surround me. Ophelia and I should have spent this week doing the same so we could move into our new place. A place that will never be "our" home now. There’s no reason for us to be married, so certainly no reason for us to live there.

That thought is taking up more emotional room than I’d anticipated.

"I wish you could come home with me." Alastair is leaving for England in the morning. He’ll be training and playing with the Bristol Bombers before Christmas.

"If things don’t take a turn for the better soon, I’ll be sitting in the stands for your home opener." I don’t even want to picture it. I cannot imagine life back on the farm, sleeping in my old room, cleaning out the aviary every morning, and never playing football again.

Not being able to see Ophelia either. I shake my head, trying to get her image out of it. It’s not right how much I miss her. Why does she have to be so damn perfect?

"The first thing I’m doing is heading to a proper chip shop."

"That would be one benefit of having to return to England, tail between my legs. At least I’d get proper chips. And bangers. Even the so-called British pubs here don’t do it right." My stomach growls.

"Aye. And a good cuppa." Alastair sinks down on the couch next to me. "But I’ll miss ya, mate. It doesn’t seem right to be playing at home without you."

I shrug. "What’s done is done. Now I’ve got to figure out this mess. Ophelia’s working on it from her end, but neither of us has come up with anything."

My phone pings with a text. My fingers fumble, trying to open it quickly.

Ophelia: Marry You by Bruno Mars. That would be the perfect wedding song. Obv.

In spite of myself and my current predicament, I smile. In addition to copious pictures of Sundance, she sends at least one text a day on the quest to find our perfect wedding song.

The woman has atrocious taste, as every song she’s suggested is not actually about love.

Me: Try again. He’s basically saying they’re bored and doing a dumb thing, like getting married.

Ophelia: Maybe it fits more than you think. <winky smiley face emoji>

"Good news, mate?" I glance up to see Alastair grinning at me.

"Ah, no, it was just Ophelia."

"Mmm-hmm. Just Ophelia."

I tilt my head. "What do you mean by that?"

"No one who puts a smile on your face like that should have the word ’just’ before their name."

I attempt to lower the corners of my mouth. "I’m not smiling."

"Right. Anything you say." He stands. "I’m not trying to give you the bum’s rush, but you either need to help or get out of the way. I’ve only a little bit left before the movers come."

I stare at my hands, still gripping my phone.

"Where ya goin’?" Alastair’s voice is soft, and if I’m not mistaken, filled with pity.

Slowly, I stand. "Not sure. I’ve no place to go. I need to settle things here, but there’s probably no sense in hanging around this week." Stupid holiday. "Seriously, why do they have turkey now? Don’t Americans know that should be reserved for Christmas, and how are you supposed to eat it again in a month? Also, what’s with all the American football? It’s on for approximately seventeen hours straight, and I’m sorry, but our game is much superior." I nod triumphantly.

"I agree, mate, but if you’re here, then you roll up to the table and eat. But in all honesty, I don’t believe I’ll ever understand the obsession with sweet potatoes covered in sticky marshmallows."

I give my friend a hug and show myself to the door. My duffle is there, packed and ready to go.

Go where is the question.

Ophelia: Stay with Me by Sam Smith

It’s not a love song, more a breakup song, but it gives me the answer I need.

She’s all I need.

I drive for hours, sitting in traffic on I-95, cursing this infernal country the whole time. I should chuck it all and go home, but I’m not ready to quit.

Not yet.

The drive that should take just over six hours takes closer to ten, thanks to this day being the busiest travel day of the year. It’s well after midnight when I pull up in front of Ophelia’s flat.

As soon as I put the car into park, I realize that I probably should have texted or called her to see if it was alright for me to crash with her, at least for a few days. I’ll knock lightly and if she doesn’t answer, then I’ll text her.

Unfortunately for me, neither method gets an answer. I’m already wearing a jumper, so I pull my anorak out of the back seat and don it as well. I’ve got gloves and a cap, and what I wouldn’t give for a muffler. The temperatures dip low, and it reminds me of being out in the aviary in the dead of winter.

This is ridiculous. I should check into a hotel. My whole life is ridiculous at this point, and without a doubt, I’m at an all-time low.

Yet I don’t move, and eventually, I shiver myself to sleep.

Zero stars, do not recommend.

The sky is just beginning to show signs of light when my phone rings, waking me up.

"Xavier! Where are you? What are you doing?" Ophelia whispers.

"I’m outside in the car like I texted. Can you let me in and why are you whispering?"

"I’m whispering because my mom is next door and if she hears me talking at 6:30 in the morning, she’ll get all up my grill about what I’m doing, and no I can’t let you in because I’m not there. Have you been in the car all night?"

I shift and turn the car on, desperate for a little heat. My neck is stiff and my knee screams at me. Also, I’ve really got to use the bathroom.

"Yes. Alastair is leaving Baltimore, so I …" I shrug, not that she can see it. "I’ve nowhere to go. I can’t get through to the Terrors, and I’m sure they’re all on holiday for the next several days. Where are you?"

"I’m at my brother’s in Connecticut for Thanksgiving."

Bollocks.

"No worries. I’ll figure something out." I run my cold fingers through my hair, pushing the cap off my head. Shit. Shit. Shit.

"Come down here. You can’t be alone on Thanksgiving."

I have to laugh. "It’s not like I celebrate the holiday, you know."

She continues to whisper. "Oh yeah. Duh." She pauses before continuing. "I don’t want you to be alone."

Something rolls over in my chest. "How far is it?"

According to the address Ophelia texts me, I should be there in just under two hours. After stopping to fuel and take care of my most pressing biological needs, as well as grab a cup of Dunkin’, I’m driving again, this time west on I-90. I wish I could shower before I have to meet Ophelia’s family.

Her family.

My head starts to pound. This is going to be a right disaster.