Authors: Prescott Lane
“Let’s just give it a few days,” she said hopefully. “Nothing needs to be decided now.”
Ignoring her offer, Mason grabbed his towel from the floor, and Emory began to cry. The best news of her life was leading to the loss of the man she loved. Mason walked towards her and kissed the tip of her nose and forehead. For a moment, Emory felt peace, as if he finally understood. But then he turned his back again and walked towards the exit.
“Mason, Mason,” she cried out, “please don’t do this! I love you! Please, please. . . .”
When he reached the door, he turned back to her. “Bye, Em.” And he was gone.
Emory sunk to the floor, tears streaming down her face, clutching her stomach, feeling she could throw up. She curled into a ball on the floor in the weight room for hours, late into the night, hoping Mason would come back to her, but he never did. Her life, her love, was gone. She pulled out her phone. “Wesley, I need you to come to the weight room right now.”
CHAPTER FOUR
She’d hardly slept when the alarm clock blared. Emory rolled her head under her pillow, as if that would stop the noise. She threw the pillow off her and smacked the alarm clock to shut it off. It was already morning; the night had passed quickly. She shuffled into her bathroom and looked at her puffy eyes.
I can’t look like shit again
.
She only had an hour to get ready for her photo shoot in Freedom Park and needed every minute of it -- not only to perk up for her two little clients but also to look her best for her date later that morning.
No, not a date! An appointment! A meeting! Just two old college friends catching up.
After a bowl of cereal, she quickly applied a dash of blush, mascara, and lip gloss, then threw on her skinny jeans, brown knee-high riding boots, and a camel colored cowl-neck sweater. She pulled her hair into a high pony tail and raced out of her room with her camera bag.
Wesley, holding his coffee mug, greeted her with a cat call. “What’s the occasion?” Emory never pulled herself together for photo shoots. Her infant and child clients didn’t care what she looked like, and neither did she, spending half the time on the ground taking pictures, and the other half wiping snotty noses. A t-shirt, cargo pants, and tennis shoes were her typical uniform, so Wesley knew Emory was up to something.
Shouldn’t she still be upset, in flannels, looking like hell over Eric?
“I’m meeting Mason after my shoot.”
“Mason called?” Wesley sipped his coffee. “You left out that little fact last night.”
“He called after you left to teach. Wants me to show him around town.”
“I bet he does,” Wesley teased, raising his eyebrows.
“And I thought I’d just show him what he missed out on, too.” She shook her booty at him.
This was the girl Wesley loved -- sweet and spicy, rolled into a pretty little package. “Go get you some!” He slapped her booty, as she waltzed out the door.
* * *
Mason ordered a cab with the hotel valet and was off to Freedom Park. He’d slept well. It was the first time in a long time his arm didn’t hurt in the morning. He had a slight hangover from Clive, but it was well worth it, proud of himself for making the call and both thrilled and relieved she agreed to meet him. But he still had butterflies in his stomach, too -- Emory always gave him butterflies -- like he did before a division game on Sundays
.
Is this adrenaline or nerves
?
He didn’t know what to expect.
He wondered whether she still had any feelings for him other than anger, and if she would soon take the chance to unload on him. He also wondered whether she may be in a good, committed relationship with another man, and knew he wouldn’t handle that news well. He could only imagine Emory with him.
Don’t get your hopes up
.
She was still a knock-out and could have any man she wanted -- and probably did.
The cab dropped him at Freedom Park about twenty minutes early. Mason paid the fare and made his way towards the bridge, drenched with sunlight, as if he was walking towards a pot of gold. As he drew closer, his pace quickened; he couldn’t wait to see her again. On a field below, he spotted Emory, laying on the ground with camera in hand, facing two small children, her long, blonde hair glistening in the sunlight. He leaned against a tree, far enough away so she wouldn’t spot him, watching her work -- as he had so many times before in the dark theater -- and couldn’t help but notice how her jeans perfectly framed her tight, little ass.
Did she wear those on purpose?
He adjusted his pants.
Emory at times peeked around the camera and made a funny face at the baby. There was an elegance to her work; it was fluid and quick, like her dance. She was happy and made the children happy. This didn’t look like work to Mason. Emory wrapped the shoot, then held the baby on her hip, the older child holding Emory’s leg.
That could be us. No, that could have been us.
Emory chatted with the children’s mother writing her a check. They left, and Emory gathered her equipment. It was game time. Mason walked towards her, his palms sweaty and legs weak, not knowing what to say first and wondering if this was a bad idea, worried this meeting was more important to him than to her. It occurred to him she wasn’t very friendly at the bar or on the phone. For a moment, he thought to turn back, but his heart wouldn’t let him.
Emory looked up from her bags. He gave her a slight wave with his good arm, as he came down a small hill in jeans, a t-shirt, and a dark brown leather jacket thrown over his shoulder in a sling.
Ugh, he’s early. Why does he have to look so damn yummy
!
She was so flustered last night at the bar she hadn’t fully appreciated his body -- the NFL had made him broader and harder. Her pulse quickened as he approached, but she caught herself.
He’s just an old friend. An old, married friend.
“Let me help you with all that, Em.”
“You’re the one with the bum shoulder,” she said, zipping up the bag. “I do this all the time. It’s fine.”
Mason picked the camera bag off the ground. “I still have one good arm.”
Emory smiled but only made brief eye contact. “Just follow me to my car while I lock this stuff up.” They barely spoke on the short walk, other than for Mason to comment on the Charlotte weather and Emory to describe the layout of Freedom Park. The ease with which they once had spoken seemed lost. She could sense the tension between them and figured Mason felt it, too. Emory popped the trunk, and Mason loaded her equipment. For her own sake, she sought to put Mason in his place and make clear this wasn’t going anywhere. She closed the trunk and looked directly into Mason’s eyes. “Did Alexis come with you to Charlotte?”
Her direct question startled Mason, his eyes opening wide.
Why didn’t I plan what to say about Alexis? I’ve been too busy looking at your ass
!
He’d forgotten how tough and strong Emory could be, her sweet face so deceiving.
“No,” he mumbled and changed the subject. “Why don’t you show me around the park? Show me some of your favorite spots to take pictures.”
As they walked, Emory was proud of her direct question, and that it threw Mason off his game, but regretted she learned nothing from his answer. She realized there was no need for Alexis to accompany him to Charlotte for a meeting about a potential contract with the Panthers. Emory just assumed Alexis was at home in their mansion, with their fair-haired children. Mason placed his hand at the small of her back, almost out of habit, but quickly moved it away. Emory shivered at the brief contact, praying he hadn’t noticed.
They wandered around Freedom Park for almost an hour. She pointed out her favorite spots to him. The conversation flowed somewhat easier, with Emory doing the bulk of the talking, which helped to calm her nerves. She rambled on about her job, describing how she loved to shoot in natural light, during the “magic” hours, and the beautiful children with whom she worked. She talked so much about her job she feared she was boring Mason; after all, he had dumped her because she wanted a career.
But he didn’t seem to be bored -- at least he wasn’t showing it. He smiled and nodded along as she talked. He enjoyed hearing her voice -- it had been so long -- and was thankful he didn’t have to carry the conversation. Then her stomach suddenly growled loudly, interrupting her discussion of camera lenses that Mason was pretending to follow. He laughed at the noise. “I guess some things never change.”
“My insides are bigger than my outsides.”
“You know, almost every memory I have of us involves you eating,” he said, though his mind also conjured up sexual images, too, Emory stiffening at his fond mention of their past. “You used to get so moody when you were hungry.”
“Still do.” She threatened with a smile.
“Is there some place around here to grab a bite? I don’t want to see moody Emory.”
She suggested a little Spanish restaurant on the outskirts of Freedom Park, a cozy place that only locals knew about, and they headed that way. Upon arrival, Mason opened the door for her, and when they were shown to a table, he pulled out her chair. Emory smiled, pleased the NFL hadn’t ruined his Southern manners. A waitress approached with menus and water, informing them of the daily specials, and quickly exited. Emory fidgeted with her water and stared at her menu, finding herself hiding behind it.
This is so stupid
.
After a sip of water, she dared to look up, and for a moment, their eyes met, the moment lasting a little long for her comfort, relieved when the waitress returned to take their order.
“I feel like I’ve done all the talking,” Emory said after the waitress left. “Tell me how the NFL and Alexis have been to you.” Emory didn’t care so much about the NFL but wanted the scoop on Alexis, and wanted to pretend she was fine he was presumably still married to her.
“Well, considering my arm is in a sling, I would say not so well.”
Why does he keep avoiding Alexis
?
Emory figured he was just uncomfortable talking about his wife with her, and she decided not to push it. “How’s your arm?”
Mason grimaced. “Still have a ways to go.” The waitress returned with their drinks.
“Well, the Panthers seem interested. Any other teams on the radar?”
“I’m going to Seattle in a few days with Steven.”
Emory’s face lit up. “Oh my goodness, how is Steven?”
Mason bragged about his brother’s success in the courtroom and as a sports agent, and that Steven had married a few years ago and was expecting his first baby in a few months.
“Married and a baby coming, wow! That’s just the best news! You must be thrilled to be an uncle?”
“Yeah, it’s just great,” he responded, taking a big drink of water.
“Please tell Steven congrats and hello from me. I just know he’s going to be a great dad.”
“Will do.”
This isn’t going well. She’s more interested in my douche bag brother than me
!
Emory noticed a hint of sadness -- or jealousy -- in Mason. She was surprised how easily she could still read him. She blamed his emotional swings on his shoulder, recalling how her own injury -- a broken ankle from one bad fall just weeks before graduation -- had ended her professional dance career before it even started. “When I broke my ankle and couldn’t dance, I thought my life was over. It gets easier over time.”
The waitress brought out their food, as Mason kept his eyes fixed on Emory, listening intently, happy she was opening up.
Maybe she’s not going to go off on me
.
It dawned on him how similar their lives were: two driven athletes with career-threatening injuries. And worse for Emory -- her career never even started.
Mason picked at his food, moving it around the plate with his fork. “Don’t you like your food?” she asked.
“It’s great. I was just remembering when you got hurt. Did you know I tried to visit you?” Even though Mason was already involved with Alexis, he did try to see Emory in the hospital, hoping that because her career was over, she would follow him to the NFL.
How fucking stupid. It was just as well she refused to see me
.
“I knew you came.” Emory smiled. “I told Wesley to kick your ass!”
Mason nearly choked on his food, laughing. Emory told him about Wesley’s studio, her part-time teaching, and their living arrangement.
“I bet the kids love you,” Mason said.
“I love them.”
Mason decided since Emory twice tried to pry into his personal life, he’d do the same, but didn’t want to be too obvious. “Do people think it’s weird that you and Wesley live together?”
“Not really.”
“I mean, doesn’t everyone assume you’re a couple?”