Fool Me Twice by Lizzie Morton
Fifteen
Becket
She’s heard, I know she has. You’d have to be deaf not to. Even if I wasn’t one hundred percent certain she’d heard me crying out in the night, the way she acts with me in the day—awkward as fuck—is a dead giveaway. I never should have agreed to her staying with me. I knew what the implications were and still I agreed. Basically, I’m a fool.
I’m losing control of the situation. The walls I built are at risk of being brought down by one of the very people they were meant to keep out. A person capable of tearing apart my heart. If I don’t do something now, everything is at risk of coming undone.
I have to push her away and I know exactly how.
***
Britney
It’s a few weeks after the accident and I’m sitting in the living room on Becket’s huge leather couch, the coffee table lined up with movie snacks. During his recovery he’s slackened off his training diet, claiming it’s the one time he can go AWOL and if his career is going to pot, he’s at least going to enjoy the food he’s not been able to while being in the NFL.
I’m trying not to feel put out, sitting, waiting for him to return home from his post-surgery appointment, which he attended with Brad and Coach Langford. After everything I’ve done for him over the past few weeks, he still chose to go with them, not me. He’s the same hot-and-cold Becket he’s always been. Each day I get up, I never know which one I’m going to be faced with.
When I hear the front door open, I stand, rubbing my palms against my thighs. This appointment was important. It’s supposed to inform us how his leg is healing, if there is a chance of a full recovery, and what the odds of him returning to football are.
Brad wheels him in and I clock his solemn expression. My breath catches in my throat, it wasn’t good news. I don’t know what to do or say. He’d just got his career back on track after my meddling and now … this.
Hesitantly, I say, “So?”
Becket looks at me, his expression sombre, and I brace myself for the answer I don’t want to hear.
“They said they expect me to make a full recovery.”
I step forward with tears in my eyes. “I’m so sorry. I wish I could change thi—” It registers what he said. “Wait. What?”
His eyes sparkle, and they seem brighter and greener than ever before.
“You’re an idiot,” I say, unable to stop myself from laughing.
“Tell me something I don’t know.” He smirks for the first time in weeks, and I can feel my armor beginning to crack.
Brad laughs from behind him. “You make it too easy. Always so serious, Britney.”
My cheeks heat up at the way they’re both laughing at my expense. “I thought it was bad news,” I grumble.
Becket looks to Brad and says, “Thanks for taking me today. I’ll see you tomorrow after practice, to go over plays?”
Brad looks at the table where the snacks are lined up, ready for us to have our movie night. “Am I not invited to the party?”
“Not today you’re not,” replies Becket.
“Come on, bro. It’s meant to be. The triple B-team. Let’s make it happen.”
I don’t know much about Brad, but from what I do know, I’m able to conclude that his eagerness to stay has little to do with the company and more to do with the variety of snacks on offer.
“No,” replies Becket, firmly.
Brad shakes his head and chuckles, but then his expression changes when he leans down and murmurs to Becket, “Be careful.”
He does a crap job at lowering his voice, because I hear him loud and clear, and know what the meaning behind his words is. Unfazed, he looks longingly at the snacks, gives me a reluctant wave, and then leaves, taking the bad vibes with him.
Once we’re alone, Becket wheels himself in my direction. “Let’s get started. I know we’ve got snacks but I’m starving. I thought we could order pizza?”
“Sounds good,” I reply. “How about you get the television set up and I’ll ring in our order. Half and half?”
“Yeah, I’ll hav—”
“American hot, no onions, extra jalapeños,” I say, repeating the same thing he’s had each time we’ve ordered. It’s been a long few weeks and I’m not a good cook. There’s been a lot of pizza.
He frowns then clears his throat awkwardly. “Great. I’ll pick something to watch.”
I walk out of the room, pulling out my phone and hitting call on the delivery number that has now entered my favorites list. When I’m done, I make my way back into the living area to find Becket has maneuvered his wheelchair close to the corner of the couch where I usually sit. I don’t say a word, not wanting to give away that I’ve noticed.
We settle down quietly, watching what’s on the screen. Well, Becket watches what’s on the screen. I can’t focus because I’m hyper aware of his presence. I wish he was closer. Even with the gap between us, I can feel the heat radiating off him. I’m struggling to remember why I can’t climb into his lap as I’m overcome with the urge to feel what it would be like to be in his arms again. I don’t just want it, I need it. His breathing steadily increases and the way his chest begins rising and falling, gives away that he wants the same thing. I’m about to turn and say as much, but I’m stopped in my tracks when what’s on the screen changes.
My mind goes blank when the room is filled with the sounds of panting, groaning and flesh slapping against flesh. I’m about to snap and demand to know what he’s playing at, why he’s put porn on, when it comes flooding back to me.
The sounds, the outline of the bodies on the screen. They’re all too familiar and I feel physically sick as I realize it’s them. It’s the tape I made for the world to see. The torture I’m watching on screen and hating more than anything, I created.
I can’t find my voice, which is fine, because Becket leans in so close I could turn and kiss him if I wanted to. I stay still as a statue, afraid of what I might do if I move. My eyes remain transfixed on the screen watching him push in and out of another woman.
I feel his breath, hot on my neck when he leans his head in close to my ear and says, “It could have been you. Now it never will be.” He pushes away, ready to leave the room. But he isn’t just pushing away from me, he’s pushing away from how far I thought we’d come.
Who knows if we’ll be able to find our way back?
***
What little progress we made feels like it was a figment of my imagination. In the week that’s passed, what little conversation we’ve had has been awkward, cringeworthy. When we do speak, we’re simply going through the motions.
His recovery gets better every day, but he still has to be careful. One wrong move is all it would take for everything to come undone. I’m beginning to question whether it’s worth me even being here. He’s begun to delegate more and more tasks to the nurse, avoiding me at all costs. Impressive considering he’s bed bound and I know exactly where to find him. I could push, but I don’t. He just needs space and a little time. But I don’t have time. My notepad remains in my bag in my room, unopened since the day I moved in. I’m screening Jess’ calls left, right and center. My life is at risk of falling apart, all for a guy who doesn’t want anything to do with me.
The day I walked out on my mom, I made a promise to myself I would protect my heart. I locked it and hid away the key, in the hope that one day Prince Charming would ride in and sweep me off my feet. Instead, Michael Becket, the biggest asshole in the NFL, is the one who’s taught my heart how to beat again. But he doesn’t want it. I need to leave before any more damage can be done. I’m sitting in the living room mindlessly watching some program on the television, when I decide that’s what I need to do. I need to tell him this whole thing is pointless and that I need to go back to New York and get on with my life. I give myself a mental pep talk before heading up to his room where he’s been resting all afternoon.
Without knocking, I open the door and step inside, expecting to find him spread out on the bed where I left him earlier, but he’s not there. I frown. He’s not supposed to do any big movements without assistance, not until he’s been given the all-clear by the doctor, which I know for a fact he hasn’t.
“Hello?” I pause and listen but there’s no response. “Becket?”
I hear a whimper at the same time I notice the door to his en-suite is slightly open. Quietly I walk over and hear the whimper again. Looking through the crack, I find him sprawled on the floor and waves of different emotions slam into me all at once. My first instinct is to barge in and demand to know what the hell he was doing, tell him he’s an idiot for being so stubborn and risking his recovery, but I don’t. Instead, I take a deep breath and give us both a moment. The last thing he needs is me bitching at him, despite how angry and frustrated I am. Right now, he needs a friend and support.
When I’m ready, I push the door open fully and walk over to him. “Are you ok?”
He doesn’t look up, just whimpers, hugging the floor. I never knew my heart could break so many times for a person, like it has for Becket, but seeing how alone and defeated he looks, it breaks again. The football God has literally been brought to his knees. He was king of the field and now, he has nothing, no one around him apart from the girl who screwed him over. What a shit reality to have to come to terms with.
The tide is turning, I should walk away and leave him. That’s what I’d do if I were smart. He’s too stubborn for his own good, brash, shuts the world out for reasons unknown. He’s the complete opposite of everything I thought I needed. Standing, I try to understand why, even though I tell them to move, my feet remain firmly in place. And then it hits me. Even though I don’t know his past, what fuels his nightmares, I recognize the pain in his eyes, because it’s the same pain I see in the mirror when I look at myself. We’re two of a kind. I can’t walk away and leave him, because if I did, I’d be leaving part of myself behind. My heart, which I thought would never be fixed, is in his hands and he’s slowly putting it back together, piece by shattered piece.
I always thought I’d pulled the trump card, having been thrown into one shitty scenario after another. Maybe it was life’s way of pushing me onto the right path, to find Becket. Maybe we were meant to tear each other apart. Sometimes you have to break, so that when you put yourself back together, the new version is better, and the flaws, the scars, are what make you unique.
Kneeling next to him on the floor, I’m careful to avoid his injured leg. The cast should have ensured the damage done was minimal, I hope. When I scoot closer, he finally acknowledges my presence, pushing up on his hands, then meekly placing his head in my lap. I don’t say a word, just sit, stroking his hair until his body relaxes and his whimpers stop. I don’t know how much time passes, but the sun sets, and the room glows, fiery orange, as the remnants of daylight filter in from outside.
I know he’s about to speak because his body tenses.
“People think this is living the dream—the big house, fancy cars, money. It’s not though, because everything in my life is empty. I don’t keep people around, Brit, I drive them away. Without football, I have nothing. I’m alone.”
Everything now makes sense. This past week, he’s been pushing me away, guarding himself in the same way I have all these years. But he doesn’t need to, I’m not the enemy he thinks I am.
“You’re wrong,” I say quietly. Even though I can’t see his face I know his brows are drawn together, in the same way they do each time I challenge him.
“How so?”
I swallow before answering, the truth making my throat feel suddenly dry. “You’re not alone because you have me.”
To the outside world, the two of us together wouldn’t make sense, but I learned a long time ago that the world often works in the opposite way to what you expect. I should know, all I ever found was pain where I should have found love and comfort.
As the room goes dark, I remain sitting with his head in my lap, watching as his breathing settles and he falls asleep, wishing we could stay in this bubble where we don’t hate each other for longer than time will allow.
***
Becket
My neck’s stiffer than a plank of wood. I groan as I try to move it, the pain radiating up and down. The moon shining through the window provides a dim light for me to take in my surroundings and I realize that it’s not my bedroom window the light is coming through, it’s the window in my en-suite. Everything comes flooding back.
Stupidly, I tried to prove to myself I still had some independence and didn’t need her. I tried to walk the distance from my bed to the toilet on my own, and not so surprisingly my leg gave way. I’m an idiot. I collapsed onto the same leg I’m meant to be allowing to heal and the searing pain has my eyes watering. I’ve potentially whittled away what little hope there was of me making a full recovery, and for what? My pride. Now I’ll be left with nothing.
“You’re not alone because you have me.”Those were the words she whispered to me, the words that made my heart pound in ways it shouldn’t. I shouldn’t be feeling all these things for her because I can’t let her in. I can’t show her who I really am. It’s not safe for her and it’s not safe for them.
Shifting my head slightly, I feel the damp patch beneath my cheek on her jeans. Not my finest moment. She’s settled with her head tilted to the side, back resting against the bathtub, eyes closed. She hasn’t witnessed me blushing like a schoolgirl, thank God. I try to lift myself up with my arms but being stuck in the same position for so long has made one of them numb and I slip back down into her lap with a thud. “Damn it!” I hiss.
The movement makes her stir and her eyes flutter open, staring into mine. Her blue eyes glow in the moonlight and her white-blonde hair looks like a halo. Like a halo? What the fuck? I’m officially a goner.
“How do you feel?” she asks.
“Like crap,” I answer honestly.
“I bet.” She smiles and I feel less like an idiot, until her eyes trail to my leg and she frowns.
I follow her gaze and when I see what it is she’s looking at, I curse under my breath. I thought things couldn’t get any worse. I was wrong. In case her seeing me a mess on the bathroom floor wasn’t bad enough, I’ve pissed myself. It’s official, I’ve hit rock-bottom.
“Please, don’t be embarrassed,” she says gently. I know she’s being sincere, but it doesn’t change anything.
“Easy to say when you’re not the one covered in your own urine,” I grumble.
She shakes her head and looks away. There’s nothing she can do or say to make this better. I watch her throat bob as she swallows and then says so quietly, I can barely hear it, “Would you like me to help you clean up?”
I want to say no, but I don’t have a choice. There’s no way I can get up and get clean on my own. My attempt to prove I can be independent has made me the complete opposite. Sheepishly, I nod. “Please.”
She leans away from the tub and winces in pain. “Are you ok?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” she replies, brushing me off. “Let’s get you clean.”
I manage to shift my weight off her and she stands, quickly wheeling over the shower chair the nurse uses to help me wash, before helping me to get to my feet. It’s a struggle, but we manage it without causing me any more injuries. When I’m sitting comfortably, she doesn’t hesitate as she begins to help me strip down. I try not to think about how wrong this all is, that she should be stripping me down for other reasons—not to clean me up.
She helps remove my boxers, diverting her gaze and allowing me my modesty, then carefully wraps my casted leg in plastic wrap so it doesn’t get wet. When she wheels me into the shower, she turns the chair so the water hits my back, and my leg remains as dry as possible, then grabs the shower gel and a sponge. I quickly wash my front, then pass them to her and she cleans my back. Her hands on my body feel amazing and I spend the whole time she’s cleaning me trying not to let my mind wander.
When I’m finished, she steps away and passes over a towel. I do what I can to get myself dry, then place it over my lap. Only when I’m covered and with my modesty intact does she look me in the eyes. Hers are hard, giving nothing away about how she feels. Mine are full of respect.
She bustles away and returns with my wheelchair. I wrap an arm around her shoulders, and she helps to transfer me over, then wheels me back into my room. We go through the same motions, transferring me onto the bed. Getting my boxers on proves just as difficult, and she helps me to maneuver them on, being careful not to jostle my bad leg. She waits for me to get comfortable, then sources the leftover supply of painkillers the doctor prescribed. I’ve not needed them for a while, but after tonight, I might be due a top-up. I swallow them down, then settle as she tucks me in.
At no point have we spoken. She never asks what I need, she’s one step ahead each time. I’m in safe hands. She’s about to leave, when I place a hand over hers, pinning it to the bed.
Looking up, I say, “Stay, please.”
She looks at me, surprised. “Why?”
“Because I want you to.” It’s a simple answer, but we both know we’re overcoming a huge hurdle.
“But you said the other night …”
“I freaked out,” I reply honestly. “I didn’t mean what I said. I’ve tried to stop whatever this is, Brit, but I don’t know if I can keep doing it. I don’t know if I want to.”
***
Britney
Becket passed out after his little confession. Lying next to him and hearing him breathe so peacefully almost lulls me to sleep, but my clothes are damp and uncomfortable after helping him shower. I carefully lift his arm that is draped over me, trying not to disturb him, as I get up from the bed and go in search of clean, dry, clothes.
When I find some, I change and quickly go back to his room, determined not to break the promise I made—that I wouldn’t leave. When I walk back in, I sigh. His room’s a mess, not that it’s his fault. I mill around, picking up discarded clothing from the floor, placing it in the wash basket. I’m bent over, tidying up a pile of books that have been knocked over when I hear a loud crash.
I freeze, book in hand.
I look over my shoulder at Becket. The drugs have done the job they’re supposed to and he’s still out cold. I wish he wasn’t, especially after hearing that mysterious crash. I’m on edge, which is why I don’t miss the shuffling sound that comes from outside.
I crawl carefully along the bedroom floor to the window, then crouch on my knees out of sight. Taking a deep breath, I slowly lift a hand, parting two of the slats and peer through. I don’t see anything and look away. Watching horror movies on Netflix has to stop. Just to be certain, I look again. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, they find a vehicle in the distance, out past Becket’s high-tech security gates, on the road that is almost always empty. Goosebumps cover my skin.
“Come back to bed,” grumbles Becket, drawing my attention away from the window. He lifts himself up, resting his weight on his elbows, his face full of sleep. “What are you doing over there?”
“I thought I heard something. It was nothing,” I lie.
He flops back down onto the bed and begins snoring. Before I climb in next to him, I turn back and peer out the window one last time.
The car door opens and shuts without a sound. The gentle rumble of the engine reaches my ears, before the vehicle pulls away. As it does, the streetlight it passes under illuminates the driver’s side for a millisecond, highlighting a figure in a black, hooded jacket, and then the car disappears into the night.
