Book III of UNC Series
While it's known that there are five stages of grief, did you know that there are also five stages of love?
Bailey Nicholson dreamed of finishing her Master's degree and settling in Boston while working alongside her boyfriend...
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December
Now that I'm spending most of my days on the West Coast, I've come to realize how much I hate the snow. It could also be because I never dress appropriately. But the chill that bites at my exposed cheekbones and nose, the startling shudder that skates down my bones, the whistling wind and the flurries of snow that always seem to mist the horizon are something I never want to experience again.
Despite having just finished playing a game, the cold seeps into my uniform and shoulder pads, sticking and pricking my skin in tiny pins of pain. I rub my gloved hands together to conjure some heat into my system. I blow out white puffs of air that steam and billow around me.
Having just given my endgame interview, I wait out on the cold turf rather than seek the warmth and shelter of the locker rooms. Bathed in the stadium's florescent lights, my gaze skates at the quickly emptying stands before darting up at the inky night sky, riddled with polluted clouds, with little to no visibility of the stars that Blondie loves so much. While she stares at the stars for comfort and security, I stare at them for hope and love because that's what they have brought me.
"Taking a moment to bask in my winning glory?" I feel a slap against my shoulder pads seconds later as his weight settles next to me.
I'm not even angry about losing tonight's game; what did I expect against the reigning Super Bowl champions and the one player I knew was the best in the country? Not only that, but I can sense tonight's going to be a good night, evident from the smile that I can't seem to shake from my face.
I shrug, my grin spreading wider, "Just have a feeling it's going to be a good night." I glance over to find Blake watching me curiously with a thick brow arched and his smile slightly waning as he tips his lips in a quizzical manner.
Blake stands slightly taller than me, his broad shoulders span and fill his shoulder pads well. He has a compression sleeve over his left elbow, hiding some of his ink, but the tattoos on his other arm and hands are still striking under the bright camera-ready lights.
"What do you have planned?" His voice is gruff, parched from having run the last winning touchdown.
It's good to play with him again, even if we're on opposing teams. Despite knowing Blake's play tactics like the back of my hand—having played three years with him—it's different watching him play from the sidelines. He has a touch of playfulness that still lingers when he plays, but you can't tell from his serious expression.
"You'll see," I say ominously. Everything's already been set in motion, and I knew I wanted it to happen here when we're in Pittsburgh. That way, both Blake and Ryan can be here to witness it. Because as much as today will be a victory for me, it'll be closure for the two of them.
Speak of the devil, a body crashes into Blake's other side, snaking an arm around his torso as he lifts his arm to sweep her into his side.
Since cutting her hair over a year ago, Ryan's dark wavy hair now rests near the middle of her back. Her tanned skin is red under the winter's chill, her crystal blue eyes lightening to appear almost like ice. And there's no rivalling the smile on her lips as she beams up at Blake.
