Page 21 of Winter Break Up
“We should … let’s take a minute.” Mercer is breathing heavily, his eyes still closed as he presses his forehead to mine.
If he asked me to get in the back seat of his car right now, I would. I’m a live wire, all my feelings and emotions on my sleeve, and he’s the one slowing us down. It’s hard not to feel the thorn of disappointment bristle under my skin.
Not that I don’t think it’s a good idea. This is Mercer and me, after all. There is enough baggage to fill this bar. Jumping into something so hastily is a bad call.
But it doesn’t mean a part of me doesn’t want him to be so carried away, so enamored with me that he says fuck it all.
“Yeah.” My voice is a breathy whisper.
“It’s just …” He doesn’t finish his thought.
“Yeah,” I agree again, even though I’ll agree to nearly anything he proposes right now.
“Let me buy you another drink.” Backing up a step, I get a full-frontal view of Mercer trying to adjust himself in his pants.
That makes me smirk, and I hear him snort as my gaze glues to the tent of his jeans. “More alcohol might lead to something we can’t control.”
“I can barely control myself now, Em. But this thing is … delicate. Let’s just take a pause.”
When he offers me his hand, I take it, not wanting to pass up the chance to touch him once more. There are so many words left to say, but tonight probably isn’t the time.
For the first time in over three years, I kissed Mercer Russell. I kissed the ex-boyfriend who occupies my thoughts endlessly. Whose face I dream about more than anything or anyone else. That’s progress enough.
If we’re meant to hash this out, it will happen over this winter break.
Still, as we enter the bar and continue to mingle and party with friends, the electricity between us never dulls. I’m left with an ache in my chest, in my body, and the ghost of his lips tattooed over mine.
And the knowledge that everything between us has changed for another countless time.
10
MERCER
The morning after kissing Emily in the parking lot of Baker’s, we’re all back on the farm bright and early.
Weekend days in December are so few, and it’s when the biggest turnout of people come to cut their trees down. Between work and school schedules, it’s a no-brainer why Saturdays and Sundays draw a massive crowd in and out of the Palmer Tree Farm gravel lot. It just means we have to work off our hangovers or late-night winter break hangouts in the freezing cold while doing manual labor.
I can’t complain; there is something nostalgic and purely Christmas about helping the residents of Queenwood find their tree. I’ve been doing this for so long—since I was a kid—that most people are familiar faces. There is a camaraderie working here, both with the customers and the regular seasonal staff.
But before that, because I’m a masochist, I decide to get up and work out in the dingy exercise room I built in my grandpa’s basement when I was a teen.
Somewhere around freshman year of high school, I started to get seriously scouted. My height shot up, I started to work in the weight room a lot more, and the travel team I switched to was one of such caliber, the junior national team took players from it. Soccer has always been something I’ve been passionate about, but in my high school years, it was taken to the next level.
When I found out that a university in Miami wanted to offer me a scholarship and place on their team, it was the biggest day of my life. Not only could Grandpa rest easy that my education would be paid for, but the athletic program I was about to go through was one of the best in the country for my sport.
Throughout college, I’ve been approached by agents, sponsors, professional-level coaches, and doctors who want to work with me. I’ve been extremely picky and tight-lipped about who I’ll consult with, and both Grandpa plus the Palmers have been essential in helping me keep my head on straight.
I think about this past season as I rack weights onto my deadlift bar. All the equipment down here is secondhand or thrifted, but it works just the same. Grandpa let me set it up when I was trying to bulk up to impress the scouts throughout the years.
Now, daily workouts are essential to get me to the next level. If I’m not in peak physical shape, the next guy will be, and I want to be signed with a team after losing out in the draft.
The fact of that still burns me up inside, the way I saw my dreams vanish in front of my eyes because of my fucking knee. As if my own body had betrayed me. Working out like this lets me push past them, in a way, and I’ll never take my own strength for granted again. I’m not the same cocky, invincible college player I once had been.
My muscles ache as I position myself under the equipment, the reps I’ve already done straining my energy. But I have a plan on my phone that my trainer sent home with me for winter break, and I have to follow it. No one is going to make you accountable as a pro athlete; you have to want it for yourself more than anyone does for you. That’s who rise to the top.
Knee sore, quads on fire, I bend over to grab the metal bar. The cold stings my hands, the heat in this part of the basement nonexistent, especially at the crack of dawn in December. Rep after rep, I push air out of my lungs. My muscles burn with use, but I keep at it until I get to the number required.
Sweat beads my brow as I set the bar on the rack, and I gulp down some water to recover. It’s been months since my injury and rehab, and my knee feels good. The surgery was top-notch, and I’ve pushed myself to power through recovery.