It’s Always Us (Abandoned Brothers #3)

Chapter 32

LEX

Mark slides out of the black Audi Q5 and reaches for my hand. I grip it as if I’m stepping out onto a teetering ledge. My palm is slick with sweat, but it doesn’t faze him. He takes a firm hold, linking our fingers like he’s afraid I’ll bolt.

He’s smart because I might. I seriously might tuck a hand under these babies and hightail it right back to Ohio, where I can slather myself with grease and linger among car parts, not having to be seen or known.

But then I look at his beautiful face. He smiles and nods to fans, and even though I’m paralyzed and sick with fear, this is where I want to be.

For years, I’ve longed for this, and here I am, in this surreal world, standing beside him as cameras flash in the distance. People are everywhere. As if Mark knows I need it, he pulls me close, his lips pressing against my hair, which hangs in long, loose waves like a shield around me.

“Just breathe. We’ll walk through, and then inside, it’ll be better.”

My stomach rejects his calming attempts as it rolls with nerves. Beautiful people surround us dressed in designer suits, gowns, and jewelry, likely costing more than my entire lifetime earnings. Mark raises a hand at someone yelling his name and moves us toward the red carpet.

Just before we enter the danger zone, he pulls me to the side, hiding us behind the giant, shiny archway.

“It won’t take long to get through here. I won’t leave you.” He smiles, but it doesn’t have its normal deescalating effect. “You are absolutely breathtaking. ”

I want to scoff, but I don’t. My eyes fall to the dusk blue form-fitting lacey dress. The V-neck and cap sleeves are flattering, especially with the new bra Krissy made me buy to hold my growing boobs. Given my hormonal state and the impending hot flash, I’m grateful it’s knee-length. It’s the nude heels I’m wobbling in that I want to chuck in the nearest waste can along with my lunch.

I glance around at all of the stunning and sophisticated people filing in. It’s not just the biggest names in the NFL. It’s photographers, reporters, businessmen, and women. It’s intimidating as hell.

“It’s all a bit much,” I say, trying to meet his eyes.

His hands find my belly, and he steps closer. “They are all just people. So many of these guys have had hard lives. They may make millions now, but you can’t even imagine where they started.”

I know he’s trying to help, but I feel so completely out of place. I peek at him from underneath my eyelashes. “Mark, I can’t read, and I fix cars, that’s it. It’s a little different.”

He pulls back, almost like I’ve struck him. His hands fall from my waist as his face morphs into . . . something. He takes a couple of steps away. Then he’s pacing just a few feet from me. I glance around, feeling the slight tinges of panic rising.

He turns and walks back toward me, but with an attitude. He’s freaking James Bond—gorgeous trained assassin. His jaw is set, and his eyes are . . .

“Are you mad?” I whisper, grabbing the lapels of his tux so he can’t leave me again.

“Hell yes, I’m mad.” His eyes roam the crowd behind me. “Are you out of your mind? Look at you.”

I glance down at myself, seriously concerned about what’s happening here. He looks like he’s about to throw a hissy fit right here at the entrance of the fanciest place I’ve ever been.

Mark can be dramatic, but it usually only comes out when someone strikes a nerve. Apparently, I struck a live one.

His hands take a firm hold of my hips, and he waits until I look at him.

“Lex, I don’t give a shit if it takes you longer to make it through a paragraph or if reading isn’t your thing. Half the people here likely haven’t read a book in their entire life, and spell-check has saved their careers. You’re brilliant. You’re crazy smart. You use your brain and hands in ways these people wouldn’t even begin to comprehend. You take things that ordinary people like me will never understand and make them new.”

His toes meet mine as he slips his arms around me, holding me against his body. “And baby, when you’re doing it, it’s the most stunning thing I have ever seen.” He pauses, his stare intense. “I can assure you, there isn’t a person in there that can top any of that.”

I slide my arms up his back and hug him tight. “I’m sorry. This is all really overwhelming.” He squeezes me tighter. “Thank you for saying that and getting pissy in my defense.”

“I’ll throw down for you in a heartbeat, but I won’t have to. Everyone will see just how amazing you are. You don’t need anyone telling them that.” He kisses my cheek. “How about we let these reporters grill us about all the things we aren’t going to tell them?”

I groan, and he grins. “Does it ever get old? Baiting them?”

He slips his hand in mine and tugs me straight into the madness. “Nah. They love it.”

We follow the line, moving from one backdrop to the next. Mark stands tall next to me, grinning ear to ear for the cameras. I hang on to him, trying to keep it together as he whispers ridiculous stories about past interviews that have me laughing so hard I think pee might start running down my legs.

“Mark.” A woman, tall and slender, catches his arm. She has a microphone in hand, and this is the part that I’ve been dreading.

“Seems you’ve been busy teasing your fans during your recovery. Care to take this opportunity to set the record straight and put all those longing hearts to rest?”

She shoves the mic toward him, and he pulls me closer.

“I’ve been resting and letting my shoulder heal. I’m feeling good, and looking forward to getting back out on the field.”

“It appears you’ve been using your time wisely.” Her eyes move to me and then back to Mark.

“My time has been very well spent, if I do say so myself.” I pinch his side, and his grin spreads even wider. The reporter laughs. “My wife and I are excited for this next season for lots of reasons.”

“Wow. You heard it here first, ladies. Mark Sandberg is officially off the market and, dare I say, quite the proud papa. ”

Mark doesn’t say anything, making the reporter squirm. He only grins, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

Unfazed by his game, she moves along. “Everyone knows you’re a big supporter of underprivileged youth. We’re all familiar with the organization you set up with Shane Carter and Sean Greyson. Tonight, you’re up for the Walter Peyton Man of the Year Award, and we were all surprised to learn that you—”

Mark cuts her off. “My goal is to fund and support causes I’m passionate about. Kids deserve to have equal opportunities no matter their background.”

I’ve followed Mark’s work with Shane and Sean. Their organization helps kids in the foster system have access and assistance to participate in sports and other extracurriculars they might not be able to otherwise.

“Well, you certainly seem to be doing that. Good luck tonight.” She drops her mic and thanks us for stopping, and off we go to the next reporter.

Mark answers questions about his recovery and the organizations rumored to be interested in signing him for the next season. A few questions about his non-profit are sprinkled in that he seems to dodge, along with the specifics about our marriage.

It’s the fourth stop where things take a different turn.

“Now, Mark. We’re all looking forward to seeing where you end up, but female fans want to know when your wife is going to teach us how to change our oil and rotate our tires.”

Mark looks around. “Man, word travels fast.” He laughs. “She can teach you a hell of a lot more than that. She’s brilliant and takes those big metal machines down to frame and puts them back together.”

The reporter turns her attention to me. “Pictures of you on that truck tire have taken social media by storm. Young girls and women are no longer asking for your head for snagging this guy but want to see more of what you can do. It’s not every day you see a powerful woman getting in there and fixing things.”

She points the mic at me, and I know I’m supposed to speak, but nothing comes out. The idea that anyone, let alone young girls or other women, would want to learn from me is . . . inconceivable.

“I . . . I just work in my grandpa’s garage. I started on a stool when I was six, and it’s my absolute favorite place to be. ”

“Sounds like you’ve got a lot to teach us, and we’ll be anticipating more.”

I smile, but I’m so taken aback it can’t possibly look real.

Mark pulls me away, and we’ve finally made it to the auditorium. He stops me outside the doors. “You have nothing to worry about. These people see everything I’ve always known.”

It’s the first time in my life that my disability doesn’t feel so much like a curse, but maybe more like it made room for a gift I never allowed myself to see I had.

______

We’re ushered toward seats way farther to the front than I would ever choose—second row, dead center along the aisle. The auditorium fills with people, and Mark knows just about everyone.

He stands off to the side, talking to who I assume is a coach, while I settle in my seat, ready to sit back and watch. My body and mind relax, knowing my part of the show is OVER.

Mark’s tall frame folds into the chair next to me, and his hand finds my knee. It’s a little sweaty. Nerves and Mark don’t make sense.

“Hey, you all right? I can’t be the calm one in here.”

He leans closer. “You did good out there. No more hiding in that garage.”

“Great. The guys are never going to let me live this down.” His smile returns, but only halfway, and I lean closer. “I haven’t told you, but I’m so proud of you for all the work you’ve done to help so many kids. It’s really amazing.”

He stares at me, his eyes moving over my face, and it’s possible I see his throat bob.

His hand slides behind my neck, and he presses a quick, soft kiss on my lips as the music begins playing and the stage lights up. Things move quickly as the host welcomes us, and players are ushered on and off to accept awards.

During commercial breaks, people shuffle seats, and then they’re back to announcing winners. Mark sits beside me stiffly, his knee bouncing slightly, and I’m not sure what’s going on .

His hands rest on his thighs, and I slide mine underneath his. His cold, clammy fingers wrap around mine as the lights dim again.

I lean into him. “Hey, what’s up? You’re starting to freak me out.”

His dark eyes meet mine while the music plays. All teasing and charm are replaced with quiet seriousness. “I love you.”

I blink, trying to understand what’s happening with him.

The host returns to the stage, welcoming a former player who gives a back story about the Man of the Year Award. Then a video starts, and Mark’s face fills the screen as he talks about the organization he created to help promote awareness, aid, and educate those diagnosed with . . . learning disabilities.

My head whips in his direction, but his eyes stay trained on the stage.

My brain kicks into a jog, and my heart quickly joins the race as my eyes coast to those around us, all learning what it’s like for those who have difficulties reading, writing, or processing sounds.

The video continues, showing Mark in schools with kids, handing out books, and talking with teachers and faculty about the long-term impact of undiagnosed learning disorders.

My sweat-slicked hands grip the armrests to keep from bolting to the nearest exit. It’s always been one thing to share my inability with people that I trust. It’s something else entirely to feel outed to an entire room of the rich, famous, and completely capable.

I close my eyes as my ears fill with fog, drowning out Mark’s voice. He speaks about early intervention and his organization’s assistance to give kids the best chance at success without facing the shame and embarrassment of not being able to keep up.

What? He has an organization that helps kids . . . like me.

I inhale slowly as my stomach rises in my throat, every pore on my body oozing a cool sweat.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome this year’s Man of the Year, Mark Sandberg.”

My eyes pop open, and I can’t breathe. Mark leans over and grabs my face. “I love you. I’ve always loved you.” His words are only a whisper but sure and true. His eyes crease with tears as he kisses me.

The imprint of his lips remains as fire consumes my throat, and I hold my breath to keep my own tears from spilling over.

Then, he’s gone, leaving me with . . . what? I don’t even know .

People stand, shielding me while I try to figure out what in the hell I’m feeling. I’m not exactly sure what happens because I CAN’T SEE, but the next thing I know, he’s standing in the middle of the stage.

My pulse pounds in my ears along with applause, and I try to blink my eyes clear, but maybe it’s better if I don’t. Then I can’t see the all the people surrounding me.

My tears recede enough I can make him out, shaking hands and man-hugging a huge blurry form.

I try to inhale and let it out slowly as I watch him step up to the mic, wanting to run and hide but also . . . stay.

As the room quiets, I sink further into my seat, trying to get something to settle enough to take in what he’s been doing for kids who face the same challenges I do. All this time he’s been working to ensure they don’t have to struggle and be left with nothing but the shame I still feel.

My chest seizes again as that shame wars with my love for him and what he’s worked to do. My mind stops. The app. This is how he knew about the app that I now use every day. I seriously want to punch and maybe yell at him and . . . kiss him and never stop.

He clears his throat and my breath catches, waiting to hear his voice.

He stands tall and strong as his eyes roam. “I’m a fortunate man. More fortunate than most, but I didn’t start that way. As a kid, school for me was a reprieve from the world I belonged to. I . . . ” He rubs his jaw, and I shift in my seat, sweat pooling under my armpits as I wait to hear his words. “I can’t say that I was necessarily good at it, but just being there was better than being at home.”

“It wasn’t until I was in high school that I realized all I’d been taking for granted. I had nothing. I lived in a group home for years after being hauled away from a trailer park that was more like hell on earth. My dad left me with internal bruises, a dislocated shoulder, and a cut that required twenty stitches. Those were the wounds they could see.”

He pulls his shoulders back, adjusting his stance. I can’t take my eyes off him. A rare sight of complete vulnerability, and I sit a little straighter, unwilling to miss it. He’s laying down the mask, and I won’t cower this time, no matter how badly I might want to. I’m finally able to be here for him, like I’ve longed to be .

I swallow the massive lump in my throat, remembering the stories he shared. Everything that he’s done, all that he’s survived, and I’ve . . . missed it. Tears I’m no longer able to contain stream down my face.

He clears his throat. “But even having been through that, I’d taken the most basic skills and abilities for granted. See . . . ” He shifts his weight to the other foot. “I met someone in high school who struggled to do what all of the rest of us didn’t even know we were doing. We’d get an assignment, write our name at the top, and get to work. Our futures were bright and filled with possibility. We could read, and that meant we could do anything. Literally.”

He huffs. “I’d never thought about what it would be like if reading was a challenge or if I couldn’t easily show my knowledge in written form. How that would’ve changed everything, especially for a kid like me and where I came from.”

He studies the piece of metal in his hand. “I was sixteen and angry at the world. One day, I walked into the science lab and told another kid to move so I could sit next to this beautiful girl.”

His eyes finally hit mine, and there’s the slightest pause as his lips pull into a hesitant smile. I know he’s reliving it just as I am. The moment the loud, cocky high school quarterback slid into the seat beside me. The absolute last person I’d ever want to be lab partners with or find out I couldn’t read.

Mark’s eyes move back to the crowd, and he grins. “That one obnoxious adolescent move changed the rest of my life. She had her head down, focused on a closed notebook, and wouldn’t give me the time of day.”

The crowd laughs, and tears run down my chin, to my neck, and then chest. I remember his young, handsome face asking to borrow a pencil and then teasing me that I wouldn’t get it back. Even then, he was a flirt.

“I eventually found my in with her, and by some miracle, over time, she trusted me enough to show me her weakness.”

He finds me again, and it’s as if my soul aches for how much I love him. How much I’ve always loved him. How much he loves me, and maybe I’m only just realizing it.

“Man . . . ” he shakes his head. “She was good at covering it because this chick was brilliant. Hands down way too good for me and the only reason I didn’t flunk physics. She could run circles around the rest of us, but . . . school was excruciating for her because reading was difficult. She couldn’t do it, at least not the way the rest of us could. Every assignment, every textbook, and test took her hours and hours to complete, but that time wasn’t afforded.”

I side-eye those around me, and all eyes are straight ahead, nodding and taking in his words.

He clears his throat again, taking a moment. “The pain, shame, and embarrassment I saw in her eyes every time she tried and failed, with no one’s help or caring to understand what made her different . . . it did me in. No person, no child, should sit in a classroom feeling like there’s something wrong with them simply because their brain doesn’t allow them to see things the way the rest of us do.”

Mark goes on to discuss how we can make a difference and change futures. He outlines the resources his organization provides and how critical awareness and education on the topic are essential for those kids who are struggling. Often, it’s only because they haven’t been introduced to the right tools or had access to the assistance they need.

Tears and snot streak my face for all the years that I’ve held myself back. I swipe my cheeks with the back of my wrist, smearing it everywhere.

He’s been helping kids like me while I’ve done what? Nothing.

I’ve sat around feeling less than and ashamed, but he was out there doing the work to ensure others don’t have to endure it. I shake my head with anger at myself for letting my challenge keep me from . . . everything.

I sit up, leaning closer to watch him, no longer caring who might see or worried about what they might think.

All this time . . . I’ve missed so much. I’ve missed him. His wins and losses. All he’s worked for and overcome. He survived horrors, but not only that, he came out the other side compassionate and loving and so damn good.

I’ve missed knowing his friends and his family. His gigantic growing family that he’s built with his brothers. I’ve missed eight years’ worth of time and love we should have had together.

I left him. I let him think I didn’t want him. I didn’t fucking show up for the man who I know would have given this all up to stay with me.

No more. Never again. I won’t miss another second. Wherever he’s going, I’m going. He said it. It’s always us. And it has been. Ever since the day the cocky sixteen year old boy sat down next to me, I never had a choice.

I don’t deserve it, but he’s given me a chance, and I’m taking it. I’ll never again let him think that I haven’t chosen him.

The crowd applauds and rises to their feet as Mark wraps up his speech. He’s ushered off the stage, and I’m left in my seat a freaking mess, but I don’t care. The only thing I care about is finding him.

The need to see him and tell him is nearly causing panic. I don’t want to go another second without him knowing we will never be apart again. I need him to know that I’d follow him to the moon if that means he’ll keep on loving me the way he always has.