Law #3: Don't Fall for the Athlete: Sweet Second Chance Romance (Laws of Love)

by Agnes Canestri

“No.”

  “Nothing out of the ordinary?” I insist.

  He shrugs. “It was just like any other last OTA day, I guess.”

  “Nothing before the practice game? In the locker room, perhaps?”

  “Nope. The place was a mob of jiggling, shaking, cursing, and growling guys, as always. I chatted with a buddy right until kickoff.”

  “Any of your teammates act out?”

  He drifts his eyes to the ceiling as if he’s trying to recall what everyone was doing. “Well, Greg, a linebacker, vomited into a pail. He pushed himself too much on our strength session. Troy, our safety, hopped like a crazed guard dog screaming ‘We’ll smash you’ at Leo, our fullback, who ended up on the opposing team. Ah yeah, and Jamal, my replacement, banged his forehead on the wall in a two-one-two sequence.”

  He blinks back at me, catches my alarmed glance, and grins. “That’s kind of Jamal’s thing. Players have different ways of dealing with the sickening crescendo of anxiety over impending games. The only thing we all have in common is that we all feel the pressure to perform well.”

  I give him a grimace that I hope expresses ‘you’re all strange folks’ then I say, “I thought a practice game would be more relaxed.”

  He shakes his head. “Not with the Kites. Our head coach believes that if you aren’t nervous before going out to the field, even if only to face your own teammates, then you don’t care about winning. And if you don’t care about winning, you shouldn’t even be on his team. So he demands that we treat each play as the chance to show what we’re made of. To ensure that we do this, he uses every recording and not just those from the summer camp to determine who lands a position in the opening during next season.”

  I frown. “Fine, so all was normal.”

  “Is that bad?” he asks.

  “Not necessarily. But I expected a proper trigger. Something that would have primed your brain to launch into an unfamiliar cognitive and behavioral sequence…”

  “Come again…and this time in plain English, please.” He winks at me.

  “I’m speaking about a detail that somehow changed your normal reactive patterns. Perhaps during the game itself or during one of the breaks. It could’ve been small.”

  A quiver runs through his jaw. His knees waver as if he pushed his feet harder to the pavement.

  “Did you remember something?” I prompt him.

  “Nope,” he says in a flat voice.

  I sense there’s something he’s either not saying or not realizing, but I decide not to push him. We’ll have time to dig deeper later. “Okay, so this is a blind alley for now. Let’s move on to your stakes. You said your head coach threatened to exclude you from the season. How did that make you feel?”

  Another muscle on his face twitches, this time below his left eye. “Not pleasant.”

  I give him an encouraging wave. “Care to elaborate on this? Why would it be so bad if you had to skip a few games?”

  Wyatt exhales. “Let me give you a quick brush up on your football knowledge, Ellie. An average NFL quarterback averages twelve-something seasons—if lucky. Last one was my tenth. If I don’t play this season, I’m not just skipping a few games. I’m signing my death warrant in the team.”

  A somber, almost tired expression settles on his face.

  His distress squeezes my heart despite knowing that I’m his therapist and, as such, supposed to keep emotional distance from his feelings. “Your skills surely compensate for the loss of your physical peak.”

  Not that I think Wyatt has reached his zenith. It’s enough seeing his bulging muscles to know he’s still in top form.

  Wyatt responds with a stoic glance. “I’m slower than I was only a year ago. But you’re right. My experience makes up for a lot. That’s why I’m still in my coaches’ favors. But if I’m not at their training camp, they won’t hesitate twice to turn away from me. They’ll put Jamal into the lead position and that talented son of a gun will know how to use his chance.”

  I’m surprised by Wyatt’s statement.

  I know that athletes finish their career much earlier than in any other professions, but Wyatt is barely thirty-five, the same age as my brother. And Phoenix Business Weekly recently called Devon the youngest rising star in the ad industry.

  It must be awful to feel that you’re over your best years in your chosen profession and not know what awaits you once you’re done.

  I grab a pen and scribble into my notebook.

  Wyatt’s tantrum = teammate’s comment triggered fear about losing his edge? To explore!!!

  One of Stephanie’s cases pops into my mind, and I glance up at him. “You know my boss treated a beautiful model last year. She was rather famous, too.”

  Wyatt arches his brows. “How does this have a connection with me?” Then he grins. “Are you trying to tell me you think I’m beautiful, too?”

  I roll my eyes. “No. It came to me because this girl started to have temper problems after getting her first crow’s feet.”

  Wyatt rubs below his eyes. “My first ones sprouted years ago. Also, I’m not that skittish about my looks. I wear a helmet most of the time anyway.” He chuckles.

  I tilt my head and look him straight in the eye. “Don’t deflect my point with a joke. I think you understood what I’m getting at. That girl was terrified that she was getting too old for her job. Perhaps that’s at the root of your outburst too?”

  Wyatt snorts. “You sound like Joe.”

  “Joe Calligan, the running back on your team?”

  Wyatt’s eyes round. “How do you know him?”

  “I googled the members of the Kites before coming to the waiting room. I wanted to familiarize myself with any names you may mention.”

  “Doctor Sparkling Grin didn’t lie. You’re good at what you do.”

  Just as I want to impose a retort for the nickname he gave Bill, my phone chimes.

  “Sorry,” I say while I pull the ringing device from my coat. “I’ll just mute this.”

  I don’t usually leave the volume on at work, but I half-expect Stephanie to check on me before they roll her in for her C-section.

  However, as I look at the phone, it’s my brother’s name flashing at me.

  “It’s Devon,” I say to Wyatt.

  “Go ahead, answer him,” he says, smiling.

  “Okay, but stay quiet, okay?”

  He slides his fingers on his lips in a zipping motion.

  I press the green button, and my brother’s cheerful voice greets me. I’m tempted to switch to loudspeaker, but I don’t. Privacy trumps health this once.

  “What’s up, sis? How did it go?” Devon asks.

  My brother is a born CEO—in the best sense of the word. I only mentioned to him briefly my plan to speak to my boss today, but he still remembered it. He keeps track of all his subordinates’ concerns in the same way. That’s why his company has one of the highest employee retentions in our city.

  “It went well. Stephanie gave me a client,” I say while my glance moves to Wyatt. He sits up straight and pats his chest with a proud expression, and I quickly add, “It’s a pretty boring case, but since it’s my first, I won’t complain.”

  Wyatt sticks his tongue out at me, and I stifle a smile.

  “Congrats!” Devon yells. “We’ll celebrate tonight.”

  “So we’re still on for dinner?”

  “Of course, sis,” my brother answers.

  Wyatt bends forward, and an alert expression settles on his face. “Where are you going?” he mouths at me.

  “None of your business,” I mouth back, then say loudly into the phone. “What time can you be there?”

  “At eight,” Devon answers, but I almost don’t hear him because Wyatt’s not so quiet “Anytime” distracts me.

  I pick up the small cushion from behind my back and fling it at him.

  Of course, being the quarterback he is, he catches it, grinning, before it can land on his head.

  I roll my eyes and focus on
my brother again. And good timing too because Devon has just asked me a question. “Are you with someone, sis?”

  “Tell him you’re with your utterly exciting client who’s as dashing as that super model your boss treated,” Wyatt suggests in a low voice.

  That’s when I realize that either Devon’s baritone is too loud or Wyatt’s got exceptional hearing, but Wyatt’s caught every word my brother has said so far.

  How lucky Devon didn’t say the name of the restaurant.

  “Dream on,” I mouth back at Wyatt then answer Devon with a simple, “I’m with my client.”

  “Jeez, Ellie,” my brother exclaims. “Why didn’t you just block my call then? I didn’t want to disturb you during therapy.”

  “Don’t worry. The man is busy with a written exercise I gave him. And since he’s rather deaf, he doesn’t realize I’m speaking with you,” I say, partially because I’m sorry for Devon’s concerned voice, but also to annoy Wyatt.

  I must’ve hit the bull’s eye because Wyatt hurls my pillow back at me. I know he probably aimed at my lap because that’s exactly where it lands.

  I don’t waste a second, but lift the fluffy thing and thrust it back, this time trying to catch his chest.

  Again, he grips it while it’s still propelling through air. “I could give you tips for your throwing skills, if you want,” he murmurs with a smug smirk.

  “Ellie, what’s going on? I’m hearing weird hushing noises,” Devon says.

  “Ah, it’s nothing. My client got frustrated with his task and started to hit himself with a pillow.” I meet Wyatt’s glance with a sneer of my own.

  “What?” My brother’s puzzled voice makes me imagine his dimpled chin slacking. “Is that man dangerous?”

  I realize I might have stretched Devon’s limit to accept weird statements before launching into big brother mode, so I add, “Nope. Entirely innocuous. The poor thing just had a moment. He’s in a mentally challenged state right now.”

  At these last words, my voice wavers and I have to force myself to stay serious.

  It’s hard because Wyatt grabs the small pillow and starts smashing it on his head while pulling his face into a silly grimace.

  There’s silence on Devon’s end as he tries to make sense of my words, then he says, “Okay. But I better leave you so you can stay vigilant. People in therapy are there for a reason.”

  When my brother hangs up, I stash away my phone and turn back to Wyatt, opting for a professional, “So where were we?”

  Wyatt puts a hand behind his ear and yells, “Excuse me, what did you say? I didn’t catch a word.”

  Against my will, the giggle I’ve been suppressing gurgles up in my throat. Wyatt joins in and we both laugh.

  Soon I’m transported back to the time Wyatt sneaked into my dorm room for dinner and I had to hide him in my closet when my brother unexpectedly stopped by.

  This memory freezes up my belly and I stop laughing.

  Wyatt notices my change of mood and his glee dies off, too. But he still maintains a smile as he says, “I think you wanted to tell your boring, half-deaf and mentally challenged client what you plan to do with his best friend tonight.”

  I shake my head. “I told you, not your business.”

  But Wyatt isn’t taking no for an answer. “Devon would surely want to see me. I only just got in from Atlanta yesterday, so I didn’t have time to let him know about my arrival.”

  “Well, if he doesn’t know, then he can certainly wait until tomorrow to discover this news.” I give Wyatt an elusive smile.

  If I tell Wyatt where we’re going tonight, he’ll insist on coming too.

  And not only because of Devon. Wyatt adores Mexican food as much as I do. His mom was the most faithful client of Tio Filippo’s eatery in Kingman.

  On my way home from high school, I’d always see her carry dishes from the restaurant—to satiate her son’s rapacious appetite, which couldn’t have been easy. I once witnessed Wyatt finish five chipotle cherry tacos topped with aioli and claim that they were his “appetizers only.”

  Wyatt looks like a kid from whom I’ve just snatched away a lollipop. “I’m dying to see your brother. Can’t I come too?”

  I sigh. It’s hard to resist Wyatt’s hopeful voice and his longing puppy eyes. At the same time, I don’t want to spend more time around Wyatt and his magnetic aura than I need to.

  He must realize I’m torn because he fetches his phone and lifts it. “If I just dial up your brother, he’ll surely invite me along, don’t you think?”

  “Don’t do it,” I squeak and without realizing what I’m doing, I launch forward to grab his phone.

  He hides it behind his back and my hands land on his arms instead.

  I freeze.

  It isn’t the searing that seeps into my fingers from his bare skin that immobilizes me. It’s the realization that we’re suddenly nose to nose, eye to eye, and yeah…breath to breath.

  Lips far too close.

  Wyatt doesn’t look too stirred by our sudden closeness. He just grins at me. “Want to add tackling to the list I need to teach you?”

  I jerk up and retreat to the egg chair while mumbling, “No. Not necessary. But please don’t call Devon.” I try to sit down with as much poise as possible to conceal my rickety knees.

  Wyatt grows serious. “Why don’t you want me there tonight?”

  I settle into a straight back position that I hope compensates for the blunder I just made. “It’s better if we don’t meet in private while I’m your therapist. Makes things more professional. In fact,” I clap my hands, “we should probably make this ground rule number two.”

  Wyatt shakes his head. “I sure as heck plan on meeting your brother while I’m in town.”

  “I’m not implying that you shouldn’t,” I answer. “Only that you should set up your meetings with Dev in a way that you and I don’t bump into each other.”

  Wyatt arches his brows. “How am I supposed to do that? What if Dev invites me over and you’re there?”

  “That won’t happen. As long as you’re in Phoenix, I’ll give him a call before I pay him a visit…like I used to,” I offer promptly.

  He scratches his head. “Fine.”

  “Thank you.” I smile at him.

  He grins back, and a staccato fills my chest.

  Exactly my point.

  I did well to bring in this second rule.

  It’s safer for me to keep my interactions with Wyatt to the bare minimum. Despite my best effort, my body still remembers too much of how he used to make me feel. Way. Too. Much.

  Chapter 8

  (Wyatt)

  Sweat beads collect on my forehead as I turn the corner to the cul-de-sac where the villa I recently bought from Devon’s accountant, Mike, is located.

  After unpacking my suitcases, I went on an extra-long run in my new neighborhood to help get rid of the odd sizzles the unexpected meeting with Ellie had unleashed in me. I should’ve probably done another round though.

  Despite two hours spent jogging, my body is still humming on a different frequency—all giddy and woozy. Not that it’s unpleasant, but I’m pretty sure I’m not supposed to be feeling this way about my therapist.

  I wipe my skin with the back of my hand, but since it’s not wet enough, I break into a sprint to make the most out of the last two hundred yards.

  As I reach the large Chinese elm marking my front yard, I notice two shadows lurking around the house’s left side window.

  Could these be burglars?

  I stop and hide behind the tree’s trunk. I slope a hand above my eyebrows to shade my eyes from the declining sun’s orange rays.

  Mike never installed a fence around the house because he said this district was as dangerous as a toddler’s club.

  After observing the two figures, I establish that they must be boys, probably in their mid-teens. I step out of my hiding place and yell, “Hey, you, what’re you doing?”

  The boys jerk back and snap th
eir heads toward my voice. One of them says something to the other, then they scurry away as if pursued by a lion.

  I’m just deciding on whether to follow them—I still have more than enough energy left in me for a chase—when a squawking voice resounds behind me.

  “Let them go, my heart.”

  I whip around to find an old lady with short, permed, pitch-black hair that my mother likes to describe as “shoe polish.” She holds a blue watering can in her wrinkled hand. A tiny spade and rake stick out of her grey gardening dress’s large pockets.

  “You know the boys?”

  “Of course, they’re Roy and Flinn, Susan and Greg Watson’s sons. They’re harmless unless you plan on cultivating Devil’s Trumpets or suchlike. In which case, I’d urge you to put up barbed wire around your garden. These kids operate across all yards, and they’ll surely trample your flowers.”

  “So they live here?” I ask, my shoulders relaxing.

  Good thing I hadn’t launched into a hunt of some innocent kids. It wouldn’t have been my finest moment of integrating into this suburb.

  “Yes. Their family lives on the street parallel to ours.” The woman points at my house and then to the small but neatly kept little villa beside mine.

  “We’re neighbors, then.”

  “That, we are. I’m Gretchen,” she answers with a benevolent smile.

  “And I’m Wyatt Harrison. Nice to meet you.”

  Gretchen studies me with a curious glint. “So, Wyatt, do you craft jewels?”

  My jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

  “I said, do you craft jewels?” She repeats her baffling question.

  “Why would you ask me this?”

  Some people don’t recognize me from the get-go, or even after learning my full name. Which is fine. Not all folks are football fans, after all. Still, I’ve never been suspected of being an artisan.

  Gretchen’s face moves into a flustered grimace. “I heard the boys gossiping about your rings. In plural. So I just—” She pauses, then defiantly tilts up her chin, which is so pointy it’s as if she’s shaped it with a pencil sharpener. “Real men should only have one ring—their wedding band. That’s why I assumed you were in the jewelry business.”