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

by Agnes Canestri

  A chuckle escapes from my throat. “Those kids were referring to my Super Bowl rings. I’m an NFL football player.”

  Her features smooth out. “Oh, dearie, I see. Well, that explains it, then. Roy and Flinn are all about heaving that piece of leather.” She raises a brow at me. “So you’re famous?”

  “Well, yeah. I mean, kind of. At least among sports lovers.”

  Gretchen adjusts her tools in her pocket. “Well, I’m a sports lover myself. I adore watching saloon dance competitions and figure skating.”

  “Ah, I see,” I murmur. This explains why she didn’t flinch when I told her my name.

  “But I guess what you do must also be interesting,” Gretchen adds with a polite smirk. “Even if a football jersey can never make a man as dapper as a silk shirt and a pair of well-fitted black pants.”

  I don’t really know how to react to this, but I don’t have to figure it out because Gretchen continues, “I imagine your parents are proud of your success?”

  “Yes, my mom is very pleased. She saves all my newspaper mentions in a giant folder and guards all my trophies as sacred objects.”

  This is an understatement. Last year, I gave Mom two Super Bowl rings to preserve. Mom arranged them into an expensive porcelain bowl which she now uses as a special centerpiece in her living room.

  “And what about your dad? He must also be thrilled.”

  My jaw becomes rigid. “He’s not in my life anymore.”

  Gretchen misinterprets my raspy voice and pats my arm in a commiserating gesture. “Oh, what a terrible loss that must have been.”

  Suddenly, I want this conversation to end. “I’m going to go inside and take a shower, if you don’t mind.”

  “Ah, dearie me, of course. You’ll catch a cold with that sweaty T-shirt,” Gretchen says.

  I doubt I could get anything besides heatstroke in the oppressive warmth that surrounds us, but I nod. “Indeed. So then, see you around, Gretchen.”

  I turn and hurry to my porch.

  I bolt straight to the bathroom and set the shower to its coldest temperature. While undressing, my mind drifts back to the talk I had with Ellie about the details of my outburst. When she asked if there were any unusual events during the game, I didn’t tell her about my father’s call.

  Should I have?

  I recall the suffocating wave of bitterness that Gretchen’s well-meaning small talk triggered in me and that broken piece of windowsill that still must be sitting in my jeans’ pocket. My chest squeezes.

  I quickly step inside the shower and turn my face upward. I let the icy flow run down my cheeks. After a few seconds of thermal shock, the glacial droplets chill my burning scalp, stripping away my previous self-doubts.

  That’s better. I did the right thing, not mentioning my dad. His intrusion definitely didn’t push me off my rocker. He doesn’t have that power over me. Not anymore.

  I close the tap and dry myself. I put on comfy clothes and saunter to my fridge to check whether the housekeeper Mike referred to me has filled up the shelves.

  She has, even if she did her own twist on my grocery list and bought the “healthy” variants of all the products.

  I lift a fat-free, sugar-free, gluten-free yogurt, on which the manufacturer had glued a bright “dairy-free” for good measure—should anyone miss the giant vegan sign—and snort.

  There are only two types of players in my profession: those who’re struggling to lose pounds and those who need to pack on some more—nobody is in between.

  I belong to the second category, which is both a curse and a blessing.

  Most people would kill if the question about dessert didn’t need to be a strict “yes or no,” but rather an easy “how much more?” Still, continually worrying about filling your stomach with high-density food to avoid losing your fighting weight isn’t fun either.

  Even though I’m not a defensive lineman— those guys need to tilt the scales the most—I’m still too lightweight for a quarterback. My body has a high metabolism, and my cells run like a calorie-guzzling engine coupled with my intense workouts. This is why I can’t be feeding on these light pseudo-snacks. I don’t want to be embarrassed during the training camp’s weigh-in. No, I need proper fuel.

  I stash the yogurt beside a box of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter! Light and close the fridge. I pick up my phone from the marble kitchen counter and dial Pete’s number.

  I’d have preferred to eat with Pete and Devon, but since Ellie forbade me from contacting her brother tonight, I’ll just invite my other best pal for dinner.

  While I wait for the ringtone, I consider what type of food I’m in the mood for. By the time Pete’s smooth drawl answers, I’ve made my choice.

  I want to eat Mexican.

  A tasty taco or a spicy burrito rounded with a relaxed chat with a buddy is just the right closing motive to ease my mind of this weirdly eventful day and the unsettling memories Ellie triggered in me.

  Chapter 9

  (Ellie)

  “Here’s to you and your career, little sis!” My brother lifts his glass and raises it toward me.

  We’re in El Placer, my favorite Mexican restaurant. My brother’s fiancée, Laia, introduced me to this place, and ever since, I’ve been coming here at least once a month.

  The ceiling has hand-hewn wood beams that complement the vibrant stucco adobe wall finish—an orange hue somewhere between the setting sun and creamy nacho sauce—and the warm brown terracotta tiles on the floor.

  Besides the cozy, authentic interior and hyper-friendly service—I mean, hello, the owner and the waitresses call each returning guest by their name after only their second visit—I’m smitten with their fabulous food too.

  On any normal occasion, I’d already be salivating over their sumptuous tamales that even Laia describes as equal to the ones her mother makes.

  But now? Nothing.

  It’s almost as if I’m still digesting the shock of seeing Wyatt in person.

  Hope’s “Attagirl!” jars me out of my reflection.

  She leans forward, and her blond bob wiggles joyfully as she pats my hand. “I told you the power stance would do the trick.”

  “Hope sugar, don’t take all the credit.” Cora winks at our roomie. “Ellie had something to do with it too, bless her heart.”

  “I’m proud of you, sweetie.” Laia chimes in. “Not only because you triumphed, but also because you went after your dream.”

  “Uhm, thanks…” I avoid Laia’s cat-eyes and smooth the wrinkles on the serape striped tablecloth with my palms.

  I appreciate Laia’s kind words, but I can’t really let them in. My frozen stomach is proof that labeling my three-week collaboration with Wyatt a victory is definitely a stretch.

  Diego, the owner of the restaurant, marches to our table with two large bowls of tortilla chips and a generous portion of a decadent dip. He places the plates in the middle of our large table. “A starter for you while you decide on your order.”

  “Gracias,” Laia smiles at the man while pointing at the salsa. “Which dip is this? The seven-layer one?”

  The owner nods. “Yes. Our cook’s outdone herself today. The dip is the perfect contrast of flavors and textures, if I may say so, myself.”

  “I’m sure it’ll be delicious,” I answer.

  Diego’s guileful eyes dart to me, and his tiny mustache twitches as his lips curl up. “Ellie, querida, I hear you’re celebrating a promotion?”

  “Just a new assignment,” I answer.

  “The promotion will come, too,” Devon intervenes.

  “Of course. Un cabello hace sombra en el suelo.” The owner laughs, and his neck disappears between his shoulders and the red fabric of his shirt.

  I blink to Laia for help, and she translates Diego’s wisdom promptly, “It means that even a hair casts a shadow on the floor.”

  “Indeed.” Diego grins at me then straightens his hat. “Now, a new assignment, tomorrow, a big promotion.”

&n
bsp; I can only hope he’s right. If I have to subject my heart to the risk of getting catapulted back to unwanted memories—some I didn’t even realize I still guarded—then I darned-well deserve a promotion.

  Diego takes my silence as a cue that he should leave and says, “Call Juliana when you’re ready to order, please.”

  “We’ll wait for Pete with that. He should be here any minute,” Devon says.

  Diego nods and returns to the kitchen.

  Hope throws a questioning glance at Devon. “Do we have to wait for your buddy with the starter, too? If yes, you better check on him. I don’t think I can restrain myself much longer. This salsa looks delicious.”

  Devon laughs. “Fine, I’ll step outside and call him to see where he’s at. Meanwhile, you go ahead and eat. Pete won’t mind it.”

  “Good.” Hope grins and grabs a tortilla chip. “I skipped lunch because I had to jump in for a colleague. I’m famished.”

  Devon pulls out his phone and stands up. He strides out to the patio illuminated with chili pepper string lights.

  Laia gives Hope an admiring smile. “You work so much, but it doesn’t seem to wear you down. What’s your secret?”

  “Fruit Loops,” Cora and I say in a chorus.

  Laia’s eyes widen but Hope nods. “They’re right. That cereal is my super fuel.”

  “Don’t you mind all the colorants?” Laia asks.

  Hope shrugs. “Nope. It’s thanks to those that I’m hyperactive. “

  I giggle at Laia’s baffled face.

  My brother’s fiancée grew up in a household where homemade churro waffles or huevos rancheros were the staple breakfast. I don’t think her mother served her daughter anything that wasn’t made from scratch.

  Cora scoops some salsa on her plate and murmurs, “I still remember my very first seven-layer dip. A girl brought it to a choir meeting at my church. It was thick, creamy, and probably the most calorie-heavy thing I’ve ever tasted.”

  “You sang in a choir?” Laia squeaks. “Me, too.”

  Cora’s face tenses as if she just really realized she spoke loud enough for us to hear. She clears her throat. “Yeah, I did. But only for a short time.”

  Laia opens her mouth, but I shake my head at her.

  Cora hates direct questions that relate to her past. The little we know about our friend’s childhood—which she must’ve spent in challenging circumstances—is through piecing together her fragmented remarks. It’s extremely rare for her to share any details about how she grew up—especially positive memories.

  Laia takes my hint and turns her question into a sigh. “Ah, to be young and not have to think about what we eat, right?”

  Devon returns. “Pete’s looking for a parking spot. He said he’s got a surprise for us. I wonder what it’ll be,” he says, sitting down.

  “A girlfriend, maybe?” Laia offers with dreamy eyes.

  I wave. “I doubt that we’ll meet Pete’s soulmate tonight.”

  Devon squeezes Laia’s hand. “I think Ellie is right. Pete’s still a dog with two tails in his singlehood. But you’re a die-hard romantic, honey, and that’s just one thing I love about you.”

  I catch Cora and Hope ogling my brother and Laia with a certain longing in their eyes.

  In Cora’s case, I’m less surprised. Her boyfriend, Andrew, isn’t particularly forthcoming about his emotions—if he has any, that is. He’s been together with Cora for over a year, but I’ve never heard him laugh or even chuckle during that time. Cora claims that his work makes him serious—he owns an accounting firm. It might be the case that Andrew carries his job into his private life because he always dresses in a suit and tie from the monochromatic land of gray—alternating only between ash and mouse-like hues—even for a casual Sunday barbecue.

  But Hope’s reaction puzzles me a little. Maybe her relationship with Mitch isn’t as gleeful as she wants us to believe?

  Before I can think further about this, Laia turns to me, and her eyes pull into two curvy lines as her cheekbones lift. “While we wait for Pete, tell us how your pitch went. I’d like all the details—who you’re coaching, what you said to Stephanie, and how she reacted?”

  “Can we start with the who part?” Cora takes a sip from her chilled white wine—strictly Chardonnay, the only kind she’d ever order—then gives me an expectant glance. “Until now, you only said it’s a guy in his thirties. That’s not much. Is he rich?”

  Hope clicks her tongue. “Most importantly, is he handsome?”

  When my friends didn’t ask me specifics after my announcement, I hoped to skip their questions about my client altogether. Looks like I counted my chickens too soon.

  “He’s…well, he’s—” I stutter then pause.

  Why did I admit I was treating a young man? I should’ve just lied and said my new case was an elderly housewife.

  I throw a slanted glance at my brother.

  No, that fib wouldn’t have worked. I have to count myself lucky that my brother didn’t mention the gibberish I told him about Wyatt on the phone.

  While I look for a piece of information I can share, I adjust the basket of tortilla chips so that it sits at a perfect angle with our table’s edges and pull the dip into the geometrical middle. I shove Cora’s coaster into a straight line with mine.

  Cora throws me a suspicious glance. “He’s what, Ellie? And why are you so uneasy when speaking about him?

  “Girls…” Devon leans back on the comfy leather chair that Diego recently bought to complement his hacienda-style tables. “Ellie’s tense because she signed a confidentiality agreement and answering your questions would make her breach that.”

  “Yes, indeed.” I give my brother a grateful smile and nod. “My lips are officially sealed, sorry.”

  To be honest, it’s not just the legal consequences that prevent me from revealing Wyatt’s identity.

  If my brother and my friends learn that I’ve accepted to do therapy with Wyatt—while openly avoiding his company for years—their curiosity will be tickled, to say the least. And their questions might stir up topics I prefer to keep untouched.

  “We don’t want you to break the rules,” Laia says. “Just let us guess what he does for a living. We ask, and you only have to nod.”

  “Is he a hotshot attorney?” Cora chimes in.

  Hope taps her palm on the table. “Why would that be the first profession that comes to your mind? Lawyers don’t need anger management.” She strains her voice to sound furious and wrinkles her forehead exaggeratedly.

  Everyone laughs.

  After I catch my breath, I say, “He’s not a lawyer. And stop speculating.”

  Cora pokes me between my ribs. “Just one last attempt. If not a legal eagle, then a business owner…perhaps…a CEO?”

  “Did I mention that I’ve got a date for Sunday?” I throw in a distraction.

  I’m not keen on gossiping about the handsome doctor who asked me out, but I’m tired of repeating that I’ve got nothing to share about my mystery client’s identity—and certainly not that he’s the skeleton in my soul’s closet that I never wished to dig out.

  “You’ve got a date?” Hope’s brows jump up.

  I try to not feel insulted by her bewildered undertone. “Yes, his name is Bill. He’s the department head in my clinic.”

  “Ah, a successful doctor, very good.” Cora smiles approvingly.

  I knew she’d like Bill just based on his financially rewarding career path. Once, in the heat of an argument with Hope, we managed to learn that Cora used to live in a crummy trailer park as a kid, so I guess her focus on the economic stability of her partner is understandable.

  Laia leans forward. “How’s this Bill? Tell us more.”

  Before I can, my brother exclaims, “Look, Pete’s arrived. And, no…I can’t believe this!” He jumps up, a ridiculously big smile stretching on his face and dashes forward.

  An alarm goes off in my mind, and my stomach grows rigid.

  I turn my tors
o, the chair creaking from my jerky movement. Its caterwaul is in sync with the inner shriek reverberating in my mind.

  No, he didn’t!

  But apparently, he did…

  My brother only reserves this outburst of joy for a few people.

  His family.

  Laia.

  And his best friends…

  It’s not even necessary to pivot around. Even without looking, I know exactly what—or rather who—Pete’s surprise is going to be.

  Chapter 10

  (Wyatt)

  “Hey buddy, what a surprise. I didn’t expect you until next week,” Devon exclaims as we hug each other at the restaurant’s entry hall.

  I shrug. “OTCs were over, so I thought, why wait? Georgia is hot too, and without your crooked smile or Pete’s fancy Elvis cut, it’s hard to take.”

  “I believe ya.” Pete winks at me. “I’ve spent a summer in Atlanta without ever finding a decent barber.” He adjusts his meticulous pompadour coiffure, which has been his signature style ever since we graduated from high school.

  I chuckle at his comment, but my eyes are fixed on Devon. Will he accept my weak explanation about my early arrival as easily as Pete did?

  I’m lucky because Devon smiles and pats my back. “Whatever the reason, I’m glad you’re here. Come, let’s go to the girls.”

  As we lumber inside the room filled with large tables and brightly striped tablecloths, my nostrils open up to a delicious spicy scent.

  My stomach growls, but I know its rumbling is due as much to my hunger as to the anticipation of facing Ellie.

  How will she react?

  I plaster on a smile and infuse some extra zest into my step. I purposefully strike up a conversation with Devon so as to not arrive at their table feeling embarrassed.

  Still, as I spot Ellie’s glowing cheeks and baffled glare, my heart stutters.

  The girls all stand up to greet us.

  A pretty Latina girl, with hair so long it sweeps her hips points at me. She must be Laia, Devon’s fiancée. “Isn’t that Wyatt? I’ve only seen him on TV and on Dev’s phone, but I think it’s him.”