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

by Agnes Canestri

  I shake my head, but my mind jumps back to my brother. What would he think if suddenly his best friend and his sister started dating?

  “What are you worried about? Devon?”

  How can Wyatt read my mind?

  I nod.

  “Do you think my buddy might not see me as a suitable guy for you?” he prompts.

  “Perhaps. But mostly, I’m worried about pulling the rug from below his feet. Ever since that snake Morgan betrayed him, Dev hasn’t been the same. He’s overworked, tired, and he needs emotional stability with the people who are close to him.”

  “Would you rather we don’t tell him about us?”

  The way “us” melts on his tongue gives me the most delicious chills. “Yes, at least for now. Would you be okay with keeping this a secret?”

  “Sure, whatever makes you feel good,” he answers. Then a cheeky glint creeps into his toffee-colored irises. “Even if there isn’t much to conceal yet. But we could remedy that quickly.”

  His eyes dip to my mouth.

  A shy smile spreads on my lips, and I nod.

  He lifts his hands and cups my cheeks.

  For a split second, just like when he held my hand, I’m astonished by how perfectly my jaw fits into his palms.

  He leans in and brushes his lower lip against mine softly as if asking permission. I reach up to his hair and run my fingers through his thick mane.

  A soft moan leaves his throat, and he hauls me to him.

  His mouth closes on mine, and my brain goes numb.

  But only my brain. The rest of my body lights up with a weird tingling—similar to the tiny explosions of the Pop Rocks candies Hope adores.

  Only, the sizzling sensations aren’t on my tongue but all over.

  Wyatt told me the truth. He must have longed to kiss me. Only granting free flow to a suppressed yearning can be this sigh-inducingly sweet and tormenting at the same time.

  I close my eyes and get lost in our mingling exhales, letting my mind savor the possibility that perhaps in ten years’ time, we’ll think back on this idiotic frat party theme and joke that it helped us find our magical match in each other.

  Chapter 13

  (Wyatt)

  I’ve just finished clearing off the table from my second morning snack when my doorbell chimes. My heart rate accelerates as I stride to the door.

  I know it will be Ellie outside on my porch because she called this morning to say that the air conditioning in her clinic broke down, and I’d proposed we hold today’s meeting at my house.

  I take a peek through my security camera and see Ellie, her back to the door, scanning my cul-de-sac. There’s a thick blue folder under her arm.

  I turn the lock as quietly as possible because I want to study her without her noticing my ogling.

  We’re through three therapy sessions so far, and unfortunately, the more time we spend together the more I feel like a comet imprisoned in a planet’s powerful gravitational pull. My thoughts swirl around Ellie even when we’re not together.

  Ellie doesn’t turn when I push the door ajar, so I allow my eyes to feast on the floaty, ankle-length dress she’s wearing. The seersucker fabric has a sunny color, and though the unstructured style looks as comfy as a tracksuit, it’s also hella hot by comparison. The fact that it doesn’t stick to her curves leaves much more room for the imagination.

  And I’ve got plenty of that with Ellie.

  My latest dream comes to mind, where I’m back in that storage room with Ellie’s body only inches away from mine, but with the small change, where I didn’t stop myself from hauling her close to me—but before my mind can continue down that slippery road, I shake my head.

  I must resist her magnetism.

  If I make one reckless move, something I was entirely too close to doing in that restaurant, Ellie will back out from our agreement.

  Then I can say goodbye to my training camp because Liam won’t have time to find me another therapist (not that I’d want anyone else). Coach Fielding will take my lack of adherence as a sign that I’m not to be trusted, and he’ll promote Jamal to my place.

  Besides my career, there’s another aspect at stake.

  Working with Ellie is my chance at rebuilding our friendship, and I don’t want to spoil that. I can’t imagine going back to a state where she ignores me. I didn’t realize how much I missed speaking to her, hearing her laugh, or even getting mocked by her, until we started this collaboration.

  I fill my lungs slowly to tame the warmth spreading in my belly at the sight of her.

  My whole life, I’ve trained myself to renounce things in order to obtain what I genuinely want. I can surely manage this yearning too.

  Suddenly, Ellie whips around. Her eyes widen when she sees me in the doorway, but then she smiles. “Good morning, Wyatt.” Her glance wanders to my shoulders, and her eyebrows lift. “What’s with the towel? Don’t tell me a tough warrior like you suffers from cervical pain?”

  My fingers fly to my neatly folded neck warmer.

  I should’ve ditched it before coming out. Oh, well.

  “Busted.” I grin at her. “I get cramps in my shoulders if my wet hair sticks to my nape, just like any other mortal.”

  Ellie lets out a theatrical sigh of relief. “It’s good to know you’re human. It gives me hope that I can help you.”

  Though her voice and facial expression are relaxed, I wonder whether she’s pretending some of her ease when she shifts her folder in front of her chest while continuing, “By the way, I’m sorry we couldn’t meet in the clinic. But, believe me, the place was like a sauna when I collected these files.” She pats the blue binder.

  “No problem. This way, I can give you a tour of my new house.”

  She waves her arm toward the buildings on my street. “I didn’t expect you to buy something in this neighborhood.”

  I arch my brows. “Ah, no? Then where?”

  She shrugs. “Not sure. But I thought if you ever got a place in Phoenix, it’d be in a posh high-rise downtown close to where Pete lives. Or if a villa, then definitely in Paradise Valley. But in Glendale? Isn’t this district too common for a superhero like yourself?”

  “I thought my neck warmer blew that image for good.” I give her what I hope is an attractive smirk, and she answers with a smile that warms my chest way more than my hot shower this morning. “In any case,” I continue, “don’t be fooled by the reputation athletes get. Even in Georgia, I don’t live in a trendy area but, instead, close to the stadium. My neighborhood is rather cookie-cutter, but my house has a giant backyard.”

  Ellie takes her folder into one hand and lowers it to her side. She brings her other hand to her chin, bending her head slightly to the side. “You, cookie cutter? Nah. I’m not buying it.”

  I chuckle at her disbelief. “I swear it’s true. But my district has a lot going for it. I can find fresh produce, locally roasted coffee, and even get a quick haircut within a five-minute walk of my place. Even if”—I brush my longish strands back with a hand—“I don’t make good use of that service.”

  Ellie studies me. “I like your hair long. I’ve always liked it.”

  “Really? My teammates say that my hairstyle would turn sweet milk to clabber.” I might be fishing for Ellie to admit she still finds me attractive.

  She doesn’t take my bait. “You’re in no need for me to boost your self-confidence. That’s an entirely different scope of therapy, one that our current contract doesn’t cover.”

  The door of my neighboring house opens, and Gretchen, the lady I met on my second day, steps out.

  Her head immediately turns to me and Ellie and she calls out, “Good morning, Wyatt! Good morning, pretty friend of Wyatt. Ain’t this a wonderful day?”

  Her pointy chin is jutted forward and her eyes glimmer, which I’ve come to recognize as her prying mode, so I quickly wave back to her and whisper to Ellie, “Let’s go inside, shall we?”

  Ellie nods and I lead her into the spacious hal
l that flows over into the dining room/open kitchen.

  Devon’s accountant had a passion for cooking, light wood, and classic workmanship. He’d opted for a restrained Shaker-style design for the cabinets that will probably never date. At the same time, he took the kitchen to the next level with a marble island that showcases a uniquely veined pattern in the stone.

  Ellie turns slowly in a circle, taking the place in.

  Her eyes flick to the terrace door, then the corridor, and then back to the entrance.

  I stifle a smile because I know exactly what she’s doing. She’s scanning the room for the best safety routes. Not that she feels threatened by being with me—or at least I hope she doesn’t—but it’s a habit of hers. Each time she enters a new, closed place, she checks the exit possibilities.

  I first noticed this typical ricocheting glance of hers back when she was still in high school, and I’d tormented her with questions until she admitted what she was doing. Her shy smile when she’d confided in me how she’d picked up this quirk is still all too vivid in my mind.

  During childhood, Devon had suffered from recurring bronchospasm. By the time Ellie and her brother moved to Kingman, Devon was over the worst of his disease. Still, it must have been pretty bad before, because my pal had been hospitalized several times in Washington.

  Ellie confessed that the first time Devon had such an attack was on a winter night. Her parents had thought she was asleep, but she wasn’t. Through the railing of their upper floor balcony, she’d watched the paramedics rush in to give Devon a cortisone shot before taking him to the hospital. She’d heard them chide her parents for not immediately taking her brother outside to the garden when he started wheezing. Apparently, cool, fresh air is one of the first action steps to take in such a situation.

  After that, Ellie had taken it upon herself to ensure that Devon would always have the quickest way to clean air.

  There are many things I admire about Ellie. Her love and care for her brother is one of them. Even if she ought to recognize that Devon is strong and healthy now and doesn’t need her protection anymore.

  “I love this interior. Luxurious yet understated.”

  Ellie’s chipper voice jars me out of my memories.

  She’s stacked her blue folder and bag on one of my black leather stools, and she’s standing beside the island where I’d left the plate and glass I used for my snack.

  “This beautiful marble pattern doesn’t need dripping dishes on it.” She picks up a cloth hanging by the sink and dries my dishes. She lifts them up and asks, “Where can I put these?”

  “Uhm, in that cupboard to the left,” I murmur. “But it’s really unnecessary that you…”

  Before I can finish my sentence, Ellie has already pivoted around and marched to said cupboard.

  As I study how she stashes away my dishes—she puts as much attention into finding the right spot for my plate as a clockmaker might use to regulate an expensive Swiss watch—a thought pops into my mind.

  Could Ellie’s yearning for neat physical surroundings also result from what she went through with Devon?

  I’d always thought that her love for cleanliness and symmetry was just a charming idiosyncrasy. It becomes more dominant when she’s nervous, yes, but I’d never connected it to her wish to establish control in her life.

  Ellie turns back to me.

  She seems unaware that I’m trying to do her job by psychoanalyzing her because she smiles. “Now, that’s better.” Then her eyes flick to the mini-Parthian hot water tap that sits beside the main, aged-brass tap. “What’s this?”

  “It’s an instant hot water dispenser,” I answer. “You get boiling temperature as soon as you open it. It’s a handy gadget for someone who drinks as much tea as I do.”

  It’s actually the only addition I asked the previous owner to install before signing my contract with him.

  “So, you still prefer a Sencha to an old-fashioned cup of Joe?” Her eyes round.

  “Sure I do.” I grin. “Those antioxidants are a must to recover quickly from muscle strain.”

  She smiles as if she appreciates finding out that I hadn’t changed as much as she’d thought.

  Eager to impress her a little further, I dart to my fridge and fetch a large cucumber and a lemon. I pull out a cutting board from a drawer and grab a knife.

  Ellie follows my movements with a suspicious glare. “What are you doing?”

  “Preparing us some refreshments before we start working. I know you prefer infused water to plain so—” My hands, which had already begun chopping the cucumber, freeze. My eyes drift to her face. “Or at least you used to. Uhm…do you still?”

  “Yes, but I actually have a bottle in my bag already. I can drink that.”

  “Oh, then I guess I’ll just…” I lower the knife.

  “You know what?” She smiles. “Mine is probably all warm. The ride to your house wasn’t short. I’d love a fresh one.”

  I’m not sure whether my clearly embarrassed tone changed her mind, but I don’t care. I’m glad to prepare a drink for her, especially her still-preferred one.

  After adding cool sparkling water and a few ice cubes, I hand her the glass, and our fingers brush against each other.

  My body is used to violent blows and swings. On the gridiron, I endure all degrees of pain, even excruciating pain, without a blink. Partially because a complete disregard for one’s well-being is admired in the NFL between players, but also because my personal levels of supporting agony are much higher than that of many others.

  Yet the tiny caress from Ellie’s skin jerks my arm.

  Some water spills on the counter, and a few droplets even reach her blue folder. I hurry to soak the moisture up with the rag.

  After Ellie finishes her drink, I propose we move out to my large patio. “It’s covered by the shade of various whitethorn acacias, so despite being outside, we won’t be too warm.”

  “Sure, wherever you prefer.” She picks up her bag and her folder.

  I leave the sliding glass door open so the AC’s breeze can cool us even further. We take a seat on the comfy outdoor sofa.

  “Today, I have another questionnaire for you,” Ellie announces. She pulls out a sheet from her binder and hands it to me.

  “Another one?” I pay attention to taking the paper without touching her. My body isn’t ready for another electric shock just yet. “I’ve completed at least three different ones.”

  Ellie places her elbows on the curved armrests. “I know, but we need to track your progress in each session.”

  I refrain from a joke that you can’t advance when you’re at the finish line. I might not need help in the anger department like my coaches and Ellie seem to think, but I sure as heck don’t want to skip our daily meetings. The last time I’d woken with as much excitement as I did these past three days was when I’d waited on my first roster game in college. That was during the period when I was still dating Ellie.

  I don’t know what to do with this random mental association my brain throws at me, so I decide to ignore it and instead scan the statements that are supposed to evaluate my state of serenity.

  I have to rate myself from one to ten on each item. I quickly circle the adequate answers to the first questions, but when I get to a specific phrase, I pause.

  “Which one’s causing you trouble?” Ellie asks, leaning closer.

  “This one.” I show her the question: Do you feel unreasonably tense?

  She furrows her brow. “Is it hard to answer?”

  “It is. I mean, there are moments, like when Rodriguez taunted me, when I snap, but other than that, I’m chill. So what shall I put? Three?”

  “Is three the most adequate number?”

  I point at her. “I know what you’re doing. It’s a trick to make me doubt what I just said.”

  She rolls her eyes. “No, it’s not. I’m just curious. Three seems a fairly low number. And during our past sessions, there were moments where you seemed rath
er restless.”

  Yeah, any moment where my body accidentally touched Ellie’s would qualify for that.

  I shake my head. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

  Ellie stands up. “Let’s try something new.” She walks over to an empty corner of my terrace and waves to me. “Come here. You can finish the questions later.”

  Puzzled but curious, I put down the papers on the sofa, straighten, and amble to her with arched brows. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Our first role play.”

  “That sounds exciting.” I flash her a lopsided grin.

  She ignores my teasing and continues in a professional tone, even if her cheeks blush slightly. “We’ll try to emulate a scenario that’ll help you decide where your current level of tension originates. I’ll give you instructions, and you’ll follow them. Ready?”

  “Yep, bring it on.” I grin.

  “Close your eyes and empty your mind. Focus only on my voice.”

  I follow her command, even if it’s hard to rid my brain of disturbing visions after the inkling view of her rosy cheeks. Despite my continuous inner pep-talk, my neurons continue to ignore that admiring Ellie’s beauty is off-limits.

  “Done,” I say after I bully the bulk of my inappropriate thoughts into my subconscious. “Now what?”

  “Now, I want you to imagine you’re a small, fluffy white rabbit.”

  My eyes spring open, and I can’t suppress a laugh.

  Ellie gives me a disapproving glance. “Just try it, okay?”

  “If I must be an animal, can’t you pick something more masculine? Like a panther or a tiger?”

  “Nope. This is how this exercise works. Shut your eyes, please.”

  Her kind but determined voice makes me smile. It’s a thrill to watch how her personality transposes into her job. “Fine, I won’t question your expertise,” I groan with feigned resignation.

  Ellie lets out a small snort, but I can’t see whether it’s an amused or irritated kind, because she puts her palm over my eyes, forcing me to obey her previous command.

  “You’re a rabbit hoping down the road,” she says in a slow, almost hypnotic voice while keeping her hand on my face. “The forest is big, and you don’t know where you are. You can feel all kinds of alluring smells, and one in particular attracts you to a murkier path.”