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

by Agnes Canestri

  The surface has an ethereal green glow by day, but right now it plays in a deep lilac. The night lights glimmer on the waves and cast an engrossing play on Wyatt’s cheeks. Their mesmerizing movements must be the reason I can’t seem to take my eyes off him.

  The lump that got lodged in my throat after his weird comment about his memories grows more prominent as I study him. I always assumed that Wyatt had erased me from his thoughts to focus on what he truly cared about—his career.

  Does it mean something that he didn’t?

  Wyatt stuffs the last bit of his cone into his mouth and, after swallowing, closes his eyes and raises his face toward the sky. “It might be those extra degrees here, but in Georgia, I never take this much pleasure from a whiff of air.”

  “That could be a great reason to move back home,” I say before my brain registers what came out of my mouth.

  He opens his eyes, and they fly to me. “My presence is growing on you, huh?”

  Did I just suggest he should live here again? What’s wrong with me? “I’m sure Devon would be glad if you were around more.” I hope my casual tone can make up for my glitch.

  He flashes me a grin, but after a second, his expression grows serious. “It’d have other benefits too. I’d be closer to my mother.”

  My eyes widen and unease grips my stomach. “Is your mom unwell?”

  My mother is close to Wyatt’s mom, Cristina. They even chair that curious Mysteries and More Book Club together. If Cristina were sick, Mom would have surely mentioned it, no?

  Wyatt’s jaw tightens. “She’s fine. She strained her ankle last week when going to church, but that’s not why I’d like to be nearer to her.”

  “Then, why?”

  “Because of my dad.”

  His tone is loaded, like an over-packed suitcase, but a small tilt in his voice when he mentions his dad makes me think it’s about to burst.

  “Your dad? Hasn’t he been off the radar for over a decade?” I prompt.

  His nostrils flare. “Yeah, but not anymore.”

  So that’s what’s brewing in him. I arch my brows. “And that’s a bad thing?”

  “The worst,” Wyatt murmurs.

  I always thought Wyatt and his father were just too different and that’s why they didn’t get along, but the pain in Wyatt’s features is a clear sign that I was wrong.

  I put a hand on his shoulder and peer up at him. “Do you want to tell me why?”

  He glares at me, but I’m not sure he sees my face. His eyes are glazed over as he speaks. “My dad was a terrible father and husband. The only thing he excelled at was guzzling an impossible amount of booze incredibly fast. Vodka, gin, tequila, whatever he could buy cheap.”

  My eyes widen, and I gasp. “Oh, Wyatt, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

  A day when my father and I met Mason Harrison in the grocery store in Kingman pops into my mind. My dad had joked with Wyatt’s father about the substantial amount of liquor bottles in his cart. Mason had waved dismissively and chuckled, “In Arizona, we salt margaritas, not sidewalks.” My dad had laughed it off, and we’d walked on to buy the cinnamon sugar Mom needed for her special Halloween cookies.

  After Wyatt’s revelation, this memory gains a whole new significance.

  “Don’t beat yourself up about it.” Wyatt gives out a bitter snort. “My dad’s a great actor. At least when he’s with others. Nobody knew he was a drunkard at home.”

  So not even my brother knew of Wyatt’s dad’s addiction. That figures, since he’s never mentioned anything about it to me.

  “When did your dad reappear?”

  “He called me some time ago. Out of the blue. After years of absence.” His words are raspy as if uttering them cost him a great effort.

  A suspicion settles in my chest. “When was that some time ago? I mean precisely?”

  Wyatt levels my gaze. “He called me during that OTA. Just before I punched Rodriguez.”

  My mouth opens, but Wyatt holds up his hand.

  “I’ve already identified the connection between my jab and my dad. You’ve been right, Ellie. I’m still angry. Angry at him.” His fingers slowly roll into fists.

  My heart swells, because even though Wyatt is still battling with rage, he’s unearthed the true reason for his frustration. “I’m so proud of you.”

  His brows round. “You are?”

  “Of course. Recognizing the real motivation behind an action is great progress. But uncovering a long-suppressed wound is major.”

  “Yeah, I guess it is…”

  I stare at Wyatt’s white knuckles, and his reaction to his first role-playing exercise pops into my mind. “Was your dad ever…you know, violent?”

  He shrugs. “When he was wasted and got mad, things sometimes turned ugly, yes.”

  “Has your dad ever hit your mom?”

  I try to control the horrified edge in my voice, but it creeps into my tone all the same.

  Wyatt shakes his head. “No. He wasn’t violent in that sense. He used his belt as a tool to teach discipline. Of course, it sounded more like ‘d’scibl’n’ in his intoxicated mumbling. My mom was always attentive to his needs, even when he behaved like a jerk. I, on the other hand, wasn’t obedient. And I often insulted him for his drunk habits.”

  I draw in a deep breath because Wyatt’s confession crushes my lungs into an iron corset, and I need to ease it up. “It’s always wrong to abuse a child, no matter the motivation behind it. Why didn’t your mom get any help?”

  Wyatt sighs. “Don’t blame her, please. She loved my dad despite his vices. Whenever she could, she held him back. She truly believed that it was the booze that turned him into a beast.”

  “Was that true?”

  He lifts and drops his shoulders. “Not sure. I don’t remember him clean. In most of my memories he’s either sobering up, or he’s fully-loaded. The withdrawal made him more on edge than anything else.” He clicks his tongue, and his gaze wanders to the water. “Mom always said that, deep down, my father loved us, and he’d change once he sobered up. Of course, he never got to that point. He was still a drunk when he walked out on her.” He shakes his head. “It should’ve been the other way around.”

  “What did your father want when you spoke?”

  He shakes his head. “We didn’t. I never answered him. But based on the texts he kept sending me, and on the call he made to my mother today, he’s found the light.”

  “He called your mom too?”

  “Yeah. And she was stupid enough to answer him. Even listened to him depicting his hogwash metamorphosis for thirty minutes.”

  “Do you think your dad is lying about his transformation?”

  Wyatt gives me a cynical look. “I don’t believe for a minute that he’s changed. And even if he did, I don’t care.”

  Despite the traumatic past he’s just revealed to me, I doubt the truth of Wyatt’s last statement. I think he cares about what his father does. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have unleashed his bottled-up emotions on another player after his father contacted him.

  Wyatt is stuck with his grudge, and it does him no good. It’s putting his career in jeopardy and probably affects more parts of his life than he’s aware of.

  Also, perhaps Mason Harrison changed. If Wyatt could see and accept his father’s metamorphosis, then he could let go of the ghosts haunting him.

  But I’m not sure Wyatt is ready to hear any of this yet, and I can’t push him into anything he isn’t prepared to face.

  What I can do is to explore his beliefs a bit more.

  I smile at him. “Do you want to talk about why you think you don’t care?”

  Wyatt shakes his head. “It’s Friday, Ellie. Your work is over for this week.”

  “On Monday then.”

  He sighs. “Sure.” Then his strained expression softens, and a raw glint invades his eyes. “You know…” His glance dips briefly to my lips before he continues, “If we’re talking about true triggers, then I’ve got
a confession to make. If I were to move home—”

  A shrill quack interrupts him.

  We snap our heads toward a bush where the sound came from. A mother goose, followed by a bunch of baby geese, toddles out from the leaves. They march over to the other side of the island, quacking loudly, and jump into the water.

  I glance back at Wyatt. “What did you want to say?”

  He clears his throat. “Nothing. Just that there are many other reasons I could move home.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like reconnecting with my roots. I didn’t realize how much I missed being with the people I care about.”

  I will see nothing in his statement.

  “Yeah, like Devon and Pete,” I say lightly.

  “…and you,” he adds with a rough edge that soothes and burns at the same time. The air almost crackles around us as we stare into each other’s eyes.

  Okay, this one is hard not to misinterpret. And even harder to ignore the wildly galloping beats it unleashes in my chest.

  “What do—” I break off. If I give into my curiosity, I’ll go down a treacherous path.

  First, I’m his therapist, which is already a big no-no for the feelings currently brewing in my chest.

  Second…it’s Wyatt, for crying out loud. I know the effect he can have on me. Even now, just looking into his eyes, I feel like I’m floating on some kind of balloon. If I let my guard down, I’ll slip.

  And I can’t do that with him.

  Not again.

  I turn away from him and scan the landscape for some detail to which I can redirect our conversation. My eyes land on a group of young boys on the other side of the bridge. They’re throwing a football.

  I point at the kids. “Are they playing that catch’em-something game you and Dev used to spend hours practicing in our backyard?”

  Wyatt takes a second to answer, as if he needs time to refocus his mind. “Pick’em up Bust’em, you mean?” He squints, studying the boys, then shakes his head. “Nope. That’s an every-man-for-himself setup, but half of these kiddos are shirtless while the others have their polos on, so they’re teamed up.”

  I’d kind of deduced this on my own, but I figured, what better topic to distract Wyatt from our previous conversation than his one and only passion?

  I stare at the children and try to think of some other bogus question. I’m afraid if we stay in silence long enough, that charged atmosphere will come back.

  A swishing sound cuts through the air.

  I glance up, and the kids’ ball is flying right in my direction.

  My mind launches to calculate its trajectory. Is my best chance of avoiding the hit to duck or to move?

  Before I can decide, Wyatt jumps forward and into the air. He seizes the football with the ease of someone catching a pack of potato chips and lands back on his feet.

  My shoulders relax. “Ah, goodness. I already saw myself with a nasty concussion.” I touch his arm. “Thank you.”

  “My pleasure,” he answers, then his glance moves to where my fingers engulf his biceps. His eyes flick to mine, and heat seeps into his gaze.

  I withdraw my fingers, realizing that with my touch, I’d not only re-conjured that previously loaded air between us, but I’d multiplied its intensity by a dozen.

  A yell echoes around us.

  “Did you see that catch? I told you it was him. That’s Wyatt Harrison.”

  “Uh oh,” I smile at Wyatt, “your cover is blown.”

  He grins back. “I think you’re right. I should’ve worn my baseball cap.” But he doesn’t seem displeased that the kiddos spotted him.

  Ten pairs of feet rumble on the thin red bridge leading to the small island we’re on, and in a second, the boys encircle us. They shout excitedly, cutting into each other’s sentences.

  “What are you doing here, Mr. Harrison? Are you on holiday?” a boy with slicked-back bangs asks.

  Wyatt smiles at them, nodding. “Sort of, yes.”

  “Mr. Harrison, can you sign my T-shirt?” A kid with red curls and skin as white as a porcelain doll takes off his polo and shoves in front of Wyatt.

  The blond, lanky chap who threw the ball to us taps on this boy’s naked back, and his slap reverberates around us. “You’re stupid, Oliver. Not your lousy shirt. Let’s ask him to sign our ball.”

  “Yeah!” the others chime in a chorus.

  The blond kid moves his gaze up to Wyatt, and there’s sheer admiration glimmering in his eyes. “Would you do it, sir?”

  Wyatt grins. “Of course. I can sign whatever you want. Only I’ve got no pen.”

  He blinks at me, but I shake my head.

  “Here’s one,” Oliver exclaims triumphantly and pulls out an orange pen with a black tip from his shorts’ back pocket. He hands the pen to Wyatt, then throws a disdaining glance at his blond mate. “Who’s the stupid one now, Max?”

  Max rolls his eyes and chuckles. Oliver must accept this as an excuse because he giggles with him.

  Wyatt scribbles his signature on the brown leather, and I can’t help but notice that his handwriting hasn’t changed one bit since he left college.

  To forget him, I’d convinced myself that Wyatt was bound to become an arrogant superstar blinded by his fame and wealth. However, as far as I’ve seen in these past days, he’s still the same down-to-earth guy I fell for. Very little has changed about the core of his personality.

  Maybe that’s why I have such a hard time keeping an emotional distance from him?

  “Mr. Harrison,” Oliver, clearly the spokesperson of the group after his success with the pen, says, “would you join us for a quick game? It would be an honor to throw the ball with you.”

  Wyatt shakes his head. “Sorry, pals, I can’t. On any other evening, I’d love to, but tonight I have company.” He points at me with a regretful smile.

  I can’t bear to watch the disappointment on the children’s faces. They all look like someone announced to them that there won’t be any Christmases and summer holidays for the next ten years.

  I place my hand on Wyatt’s shoulder. “I’d be thrilled to watch you play with the kids.”

  Wyatt’s brows arch as if he doubts my statement. “But you don’t like football…”

  “Maybe I’m changing my mind.” I smile.

  His lips curl up too. “Okay, then.” He gives the boys a conspiratorial smirk. “One game.”

  The boys break out in a hurrah and clap hands with each other.

  “You’re my all-time favorite quarterback. How can you release so fast?” Max asks Wyatt as we all march toward the bridge.

  “If a quarterback doesn’t have exceptional arm strength—and mine is good but not the best—then he’d better have a quick release.” Wyatt smiles at the boy.

  “I find releasing quickly so hard.” Oliver scratches his red curls. “That’s why the others don’t let me play QB ever.”

  “Nah,” one of the sturdier boys interjects, “it’s because you can’t take a hit. Quarterbacks need to have the courage to take a hard jab, right, Mr. Harrison?”

  Wyatt chuckles. “Just call me Wyatt. And, yes, we cope with constant harassment from the defense. We must hold our grounds in the pocket and keep the ball until the last split second, knowing we’re going to be tackled the instant we release the ball.”

  Oliver sucks in a breath, and his bony shoulders drop. “I see.”

  Wyatt pats his head. “Don’t worry, Oliver, I’ll show you some tricks about how to resist pressure on the field, ’kay? Also, don’t forget, though great release is an ability you’re born with, your skills can get better if you keep practicing them. Throwing a football isn’t a natural arm movement like slinging your arm to roll a bowling ball, but it can be trained.”

  The boy’s face illuminates, which makes my chest warm.

  Wyatt has a special gift with kids I’ve never noticed. Though I entertained fantasies in the past about a future with Wyatt, I never really pictured him as a father. Now, for the
first time, I realize he could be a terrific dad.

  As we reach the clearance where the boys previously played, I settle under a palm tree to watch, while Wyatt and the boys stop in the middle of the grassy area to discuss the rules.

  “Since we sum up to an odd number,” Wyatt explains to the kids who are drinking in every word as if he were a god descended on Earth, “I’ll play as the all-time quarterback while y’all can switch positions. I won’t run past the scrimmage line. Because of the field size, we’ll start with a punt-off instead of a kick-off. Let’s stick to the shirts versus skins system to distinguish the teams.”

  Wyatt seems utterly at ease while he explains how they can best set up the game. His voice is cheerful, and his eyes glisten with a never-seen awe.

  Is this how football makes him feel?

  Now, I can understand why he dedicated his life to it.

  “Whose team will you be on?” Oliver inquires.

  The hopeful edge of his voice must melt Wyatt’s heart as much as mine because he replies with a friendly smile. “I’ll start with yours, then at halftime, I’ll switch sides so I can play with all of you.”

  Wyatt detaches his baseball cap from his belt and throws it to the ground. Then he grabs his white polo shirt and slips it over his neck.

  A loud gasp escapes from my throat.

  Luckily, Wyatt is too distracted chatting with the boys to hear me.

  I fan my face as the heat in my cheeks grows unbearable. It’s almost like the moon has abruptly acquired the sun’s blazing power. I knew that constant training had to chisel his muscles, but I didn’t expect Wyatt to look this…uhm unsettling and…hot without a shirt. His abs are carved out of marble, and his pectorals are beyond expression.

  The kids and Wyatt scurry into position to start their game.

  Just before the ball is launched, Oliver exclaims, “The guys at school won’t believe me when I tell them I played with Wyatt Harrison.”

  “After the game, we’ll all take a selfie together,” Wyatt says.

  Oliver’s cheeks press his eyes into two curly lines as he shouts, “Yippie!” and the others cheer as well.

  As in regular American football, they play until each team has four downs per series. Wyatt counts the points loudly and inserts a pause when needed to correct the boys or give them suggestions on how to do better next time.