by Alexis Anne
So instead I watched the rain, keenly aware that Roman was watching me. I didn’t know what to do. Should I look at him? Ignore him? Tie my shoe? My instinct was to watch the rain and pretend I didn’t see the way he was casually watching my every breath.
Then he moved and out of instinct I looked.
He glanced at his cell phone, grimaced, and shoved it in his bag.
I cocked an eyebrow.
He shrugged with the saddest look in his eyes and I had to wonder who was calling or texting that would put that look on his face when only a minute ago he’d been his usual, happy self. I didn’t like this new look. Not at all. In fact, I’d venture to say I hated it. There was wrong and then there was wrong. And even more interesting, I was fascinated by the all-consuming urge I had to erase it. As if it were my sole purpose to make him happy again.
He looked out at the rain, giving me a chance to study that look some more. He was fighting it. Trying to forget whatever it was. His shoulders rose and fell as he took long, deep breaths, but his lips remained thin and his eyes were still pinched.
“Bad news?” I finally asked when my curiosity became too much.
His jaw clenched and he cracked his neck. “Not really.” Even with his voice raised he didn’t sound like he was yelling. It was just his voice amplified.
“Well I’m sorry, whatever it is.”
My response surprised him. He blinked and his entire face softened. “Why do you think something’s wrong?”
Your eyes are all wrong. And that’s a crime against humanity. “You look upset.”
The pinch to his eyes dissolved and instead crinkled up in a smile.
A smile I put there.
“Maybe that’s just how I usually look. Haven’t you heard? The St. James are always angry.” He bounced his eyebrows.
“I don’t believe that for a second.”
“No?”
I shook my head.
“Well, I guess that means you don’t have horns hidden under your hair, either.”
I laughed.
He smiled and it was the most beautiful, genuine smile I’d ever seen. As if my laugh alone was the best thing he’d ever heard.
I hoped he’d make me laugh again so I could see that look again, too. “No horns. Maybe a tail . . . ”
“Really? I might have to see this to believe it. Pants, off!”
I laughed harder and his smile grew, his eyes lighting up and dancing. Oh yes . . .
And then the rain suddenly slowed to a soft pitter-patter. The lightning had moved off into the distance making the field wet, but safe for us to cross.
Except I didn’t want to leave and he didn’t seem to be moving either.
“Look, June—” His cell phone started blaring from his bag. He dropped his head between his shoulders. “Fuck.” Then he took a deep breath and grabbed the phone. “What?”
That horrible look was back, except this time it was more angry and less sad. His jaw clenched and unclenched as he listened to the voice on the other end—a voice that was so loud I could hear it, too.
“Get your motherfucking ass back to the gym. Now! You’re too slow. I want all your numbers up by the end of next week. How do you think you’re going to make it to the majors if you’re average? And right now, Roman, you are so fucking average. You are coasting on my name.”
I cringed. It was George. He was every bit the unforgiving asshole I’d been led to believe—and even witnessed in person a couple of times. Plus he was wrong. Dead wrong about Roman. He wasn’t average—not even close. He was easily the best third baseman in college baseball today. He led the team in homeruns and RBI’s—and he was only a junior. He still had an entire year to improve . . . not that he needed to.
“If I see another pathetic line drive I will personally come down there to run your practice.”
“Stop.” Roman ground out. “I don’t care what you think of my stats. This is my career. My team. You have no place here.”
“I’m calling Coach Williams as soon as we hang up. We’ll see what he thinks of your opinion.”
“Go ahead. It’s still my life.”
“Like hell it is. Your career is a reflection of me. That means you owe me your best effort. My son will not be a loser.”
“I’m leading the fucking SEC,” Roman said. “How is that average?”
Excellent point. I was proud of him for sticking up for himself.
“And you missed an easy out yesterday. And the game before that you let a grounder bounce right past you into the outfield. You’re lazy and you think you can get away with it because at the moment you’re the star of the team.”
Roman turned red and his hand clutched the phone so hard I was surprised it didn’t crumble.
“You can get laid all day long. Your professors can give you easy assignments. You might even get special treatment around town. But you know what? That all ends the moment they realize you’re not good enough.”
Was George worried about Roman or was he really putting his own misery on his son? It sounded a hell of a lot like George had issues with his own loss of fame and he was taking it out on Roman.
“This has been fun but I’ve got somewhere to be. Goodbye, Dad.” He mashed his phone and threw it into his bag.
I didn’t dare say a word. I wasn’t sure if Roman knew I could hear his father or not, but I certainly wasn’t going to make a really nasty situation worse. George was horrible. Beyond horrible. He made me sick.
And who spoke to their child like that? My parents were frustrated with my college choices but they respected the fact that they were my choices to make. George apparently thought his son’s career was also his.
“What classes are you taking?” Roman asked, his face completely blank as he stared out at the wet infield.
How could he ask me about my classes after a conversation like that? Why was he even still here? I wouldn’t have blamed him if he’d stormed off without saying goodbye. But the way he was sitting there, his hands squeezed into fists, his shoulders tensed up near his ears . . . maybe he needed to talk about something else.
So I rattled off my class list.
“How many more semesters do you have?” There was still nothing in his expression but his voice was steady and even. Sure it was a little rough, but I expected that.
“Well, hopping colleges and majors has set me back, but I’m kind of obsessive once I decide on something. I’ve been taking eighteen hours a semester until now. I’m only taking fourteen with this internship.” I was babbling, searching for a way to make him smile again. “I have two semesters left.”
And there it was—that glimmer of a smile I wanted to see so much. “You’re kind of adorable when you talk fast like that.” He glanced at me out of the corner of his eye.
I flushed.
Adorable?
“What? Umm . . . thanks.” And now I was flustered.
He chuckled. The sound was forced but genuine. “So you’re going to be an athletic trainer?” He sat back and relaxed, giving me his full attention.
“That’s the plan. I stumbled into a class on physical therapy and one thing led to another. I guess it should have been more obvious given the sports I’ve played and the people I grew up with, but it surprised me.”
“Why not become a surgeon, or a physical therapist, for that matter?”
“Well, PT is mostly helping someone recover. I was kind of bored . . . my mind kept going back to before the injury. What was their life before that? What could we have done to prevent the injury in the first place? My advisor asked if I had any interest in sports.”
“And of course you laughed.”
“Exactly. When I explained that I played competitive softball until college and who Dad was . . . well, she really thought I needed to give training a go. It was a perfect fit.”
“I’d say so. You’re my favorite trainer by far.” There was nothing but genuineness in his words.
“Thank you.” I didn’t know what els
e to say. It felt like so little in a void that demanded so much, but I was at a loss. In a weird way it felt a lot more like Roman and I had known each other for years instead of weeks, and that we should be able to talk about anything and everything under the sun. But we couldn’t because despite my completely uncalled for feelings, I didn’t know him and he didn’t know me. Not beyond our athlete-trainer relationship.
“You’re welcome.”
I let the silence settle between us because I was curious to see if it would get easier.
It didn’t.
And since it couldn’t possibly get any worse, I decided to see if Roman felt as comfortable with me as I felt with him. “So . . . that phone call sounded pretty awful.”
He grimaced. “You could hear it?”
“Some.” I lied.
“How does it feel to know your parents have totally valid concerns when it comes to our family?” He didn’t hide anything. Didn’t defend his situation or minimize what I’d heard with excuses.
He was so bluntly open it made me want to comfort him even though he didn’t ask for it.
“No one has clean hands in this war.”
“Now see, I’d almost believe you were lying about overhearing my phone call if you hadn’t already acknowledged that you knew it was my dad.”
“I’m simply admitting that my parents are far from perfect too.” Although they’d never, ever berate and belittle me.
“My dad is an asshole. There is no other way to put it.”
“I’m sorry.”
And now the silence was back. Roman stared at me, mouth hanging slightly open, blinking in complete surprise.
I hurried on to explain. “I’m sorry that you have to put up with that. It’s your life, not his.” Yes, his dad was a jerk and yes, I was sorry that he had to grow up with a father that wasn’t very nice, but mostly I was sorry that after all that, Roman was still having to listen to it.
“Huh.” He rubbed his face and looked away. “You get it, don’t you?”
“Get what?”
“That even though he’s not perfect, he’s my dad. Some days I hate his guts, but mostly . . . I can’t imagine my life without him.”
Everyone was flawed and there was no such thing as a perfect parent, but family was family. We fought for each other and put up with the crap because in the end, they were all we had. If I expected everyone in my life to be perfect I’d always be alone.
But then again . . . that didn’t mean I should put up with being hurt by the people I loved either. “I think that family is everything.”
He nodded and a sadness filled his eyes. “Exactly.” Then he stood, shouldering his bag. “Which is why it’s probably a good thing that we didn’t kiss at the party.”
This time it was my turn to stare at him with my mouth hanging open. “Kiss?”
And while there was still sadness in his eyes, there was also a very cocky grin on his lips. “Kiss. I was going to kiss you, and you were going to enjoy it.”
“Excuse me?” I sputtered shooting to my feet too.
“I want to kiss you right now but I won’t. You want to know why?”
No, I absolutely did not. “Yes!”
“Because,” he picked up the cooler and held it front of him like a shield, “if I did then we’d have to kiss again. And again, and again, because it would be amazing and there would be no stopping us. Don’t even try to deny it like you did on the bus. I know what happens to me when I’m around you and there is no way you don’t feel even a fraction of the same way. It’s too good.” He took one step toward me. “So to save us both from one hell of a bad ride, I’m going to walk away and never think of kissing your lips. If family is as important to you as it sounds, then nothing good will ever coming of kissing you.” He stepped back.
A thousand thoughts flew through my head, getting jumbled together, but one stood out bigger and louder than all the rest. “Why?”
“Because not kissing you is torture,” he tossed me the sexiest half-smile, “but only kissing you once would be absolute agony. If you stay safely on the Daniels side of this feud and I stay over here on the St. James side then we’ll both be fine. Just know that if things were different I’d be doing everything in my power to win you over.”
And with one last longing look, Roman walked across the field to the car parked at the curb, while I stood there in complete and total shock.
Roman didn’t just want to kiss me. He wanted more.
12
Present Day, Las Vegas
T wo weeks had passed since the night at the bar and I hadn’t seen Roman once. I was relieved. No, really. I was. I swear I was.
Okay that’s not totally true. I was relieved, but I was also disappointed. The spark was still there and it was damn near impossible to ignore. There were a million and one reasons to run in the opposite direction if I should ever see him again.
But there was this one, glaring, body-consuming, mind-altering reason to hunt him down and have that coffee he was so interested in drinking.
“We’ve been invited to the Aim For Athletics Rehabilitation dinner tonight,” Carrie murmured as we went over our schedule for the Sports Medicine in Action Conference we were attending in Las Vegas.
“Free food? Yes, please.”
She frowned as she looked at the invitation. “I was wait-listed for this. I guess we managed to get tickets after all.”
“What is it exactly?” I switched sheets with her and started skimming our workshops for the next day. It was a quick conference. Two days and then we were on a plane home.
“AAR is that new organization I was telling you about. The one that helps injured athletes recover and start over.”
I knew first hand how many people laughed when I talked about the difficulty athletes had when dealing with career-ending injuries. Oh, the rich and famous guy is having a hard time? But the reality was something else entirely. These were elite athletes who had been groomed since childhood to do one thing. Most of them had given their entire lives to the sport. Families pinned their hopes and dreams on these men and women.
And when their careers suddenly ended because their bodies failed them, it was a shock. There were emotional and physical consequences that needed to be dealt with and very few resources set up to help.
“I’m excited,” I said. “This is right up my alley.”
She smiled. “I know. That was why I wanted the tickets. Sure, I’m interested, but this is exactly what you want to do.”
For so many reasons. “What do we know about them?”
She shrugged. “They just moved from the fundraising stage to building a facility . . . I think.” She pulled something up on her phone and handed it to me. “There. That’s what I know.”
I skimmed the “About Us” page on the AAR website. “Nice. They have a state-of-the-art facility opening in St. Pete. It’s our backyard.” I’m not afraid to admit my pulse kicked up a little. A facility specializing in exactly what I’d considered doing for years, on the beach, in my town? Another couple of years with the Rays and maybe I could transition into private practice. Maybe even there.
“I wonder if they need an orthopedic surgeon.” She glanced over my shoulder and then clicked on the Careers link. “Hey look! They’re hiring athletic trainers. You should apply.”
“I have a job.” And yet I clicked on the job to open up the details. It was a decent salary.
“And you work crazy hours,” Carrie argued. “C’mon. You can’t tell me you aren’t even a little bit interested.”
I clicked back to the “About Us” page. “I’m curious but I also love working for the team. It’s . . . well it’s exciting.” And sometimes it was insanely boring, long hours, lots of travel, and a bunch of really stressed out, grumpy men who were scared they might be too hurt to play.
I scanned the paragraph about how the company was founded. It was vague at best. Our aim is to help elite athletes transition from injury to future opportunities benefiting
themselves and their communities.
But who ran the company? What drove them? Was it a genuine interest or just for the money? Maybe I’d find out more at dinner. These events could be nothing more than a bunch of rich backers having a cocktail hour, or a series of interminable speakers, or anything in between.
Carrie took back her phone and tossed it onto the bed. “Let’s get dressed up for this dinner. I’m feeling saucy tonight,” she said as she whipped out a sexy black cocktail dress.
“Saucy or horny? That’s your one-night-stand dress.”
“When in Vegas . . . ” she giggled as she slammed the door and locked me out of her room.
An hour later I was sipping wine in our shared living space when she finally emerged looking like sex on heels. Carrie at work was usually no-nonsense business, but Carrie outside of work was very different.
The blond hair was down and stick straight, showing off the natural variations in her hair color, her makeup was heavy, but still gorgeous, and her dress was, as I’d said before, one-night-stand material. From the front it looked almost conservative. The neckline sat right at her collarbone. It had long sleeves. Sure, it fit her like a glove all the way down to her knees, but she wasn’t showing any skin.
Until she turned around.
There wasn’t much to the back of her dress and it left absolutely no question as to whether she was wearing a bra.
“You look fantastic, doc.”
“Don’t call me that for the rest of the night.”
I smirked. “Should we use the same code word as last time?” Four months ago we’d been at a conference in Orlando and used the code word “pearl” to indicate a need for help.
“Sounds good to me. You look very nice, June. Well done.”
I struck a pose in my wine colored dress and black heels. It showed off my breasts in just the right way to be sexy, but not overly distracting. “Let’s do this.”
The minute we arrived at the restaurant I knew something was off. I didn’t know how, and I didn’t know why, but something wasn’t right. Call it a sixth sense, if you will. There was something in the air . . . it was buzzing with a tense energy.