Lessons In Losing It (Study Abroad Book 4)

by Jessica Peterson

  Also by Jessica Peterson

  THE STUDY ABROAD SERIES

  By Jessica Peterson

  A Series of Sexy Interconnected Standalone Romances

  Spanish Lessons (Study Abroad, #1)

  Lessons in Gravity (Study Abroad, #2)

  Lessons in Letting Go (Study Abroad #3)

  Lessons in Losing It (Study Abroad #4)

  LESSONS IN LOSING IT

  A Study Abroad Novel

  By Jessica Peterson

  Published by Peterson Paperbacks, LLC

  Copyright 2017 Peterson Paperbacks, LLC

  Cover by Elizabeth Bank of Selestiele Designs

  ISBN: 978-0-9971613-6-6

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at jessicapauthor@jessicapeterson.com.

  All characters in this book are fiction and figments of the author’s imagination. Although the author very much wishes Fred’s abs and general adorableness were real.

  Editor: Kristin Anders

  Copyedits/Beta: Julianne Daly

  Cover Artist: Selestiele Designs

  Formatter: Formatting Fairies

  www.jessicapeterson.com

  Chapter 1

  Fred

  Madrid, Spain

  December

  It’s just after midnight, and the celebration is in full swing. Our squad captain’s swanky flat is bursting with people and noise and cigar smoke. The floor throbs in time to a catchy pop song; girls dance on a nearby table. One of them keeps looking at me.

  Well. Checking me out, really. Her eyes devour me from my legs up to my chest, but they stop there. She doesn’t bother to look any higher than my neck.

  I slip out of the hall and make a beeline for the (relative) safety of the kitchen. The euphoria of tonight’s win over our rival, Barcelona, is beginning to fade, and my knee is sore as fuck from the hit I took late in the match.

  Being ogled like just another footballer piece of meat is not doing wonders for my very real desire to get the hell out of here and read Harry Potter in bed. I recently picked up the series, and while it’s taken me a bit to get through the books—football keeps me quite busy these days—I bloody love that little wizard and his mates.

  I use the bottle opener on my key ring to pop the top off one of the beers I brought with me. I take a long, hard sip, wondering if it’s too early to pull a Houdini.

  I felt great on the pitch tonight. I helped the squad cinch a huge victory. I was on cloud nine, like I usually am when I’m playing footy.

  But now? Now I’m tired and sore as hell, and after a half dozen post-match interviews, my capacity for small talk is nonexistent.

  As a solid introvert, I prefer to recuperate, alone, after the craziness of a match day. Football is really the only thing that energizes me—it’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at—so I’ve practically lived and breathed the sport since I was fifteen.

  It’s not a bad gig. Not in the slightest. I may feel a bit out of place at these parties. I don’t have to be here, but showing up keeps our captain, the flashiest Frenchman to ever walk this Earth, happy, and it does boost morale to have the whole squad here. Overall, though, I love my job, and I’m fucking good at it. I get paid an obscene amount of money. Not that football’s ever been about the money for me, but it’s definitely a nice perk.

  Another girl wanders into the kitchen. She offers me a smirk before her eyes latch onto my crotch.

  “You are very big boy, yes?” she says in heavily accented English. “Big feet. Big hands. I bet you have the big everything.”

  “Uh…” I scratch the back of my head. “Thanks, I guess?”

  I mean, how the hell am I supposed to respond to that? As the only son of a single mother, I have a lot of respect for women. I’d never talk to a girl like this. Like she’s nothing more than a pretty hole I can stick it in whenever I feel like it.

  I suppose I’d like to be treated with a bit of respect myself.

  Sometimes I wonder if I’m ever going to find the sort of girl I’m looking for—the sort who’s genuinely interested in me and not my money or my body or my career. I’m looking for a girl who wants the same things I do.

  A girl who wants to get serious, maybe have a family someday. Not anytime soon, of course, but I like the idea of being in a relationship with forever potential. I know mum would love to see me with someone; she worries about me being so far from my family back in Germany. But I just can’t get excited about being with a girl like “big hands” Betty here.

  I murmur an apology to her and duck out of the kitchen. I head toward the living room, which just so happens to be one room closer to the nearest exit. I’ve been at this party for a couple of hours already; I’ve paid my dues. Time to go home.

  I hang out in the corner of the room and quickly drain the rest of my beer. I’m digging my keys out of my pocket when Rhys Maddox, one of my few friends on the squad and our resident golden-haired heartthrob, claps me on the shoulder. He nods at a group of girls, all of them pretty and smiling, across the room. “Ready to go say hello? Laura’s friends are lovely girls.”

  Laura is Rhys’s American girlfriend. She’s funny, she’s nice, and she’s really great for Rhys (even though he may not know it yet). Basically, she’s one of my favorite people on Earth.

  I’ve seen these girls before; they’re her American friends she’s studying abroad with in Madrid. I told Rhys earlier tonight that I’d introduce myself. Now I’m really regretting that decision. Hermione and Ron are calling my name, and my knee is killing me.

  Shit.

  “They’re pretty,” I say, feigning anxiety when really, I’m just impatient to get the fuck out of here already. “Really pretty. Forget it. I changed my mind. I can’t go talk to them, not right now.”

  I’m about to turn for the door, but Rhys tightens his grip on my shoulder, turning me back toward the girls.

  “Listen, mate,” he says. “If you can’t talk to girls after winning our most epic match yet, there’s something seriously wrong with you. C’mon.”

  With a sigh, I let Rhys steer me toward the girls. I just have to play nice for two minutes. Two minutes, and then I can go home.

  “Hi,” Laura says, smiling at us.

  Rhys smiles back, a big, dorky thing I’ve never seen on him before. “Feeling all right?”

  “Yes.” She turns to me. “Fred! I’m so glad you came over. The girls have been dying to meet you. This is my friend Vivian, and this”—she loops arms with a very pretty, dark-haired girl— “is Rachel, she really loves, uh, sports…”

  Meeting my eyes, Rachel smiles and holds out her hand. I’m struck by the friendliness of her smile. It’s a high-wattage, Julia-Roberts-style smile, but it’s somehow sincere, too. She meets my eyes as she takes my hand.

  “Hi, Fred,” she says. Her American accent dips a little, curls at the edges. “Nice to meet you. You looked really great out there tonight.”

  She gives my hand mine a firm, warm squeeze. My eyes flick down her body, back up again. She’s petite—I practically tower over her—with a hot little figure. If I were looking to take someone home tonight, she’d be just my type.

  Rachel drops my hand. I blink, mentally chastising myself for ogling her like a piece of meat.
I don’t like being looked at that way, and I doubt Rachel does, either.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I hope you enjoyed yourself.”

  “We froze our asses off, but it was worth it,” she says. “The energy in that stadium is ridiculous! It was so loud my ears are still ringing a little. Is it that loud on the field—the pitch, I mean?”

  “Oh, God, yes,” I say. “So loud you feel it in your chest. Other squads say it’s the toughest place to play when you’re on the road.”

  “You were really feeling some pain after that hit you took,” she says. “Let me guess—patellar dislocation?”

  I blink. How in the world would she guess that?

  “Yeah,” I say, slowly. “How’d you know?”

  “I was close enough to the field to see the physio perform the reduction.”

  I raise a brow at that word.

  She grins. “Means moving the knee cap back into place. Bet that hurt like hell.”

  “It wasn’t that bad,” I lie.

  “Hence the dramatic grimace and screaming,” she says, her grin deepening. She looks bloody pleased with herself for knowing just how much fucking pain I was in.

  Smart girl.

  I shove my hands in my pockets and bite back a smile. “You really know your medicine.”

  “Well. Trying to know, anyway.” She shrugs. “I’ve done some work with the women’s teams back at Meryton University—soccer, basketball. I saw a couple patellar dislocations last year on the court. If you don’t mind me asking, how is the physio going to rehab yours? I’m thinking RICE…”

  Her eyes, dark and intelligent, are on the hip in question.

  “RICE?” I ask.

  “Rest, ice, compression, elevation.”

  “Oh. Yeah—lots of that,” I say. I’m still a bit bewildered. I’ve never met a girl who knew so much about sports and sports medicine. I sort of adore it. “The physio also recommended a knee brace for the next couple months.”

  Rachel nods. “Makes sense. Once you experience a patellar dislocation, the chances of it happening again get higher. A brace will stabilize your knee and hopefully keep everything in place. Anything else she recommended?”

  “Just rest, like you said,” I reply. “Some ibuprofen to help with the swelling. That’s about it.”

  “Oh.” Her shoulders slump. “I was hoping she had some cool new rehab trick—something I hadn’t heard of. The sports medicine dork in me loves learning new stuff.”

  I shift my weight back onto my good knee. “Trust me, I was hoping for a cool trick, too. I wanted to keep playing!”

  “Right? Nothing worse than being sidelined.”

  “It’s bloody awful,” I say. My pulse is thumping, and I’m not quite sure why. “You play any football?”

  “Tennis, mostly, but I played a little bit of everything in high school—basketball, volleyball, soccer—sorry, football. I don’t play much anymore. But I love to watch, you know, as a spectator, and I’ve gotten really interested in the medical side of sports in the last couple years.”

  “Do you have a favorite?” I ask. “Sport, I mean.”

  “To play or to watch?”

  I’m grinning now, too. “Brilliant distinction. Both.”

  “Well, American football is definitely my favorite to watch,” she says. “But to play? I mean, if we’re considering all sports, real and imaginary, my favorite would obviously be Quidditch. I’d make a mean keeper, although I’d settle for being a chaser, too. If I had Nimbus 2000—oooh, or even a 2001, I’d gladly sell my soul to He Who Shall Not Be Named for one—I’m confident I could play any position, really.”

  I try not to stare at her. I cut a glance at the room instead, looking for Rhys. Am I being punked? Rachel is hitting on all my favorite things—wizards, sports, wizards in sports. I’ve got to be dreaming. This girl—this conversation—is almost too good to be true.

  “Wow,” Rachel is saying. “I’m being a huge nerd, aren’t I? Sorry—”

  “Seeker,” I blurt. “I’d be a seeker.”

  She pulls back. “Whoa. A seeker? Really? Someone’s a little full of themselves. I mean, do you really think you could beat out the Harry Potter for the position?”

  I straighten my collar. “I do indeed, Rachel. And I wouldn’t need the Nimbus 2001 to do it, either.”

  “Just as long as you had your knee brace,” she says.

  “Exactly,” I say, laughing. “No time for reductions on the Quidditch field, I’m afraid.”

  “Definitely not,” Rachel says, and now she’s laughing, too.

  The sound floods my ribcage with warmth. It’s not forced, her laugh, or fake. I’d know; I’m an expert at coaxing belly laughs from my niece Lilli (pro tip: the peek-a-boo game goes a long way with a nine-month-old).

  I have no idea what the fuck is going on, but I suddenly want to stay at this party more than I want to dive back into The Prisoner of Azkaban.

  I’m suddenly having more fun with a real person than I would with fictional ones.

  This is usually the point in the conversation when I’d excuse myself, pleading one of three vague, but believable, excuses—I’m fucking exhausted, I’ve got to go to [insert football-related activity here], or so sorry, but my mum and/or sister is calling me. My life is predictable enough that one of the three is usually true at any given time.

  But right now, I actually want to stick around. See what else Rachel has to say about…well, anything.

  I notice that sometime in the past few minutes, Rhys and Laura disappeared. Rachel’s other friends are gone, too. Can’t say I’m not glad to have her all to myself.

  “You know your sports medicine, and you know your Potter,” I say. I don’t know how it happened, but Rachel and I are suddenly standing close to each other. Very close.

  “I do,” she replies, tucking her long, shiny hair behind her ear. “I love anything with witches and vampires and forces of evil in it. Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, Tournament of Kings. I love them all.”

  “Yeah. Potter’s been big in Germany for a while now.”

  “That’s right, you’re German. Where in Germany are you from?”

  “The south. A town called Weilheim in Oberbyern. It’s in Bavaria. Best beer in the world there. I actually brought some bottles with me—want to grab one?” I ask, nodding my head toward the kitchen.

  Rachel looks at me. She appears as startled by the invitation as I am. I’m never this cool or forward with girls. With people. But it’s not every day I meet someone who’s as into sports and fantasy fiction as I am.

  “Yeah,” she says after a beat. “Yeah, I’d like that. Everyone here is drinking this fancy champagne—someone said it was the most expensive in the world? —but I’m more of a beer girl myself.”

  Jesus Christ, Rhys really must be punking me. Not only does Rachel like football and Quidditch—she likes beer, too? I mean, seriously, what the hell is going on tonight? I feel like I’m in the twilight zone.

  “Yeah, that’s our captain, Olivier Seydoux, for you. Only the best of the best for that bloke.” I glance back at her as we head for the kitchen. “So, you really like beer, huh?”

  “I do. My dad’s from Milwaukee, and my grandmother worked at one of the big breweries there. Needless to say, my beer education started at a young age. My high school friends thought it was so cool that my dad would let me have a beer with him when we watched college football—American football—on Saturdays.” She rolls her eyes. “I was so badass back then.”

  I reach inside the cabinet where I hid my stash and grab the last two beers. “You’re not badass anymore?”

  “Meh,” Rachel says with a shrug. She watches as I grab the key ring from my pocket and use the opener to pop the tops off the bottles. Her eyes linger on my hands. “Do you always carry a bottle opener with you?”

  I spear her with a look. “You don’t?”

  “I don’t. But!” She rummages around in her purse, and pulls out a pair of these little foam sleeve thi
ngs. “I do always have a couple of koozies on me.”

  “Koozies? What the hell are those?”

  “Watch and be amazed.” She slips the first foam sleeve onto one beer—it’s printed with white letters that read BATCAVE SPRING FORMAL 2016, MERYTON U—and then the second, emblazoned with a donkey’s ass and nothing else, on the other.

  “You see,” she says, handing me the one with the donkey ass, “it keeps the beer cold. Although we’re not drinking it cold, so I guess it would just keep the beer from getting too warm from our hands?” She scrunches her nose. “I don’t know. I guess it makes sense koozies wouldn’t be a thing in Europe. Still, the beer’s gotta be better than the champagne, right?”

  “Abso-fucking-lutely,” I say, and I mean it. I’ve never been one for the flash and excess my squad mates have embraced. That includes the champagne and thousand-euro-a-bottle cognac they like to drink. I’ve stuck to plain old beer, and I have no plans to change that.

  Appears Rachel doesn’t, either. I bloody love her down-to-earth attitude. There’s nothing fake or forced about it—a world away from the painted-on smiles of those other girls.

  “At the very least, these koozie things keep you from getting your bottle mixed up with someone else’s, yeah?” I offer.

  She laughs, crossing one leg over the other. Her body tilts toward mine, just a little, and suddenly the temperature in the room goes up a notch.

  “Yeah,” she says. “I’ll take it, mostly because I got to show off my koozie collection.” She holds out her beer. “Cheers, Fred. Congratulations on your win. And on your amazing theatrical performance, considering that patellar dislocation apparently didn’t hurt.”

  “Thanks. I worked quite hard to get my performance just right tonight,” I say, and now I’m laughing, too. Genuinely laughing. I give her a little bow, my fingers brushing hers as our bottles tap on my way up. A ribbon of heat unfurls inside my hand, moving up my arm.