GRIND

by MEGAN MATTHEWS

  “What position does he play?”

  Position? There are designated names for people who run after a ball on a grassy field? I researched Ryland, but it looks like I need to hit the Internet again and do my research on soccer if he plans to continue with these types of questions.

  “In my fantasies?” I ask for the sole purpose of goading him.

  It works. Ryland tilts his head, shaking it at me with disbelief. “No. On the field.”

  Damn. He would ask questions bound to reveal the extent of my sports knowledge. None. Rather than admit I’m clueless, I respond with the first position to pop in my head that isn’t quarterback. That’s a football term and I’m almost positive they aren’t included in soccer. “Running back.” Why can’t I remember at least what position he plays. The few soccer facts I read are jumbled together.

  His head continues to shake at my enthusiastic, but apparently wrong answer. “While technically a football term, it’s the wrong football in this case.”

  “There’s more than one kind of football?”

  “Oh, Marissa.” He sighs and takes another drink of his water. “You have so much to learn, young grasshopper.”

  It’s not hard to tell he’s ruffled by my lack of knowledge for a sport he loves, but he doesn’t let it show as he explains the rules of the game. I try hard to listen and commit things to memory this time. When I’m not distracted by his short beard of stubble or the muscles. The flexing muscles with each of his movements is alluring, but I catch a few words from his pretty mouth.

  Ryland’s bold personality is one I could fall in love with. He’s patient and kind. I’d get lost in him until there’d be nothing left of myself on the outside. I slipped into that with Cody. I let myself believe there wasn’t a future without him in it and look how that ended for me. I’d rather not repeat the mistake a second time. My heart and brain need to stay far away from Ryland Bates.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Another day begins and ends with a ride in Ryland’s elevator. Except today I’m curious. Can I expect the abs to be on display? More yoga with his butt high in the air? Or maybe I'll find him in lederhosen dancing a jig. The endless possibilities raise my lips into a smile as the elevator doors slide open to reveal his white walled hallway.

  “You’re back early.” A female voice stops me in my tracks.

  I hesitate, but whoever the woman is doesn’t seem to notice as she keeps talking to a person she can’t see. “There are a few things left, but I'm almost finished.”

  With a straight back and sure crutches, I walk down the hallway with deep breaths to prepare for whatever I’ll find.

  The end of the hallway approaches and I stop at the edge. A tall woman in a light blue baby doll t-shirt leans over Ryland’s kitchen island counter wiping the surface down with a dishtowel. Her long blonde hair falls in front of her, obscuring my view of her face, but I bet she’s gorgeous.

  She looks up and shocked green eyes stare at me. Yup a knockout. “Can I help you?” She examines me from top to bottom and her eyebrows raise with recognition. “Oh, you must be Marissa.”

  “I must.” Avoiding eye contact, I continue toward Ryland’s door ready to escape my worst nightmare. Of course Ryland went back on his word. I'm not surprised. All the shit he said about not wanting another woman in his condo was just that… shit. This is why I hate men. Why did I allow myself to believe his half-hearted words?

  Unaware of my internal freak out, she throws the dish towel behind her. It lands in the sink with a wet squish. “Ryland told me you might come home at this time. Do you need any help?”

  “Help? No, um, thanks.” She can’t fix what’s breaking in my chest.

  “I just…the crutches” She looks pointedly to the objects in question.

  Guilt begins to form in the back of my conscience. I’m not a horrible person. It’s not her fault I recently admitted a crush on her boyfriend… or fuck buddy…… or whatever she is.

  I mentally wave a hand to erase those thoughts. It’s not a crush. I merely like to see Ryland without his shirt on. Who could blame me? Ninety percent of the female population feels the same.

  “Trust me, I’m much better with these than I used to be.” I stick a crutch out and don’t mention it’s thanks to the practice Ryland made me do Monday.

  I start toward the door again, but she speed walks in front of me and opens it before I get there. It’s a thoughtful gesture and annoys me. Did she need to be nice and pretty?

  “Okay, well if you change your mind about needing anything let me know. I’ll finish the bathroom and run the dishwasher before I leave. I try to be out of the way before a client comes home.”

  I stare at her in question as I shuffle my way out of Ryland’s apartment. Client? What kind of sick shit’s going on in there? Realization hits me halfway across the hallway, but Ryland’s housekeeper’s already closed the door behind me.

  Housekeeper. I slap a hand to my forehead at my own stupidity. Why would I jump to the worst conclusion possible? Oh right, that senseless crush I’ve developed on the giant and my previous history with men. I’m a walking definition of a crazy woman.

  My purse almost slides off the side of the breakfast bar from the force I toss it with. Even though she’s the housekeeper, I’m still tense from the exchange at Ryland’s. Unreleased adrenaline or something. I haven’t decided why yet, but it’s all his fault. I mean why wouldn’t he warn me in advance?

  Although while I’m angry with him, I need to direct a bit toward myself for being upset at all. Who am I to get freaked out even if Ryland had a woman over? I’m no one special to him.

  I leave my crutches on the side of the couch, grab the remote and lay on the tan cushions, fluffing a pillow under my head. I realize I’m behaving like a crazy person. If I’d remained blissfully unaware, I’d carry on as if nothing was wrong. But now that I’ve labeled and claimed the crazy, I’m forced to try and stop it. Most importantly, I cannot for any reason allow Ryland to figure out my feelings toward him. Jumping in the sack with him would be fun for a night, but I wouldn't be smiling a few days later when I ran into his newest conquest.

  A few calming breaths later, I flip on the television and turn it to a continuous music channel. I only need to survive for however long Ryland’s here — a week, maybe two at most — and then I’ll be back to my crutch-free lifestyle filled with flights of stairs. Before long Ryland will find himself a new soccer team, wherever they have those things. Probably England. Or South America. Soccer’s big there, right?

  Regardless, he’ll be gone and my heart will be intact. Said heart speeds up at the thought of Ryland leaving, but I’ll thank myself later. My thighs can’t handle anymore Ben & Jerry’s therapy.

  I scroll up another three channels to find one devoted to classic rock and turn it way up. As far as the TV lets me. The sounds shoot from the speakers and lose clarity at this volume. My skin vibrates in beat to the drummer, so I reluctantly reduce it a few decibels.

  It’s not near nine so I’m not breaking one of Ryland’s ludicrous rules, but it feels daring and wrong. Which I like. An electric guitar solo starts and I smile, allowing the beat to saturate me. Let’s see Ryland do yoga to this. Acceptable payback for making me develop feelings for him? Yes.

  I unwrap the bandage from around my ankle allowing the skin to breathe as the doctor suggested and prop it up on the edge of the couch. The deep purple bruising has begun to fade into a slightly less disturbing color. Well, if you consider green to be better.

  Content to enjoy my loud music, I lie back, close my eyes and wait to get lost in the beat. At some point I’ll get up and feed myself, but until then this couch time is my plan for the night. The song switches and my eyelids feel heavier and heavier as I become more relaxed and sleep starts to take over.

  “What the fuck?” My calm evaporates in a rush as a pillow lands on my stomach bouncing to the floor. I tense springing my eyes open as my foot connects with the end of the couch. “Oh shit.�
�� I sit up and reach for it, my eyes watering from the stabbing pain.

  “Oh my god. I’m so sorry, Marissa I didn’t think you’d freak out." Aspen, my perpetrator, races to my side, concern etched on her face.

  Once my tears are in check and I’m sure I won’t cry, I unclench my teeth and prop my swollen foot on the coffee table. Turning the music down, I finally respond, “It's fine, but what hell are you doing here?”

  “I brought dinner.” Her brown eyes sparkle with more than she’s telling.

  “And?”

  She picks up two brown sacks from the breakfast bar and walks with them to the coffee table. “Fine. I brought you dinner and came to get the gossip.”

  “What gossip?” I missed girl brunch on Sunday, but she would have texted me if anything good happened.

  “Well for starters. You listen to rock when you’re in a heavy thinking period.” Damn, my best friend knows me too well. "You could start with that, but I also want to know why the door was unlocked, how you almost broke your ankle, and why you didn’t need my help when it happened.”

  I open my mouth to answer but close it again, not sure where I should begin.

  Aspen pulls a long submarine sandwich from one of the bags and cocks her head at me raising both her eyebrows. “And don’t try to pull anything over my head. I’ll know if you're lying. I also know Ryland was here Sunday and Monday ‘helping’ you.” She makes air quotes around helping and winks. "So don’t think you can avoid that one either.”

  I shrug and peel off the top of my sandwich to check, but it’s perfect. Turkey, cheese, lettuce, cucumber, tomato, and pickles with light mayo. “I forgot to lock the door. You need a code to get up here.” I remind her of the keypad locking the stairwell entrance, but I do not admit since Ryland leaves his unlocked for me every morning I’ve started to do the same for him.

  “Well, be careful. It’s not a good habit to get into. Think of what Ben would say.” She sounds identical to her overprotective brother. Pen blames his behavior on his job as a San Francisco police detective, but as her only family member and an older brother, he’d be overprotective regardless.

  “Why aren’t there any cucumbers on your sandwich?” We’ve ordered the same subs since college.

  She chews her bite and swallows before answering. “Oh. I’m not eating cucumbers anymore.” She shakes her head before I press for more information. "Don’t ask. Seriously.”

  A part of me wants to continue with this line of questioning, but I decide to move on and get her inquisition over with. I update Aspen on my almost fall down a flight of stairs, but leave out the reason for my distraction. The crush on Scott lasted a hot minute, there’s no need for us to analyze it to death. And she will. Aspen’s bound to see it as a sign I’m ready to enter the dating field full time. I disagree. I’d rather share a straw with James than go on another blind date.

  She stares at me, her head moving to different positions as if a new angle will reveal an untruth. “You’re sure there’s nothing more?" she probes, her brown eyes beady and narrowed in my direction.

  “For sure.” I wipe my hands and throw the wrapper from my sub in the original bag.

  “I feel like there’s more. You know I’ll find out, right? One way or another, I always do.”

  “Not a thing. I promise.” I shake my head at her ridiculousness and laugh, but inside I’m a tad bit nervous. Aspen’s like a blood hound on the hunt when she thinks there’s more to a story.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  What sweet hell is this? Today, the first time this week I’ve felt comfortable walking into Ryland’s condo and I'm greeted with this? I wasn’t prepared for this.

  “Hey.” The man in question raises one hand to wave at me while I stand at the end of his hallway gaping. He’s positioned between me and the door in a bright orange kayak wearing a life vest and using a matching orange oar to fake paddle on his hardwood floors.

  Ryland’s gone insane. Do I laugh, cry, or call an institution for him?

  Back to his rowing, he leans forward in the seat and paddles with short quick strokes. Fake waves? Rapids?

  “What are you doing, Ryland?”

  My question interrupts his stroke and he straightens, slowing his paddle motion. “Practicing my rowing,” he answers over a shrug like I’m weird for asking and this is a normal everyday occurrence around here. Hell, maybe it is.

  “Where are you planning to kayak in San Francisco?”

  This time he puts the oar down on the side of his vessel. “The bay,” he answers as if it’s the obvious answer.

  “Is that legal?” Granted I haven’t spent a ton of time out on the water these past few years, but I haven’t seen anyone in kayaks out there either.

  He shrugs again. “What else am I going to do? The media and soccer conferences are waiting for me to fuck up. I’m doing my best to avoid any more drama.”

  His words come off flippant and unworried, but there’s tension underneath. The last time Ryland talked about soccer, he admitted to trying to get kicked off his team. I didn’t press it then, but now I wish I had. If he wanted off his team, why would he be concerned about keeping a low profile now? The question burns through me, but I don’t want to cross over the landlord-tenant line any more than we already have.

  He must be bored sitting around his condo with little to do all day. Besides his early morning run, I’m not sure what Ryland does with his time. Maybe he needs a hobby. But not living room boating.

  Ryland stands from his Kayak and throws the life vest in the hole when he steps out. “Where are you coming from?”

  “Work.” I scan his black track pants, white shirt, and bare feet and decide Ryland is the definition of casual. My jeans and simple blue blouse are at least a level above. “Friday's casual day.”

  “The jeans are nice. You look stuffy in your suits.” He makes the comment with his back to me while walking to the kitchen making it impossible for me to read his expression.

  Was the jean comment a compliment or the stuffy suits an insult? I follow him and absentmindedly sit on the same stool I used the other day.

  “Are you hungry? Do you have plans for dinner?” he asks with his head stuck in the refrigerator. His rows of Post-it notes flicker from the door being opened. I’ve never counted, but it feels like there’s fewer square little notes on there today.

  It’s a simple question and I should be quick to answer, but I process exactly what he’s asked for a long moment. In the end, I answer with a long overdue shrug. “I could eat."

  He turns from the fridge door with a weird look in his eyes and I tense worried he’s on to me. But then a large red and white pizza box skids on the counter in front of me, my hand stopping it.

  “Pizza?” He opens the lid to reveal half a pizza with mushrooms and sausage. “Grant and I ordered it last night. You want a piece?"

  I release the breath I’d been holding. “Sure.” I smile as he turns to grab plates and selects a few pieces.

  It’s not a dinner invite, but there’s an intimacy to it. We’re not out in public where I’d be forced to share him with hundreds of eyes, but personal. I like it… probably too much. My heart should not flutter over Ryland warming up two pieces of left-over pizza for me. He’s my landlord.

  “What did you and Grant do? Play poker or some other manly man pursuits while grunting at one another?” I need to get my mind off how nice his back looks from this angle. The white shirts he prefers don’t do enough to cover up the muscle definition.

  He presses a few buttons on the microwave and turns back to face me. “Dragons Reborn. We get together a few times a week at someone’s place or online. In England the time difference killed my ability to play with the guys. It’s nice being close now.”

  At least I know what he does at night. Video games with Grant. It’s such a typical single guy answer I catch myself almost giggling out loud. I wonder if before Simone and Aspen there’d be four guys to share pizza with on game night?

&nb
sp; “Have you played before?” he asks sliding a plate with two pieces of pizza on the counter toward me.

  The one time I picked up Aspen and she’d been playing rather than getting dressed for our lunch date probably doesn’t count. “No."

  “Eat your dinner and then we’ll play.”

  “Now?” I lift up the first piece of pizza but stop an inch from my mouth. I’m not overly interested in playing his online game, but it's not like I have anything better to do in my apartment.

  He nods his head enthusiastically, his eyes a little too bright and excited. “Eat.”

  “So bossy,” I say before a first bite, but I chew fast to ask my next question. “Are you allowed to eat pizza?” I’ll be the first to admit my knowledge of sports players is lacking, but I’ve always believed they follow strict diets. Sausage and mushroom pizza can’t be on any approved foods list.

  Ryland laughs. “Not really, but since I’m not on a team at the moment I’m enjoying the freedom.”

  “You can’t let go too much or else what will happen when you go back?”

  He responds with a shrug that isn’t an answer at all. When I stare at him waiting for more, he laughs. “Don’t worry, Mom, I had my vegetables for lunch."

  **

  “Marissa! You can’t sneak up behind someone and kill them.” Ryland yells at me from his position on the couch and his Dragons Reborn player runs in the opposite direction fleeing an attacking PC — a character created by the game and not controlled by a human.

  “Why not? We’re trying to win aren’t we?” My sword slashes through another opponent sent by the game to help defend the treasure chest we’re fighting for.

  His fingers stop pressing buttons on his controller as he turns to me. “It’s not good game play.”

  “I need to upgrade my sword. The one you gave me takes three strikes to kill a PC player.” Clashes of iron against iron fill the room as I attack the last guard. Ryland holds his character back while mine jogs forward to inspect the contents of the chest we fought valiantly for.