Total pages in book: 96
Estimated words: 93417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 93417 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 467(@200wpm)___ 374(@250wpm)___ 311(@300wpm)
Ivy arches a brow doubtfully. “Don’t lie to us. Don’t fake your feelings.”
I wince from her raw words. That’s what I’ve done, in a way, for a long, long time. I stop doing it. “I want…more but that doesn’t mean I’ll get it.”
Ivy squeezes my arm and gives me a soft, sad smile, understanding that you don’t always get what you want.
We’re quiet for a moment, nursing our drinks before Aubrey asks, “So which yoga move was the most useful?”
I’m stone-faced as I answer. “All of them, Aubrey. All of them.”
I go home, settle in at a cheap card table I bought at the thrift shop along with a hard metal chair, flip open my laptop, and spend the evening and the next day finishing my column for Steven’s website, adding the byline Just A Girl. After I read it over ten times and show it to my friends for feedback, I hit submit on the piece titled Cracking the Case of the Missing O—A Guide for the Great Boyfriend.
That’s done. And really, that was the point of the last week—to learn what makes a great boyfriend.
That’s what I tell myself.
That’s what I have to tell myself.
The next day I’m at the Sea Dogs arena, setting up mats in a workout room for the guys on the team, settling back into my regular routine.
One of the forwards strides in. Wesley was just recently traded to the team earlier this season, but he’s settled in quickly and makes friends with everyone. He’s dressed in shorts and a T-shirt with the arms lopped off. Ink crawls up his arms, black swirls and lines. “Briar, we’ve been having a debate,” he says as the new team captain, a guy named Christian, comes in next. “Who is the best student in this class? It can’t be anybody but me, right?”
Christian scoffs. “You need way too much praise.”
“No. I just speak the truth.”
“I never play. You’re all excellent,” I say.
“You heard her. I’m the best,” Wesley says.
The rest of the guys wander in, including Trina’s husbands—Chase, the former captain who stepped down so he’d have more free time for her and their dogs, and Ryker. The other guys filter in, too, and when everyone sets up, I say, “Now let’s work on a little yoga for stress relief. You all work so hard as a team, and Nova and I thought it’d be good to help let go of some of that…also as a team.”
They grumble but do the class anyway.
As they stretch, twist, and just breathe, I’m reminded of how important it is that all the guys rely on each other.
Like my guys. They’re off in Chicago today, probably working out before their game this afternoon. Are they in sync even more than usual?
When I leave class, I send Rhys a note, asking if he met with his agent. It’s what a friend would do, after all.
Briar: Hoping the Amira meeting went well!
I add a fingers-crossed emoticon. But he doesn’t respond.
58
NO BIG DEAL
Rhys
I pace in my hotel room, my phone pressed to my skull, listening to every word from Amira and wishing she were saying something else. “No, I get it,” I say, trying to mask my emotions. “It’s fine.”
But I close my eyes, pinch the bridge of my nose.
“This isn’t the worst thing,” she reassures me.
“Right. Right,” I say with forced cheer. Don’t want her to know that I’m a treacherous mess inside all over again. “Of course it’s not.”
“Rhys,” she says, using her mum voice. “Are you hiding the way you’re feeling?”
She’s not in the same room as I am. She can’t really tell. “I swear it’s no big deal. I mean, I get it. They don’t want to commit. I will remain trade bait. Hey, hopefully another team likes me.”
“Just because there are trade rumors doesn’t mean you’ll be traded. And just because the Foxes don’t want to sign you now doesn’t mean they won’t at the end of the season,” she says, calm and caring. “It’s just business. Teams sometimes want to take their time. You really have to try to put it out of your head, hon. Did you give any more thought to what I suggested?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. I should have. But I was busy in Lucky Falls. “I don’t really know,” I say, avoiding the topic of seeing a sports psychologist. What athlete doesn’t have anxiety? “I should probably go work out. Run. Something.”
“The GM thinks you’re a great center. They’re glad to have you. A lot of teams don’t do contract renewals in the middle of the season.” She goes on to explain why and all of it makes perfect sense. But that doesn’t change the fact that my chest feels too tight, and my muscles too tense, and my mind too damn busy.
I leave for the Chicago arena and hit the visitors’ workout room early, pedaling fast and faster still on the exercise bike, trying to burn off all these feelings. When I hop off, I’m covered in sweat. And not at all relaxed. Gavin wanders in, giving me a once-over. “You doing okay, man?”