Law #3: Don't Fall for the Athlete: Sweet Second Chance Romance (Laws of Love) by Agnes Canestri (ebook and pdf reader .txt) 📕

Most people would kill if the question about dessert didn’t need to be a strict “yes or no,” but rather an easy “how much more?” Still, continually worrying about filling your stomach with high-density food to avoid losing your fighting weight isn’t fun either.

Even though I’m not a defensive lineman— those guys need to tilt the scales the most—I’m still too lightweight for a quarterback. My body has a high metabolism, and my cells run like a calorie-guzzling engine coupled with my intense workouts. This is why I can’t be feeding on these light pseudo-snacks. I don’t want to be embarrassed during the training camp’s weigh-in. No, I need proper fuel.

I stash the yogurt beside a box of I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter! Light and close the fridge. I pick up my phone from the marble kitchen counter and dial Pete’s number.

I’d have preferred to eat with Pete and Devon, but since Ellie forbade me from contacting her brother tonight, I’ll just invite my other best pal for dinner.

While I wait for the ringtone, I consider what type of food I’m in the mood for. By the time Pete’s smooth drawl answers, I’ve made my choice.

I want to eat Mexican.

A tasty taco or a spicy burrito rounded with a relaxed chat with a buddy is just the right closing motive to ease my mind of this weirdly eventful day and the unsettling memories Ellie triggered in me.

Chapter 9

(Ellie)

“Here’s to you and your career, little sis!” My brother lifts his glass and raises it toward me.

We’re in El Placer, my favorite Mexican restaurant. My brother’s fiancée, Laia, introduced me to this place, and ever since, I’ve been coming here at least once a month.

The ceiling has hand-hewn wood beams that complement the vibrant stucco adobe wall finish—an orange hue somewhere between the setting sun and creamy nacho sauce—and the warm brown terracotta tiles on the floor.

Besides the cozy, authentic interior and hyper-friendly service—I mean, hello, the owner and the waitresses call each returning guest by their name after only their second visit—I’m smitten with their fabulous food too.

On any normal occasion, I’d already be salivating over their sumptuous tamales that even Laia describes as equal to the ones her mother makes.

But now? Nothing.

It’s almost as if I’m still digesting the shock of seeing Wyatt in person.

Hope’s “Attagirl!” jars me out of my reflection.

She leans forward, and her blond bob wiggles joyfully as she pats my hand. “I told you the power stance would do the trick.”

“Hope sugar, don’t take all the credit.” Cora winks at our roomie. “Ellie had something to do with it too, bless her heart.”

“I’m proud of you, sweetie.” Laia chimes in. “Not only because you triumphed, but also because you went after your dream.”

“Uhm, thanks…” I avoid Laia’s cat-eyes and smooth the wrinkles on the serape striped tablecloth with my palms.

I appreciate Laia’s kind words, but I can’t really let them in. My frozen stomach is proof that labeling my three-week collaboration with Wyatt a victory is definitely a stretch.

Diego, the owner of the restaurant, marches to our table with two large bowls of tortilla chips and a generous portion of a decadent dip. He places the plates in the middle of our large table. “A starter for you while you decide on your order.”

“Gracias,” Laia smiles at the man while pointing at the salsa. “Which dip is this? The seven-layer one?”

The owner nods. “Yes. Our cook’s outdone herself today. The dip is the perfect contrast of flavors and textures, if I may say so, myself.”

“I’m sure it’ll be delicious,” I answer.

Diego’s guileful eyes dart to me, and his tiny mustache twitches as his lips curl up. “Ellie, querida, I hear you’re celebrating a promotion?”

“Just a new assignment,” I answer.

“The promotion will come, too,” Devon intervenes.

“Of course. Un cabello hace sombra en el suelo.” The owner laughs, and his neck disappears between his shoulders and the red fabric of his shirt.

I blink to Laia for help, and she translates Diego’s wisdom promptly, “It means that even a hair casts a shadow on the floor.”

“Indeed.” Diego grins at me then straightens his hat. “Now, a new assignment, tomorrow, a big promotion.”

I can only hope he’s right. If I have to subject my heart to the risk of getting catapulted back to unwanted memories—some I didn’t even realize I still guarded—then I darned-well deserve a promotion.

Diego takes my silence as a cue that he should leave and says, “Call Juliana when you’re ready to order, please.”

“We’ll wait for Pete with that. He should be here any minute,” Devon says.

Diego nods and returns to the kitchen.

Hope throws a questioning glance at Devon. “Do we have to wait for your buddy with the starter, too? If yes, you better check on him. I don’t think I can restrain myself much longer. This salsa looks delicious.”

Devon laughs. “Fine, I’ll step outside and call him to see where he’s at. Meanwhile, you go ahead and eat. Pete won’t mind it.”

“Good.” Hope grins and grabs a tortilla chip. “I skipped lunch because I had to jump in for a colleague. I’m famished.”

Devon pulls out his phone and stands up. He strides out to the patio illuminated with chili pepper string lights.

Laia gives Hope an admiring smile. “You work so much, but it doesn’t seem to wear you down. What’s your secret?”

“Fruit Loops,” Cora and I say in a chorus.

Laia’s eyes widen but Hope nods. “They’re right. That cereal is my super fuel.”

“Don’t you mind all the colorants?” Laia asks.

Hope shrugs. “Nope. It’s thanks to those that I’m hyperactive. “

I giggle at Laia’s baffled face.

My brother’s fiancée grew up in a household where homemade churro waffles or huevos rancheros were the staple breakfast. I don’t think her mother served her daughter anything that wasn’t made from scratch.

Cora scoops some salsa on her plate and murmurs, “I still remember my very first seven-layer dip. A girl brought it to a choir meeting at my church. It was thick, creamy, and probably the most calorie-heavy thing I’ve ever tasted.”

“You sang in a choir?” Laia squeaks.