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

When I don’t launch into nominating any films, he swallows and adds, “I think it’s fun to play these little games, don’t you agree?”

“Ah, yeah, sure. I think… I’m drawing a blank here, sorry,” I murmur.

I keep silent about the fact that my mind is in shutdown mode after the unsettling fantasy it conjured.

Bill leans toward me and pats my hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll give you three choices, okay? So, let’s see…Casablanca, Sleepless in Seattle, or—”

I zone in on his moving lips while my neurons reboot, launching one question at me: Oh, goodness. When will this dinner be over?

Chapter 23

(Wyatt)

Jazzy tunes and a sweet cigar scent drift in the air as Joe and I step into Pete’s downtown loft.

Pete dashes over, and I introduce him to my teammate.

“It’s great to meet you, Joe.” Pete shakes Joe’s hand enthusiastically. “I’ve seen so many of your games, I feel like I know you already. Thanks for coming tonight. If it weren’t for you, we would be too few to try out my new table.”

Joe’s eyes zero in on the circular poker table that occupies half of Pete’s living room, and his jaw drops. “Well, that just dills my pickle. That’s what I call a professional setup. Wyatt didn’t tell me you’re a fellow World Series of Poker aficionado.”

“I’m just an amateur, but I enjoy the thrill of a friendly game,” Pete says modestly. Still, it’s apparent that he’s thrilled about Joe’s compliment.

Pete invited Devon, Jimmy—the owner of the jazz club where Devon and Pete love to go—and me for a Sunday night Texas hold’em party. I’d extended his invitation to Joe with Pete’s permission because I know my running back mate fancies gambling much more than I do.

To be honest, I don’t even like playing cards. I only came because it’s a nice occasion to chat with my buds.

And to forget about Ellie having dinner with Bill.

Pete strolls over to his new acquisition and caresses the table’s black gloss surface. “I bought this gem from a club that recently closed in the warehouse district. What do you think, Wyatt?”

The hand-crafted table rests on a pedestal with legs in the shape of dragon’s feet. It screams swanky to me, but I’d hate to burst Pete’s bubble, and also, the table blends in well with the rest of his interior design, so I say, “It fits with your place.”

“You’re right. It screams Scarface to me, too.” Devon’s baritone reaches my ear before his head emerges from behind a large cushion on Pete’s purple plush sofa.

Pete rolls his eyes and huffs, “At least my hub got character.”

“That it does.” I chuckle.

Though both my friends live in skyscrapers, their respective homes couldn’t be more different. Devon’s place is light, practical, and simple in design—a private hideaway where only his closest friends ever get invited.

In Pete’s condo, the colors red and black dominate, mixed in with a lot of plush and gold. His bigger-than-life at-home bar, opulent furniture, and fluffy carpet turn his loft into an excellent backdrop for his two favorite activities: throwing parties and inviting girls into his bachelor pad.

“Are you guys hungry?” Pete asks. “I’ve ordered some hors d’oeuvres from the bistro on the corner.”

Joe taps his belly. “I’d eat the north end of a south-bound polecat. You mind if I start?”

Pete shakes his head. “No, go ahead. We need to wait for Jimmy, anyway. He’s bringing a bartender from his club, so the booze will be taken care of, too.”

Joe fetches a plate, while Devon steps over and pats me on my back.

“Want to go for a jog tomorrow morning?” he asks.

“Don’t you work on Mondays?”

“I took a day off because Laia and I are going to visit a few potential locations for the wedding.”

“I wouldn’t want to tear you away from your lovely fiancée,” I answer.

Devon waves. “It’s Laia who suggested we should work out together in the morning. She’s busy until midday.”

I shake my head. “Sorry, I can’t.”

“You’ve got somewhere to be?” Pete inquires.

“Yes, I do. In the morning, I have ther—” I pretend to cough as I realize what I was about to blurt out. If Devon learns I’m doing anger therapy, it won’t take long for him to connect the dots.

Devon furrows his brows. “You have, what?”

“Thermo weightlifting,” Joe chimes in, while he flashes me a You can thank me later for saving your butt glance. He marches to us with his plate filled with thinly sliced ham, aged cheddar, and a bunch of samosas.

Pete and Devon both stare at him with confused faces.

“Thermo weightlifting?” Devon asks. “What’s that?”

“It’s a…uhm, it’s weightlifting in a hot room.” I hope my explanation covers what Joe had in mind.

“That doesn’t make much sense,” Pete says.

“As much as udders on a bull.” Joe glances at me, and from the line of his lips, I deduce that I didn’t score the correct definition. Then he smiles at my friends. “It’s basically a new gig our strength coach came up with to torture us during our supposed vacation time. Or what’s left of it, anyway.”

“Right, training camp starts soon,” Devon adds.

My belly cramps at the timeline’s mention.

For the first time since I heard Coach Fielding’s verdict, it isn’t the possibility of not playing that causes my innards to contract. Though I have only two weeks left before Ellie prepares her closing report about me, I’m not worried about what she’ll write. What gives me the chills is that if she deems me cured, I won’t have an excuse to see her every morning.

The bell rings.

Pete opens the door, and a chubby, round-faced man with a silver beard enters. Based on his black T-shirt logo, he must be Jimmy, the jazz club owner. He’s accompanied by a larkish young guy, dressed in a server uniform.

After the round of introductions and some small talk, we settle around the poker table. The boy goes behind the marble counter to fix us all drinks. I’m inclined to ask only for a virgin cocktail,