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

“You wouldn’t. I was an idiot for believing that I had to be without strings attached to be great at what I do. I can balance my career and our relationship now.”

His words make my jaw drop, but I hesitate to believe them.

Wyatt might feel confident about what he said. He might even believe he’s ready to make room for me in his life, but that’s not a guarantee of a genuine commitment.

“I’m sorry, I don’t want to do this again. I’ve moved on.” I fix my eyes on my hands.

A choked sound escapes from his throat.

I blink up, and his wounded expression makes me almost go back on my word and admit what I truly feel for him, to confess that I’d love to give us a second chance as well. But I’m terrified that his emotions for me are like mayflies—blooming when we’re close but destined to die once he’s back in his genuine passion.

I bite on my tongue and wait for him to speak next.

It takes almost a minute of silence before Wyatt says, “I understand. It’s my fault.” He sighs. “I think it’s best if we interrupt our therapy now.”

My eyes widen. “We can’t do that. What about your coming season?”

Wyatt’s face steels. “I’m not sure. Perhaps I’ll miss out on it.”

“You…you might not have to do that,” I interject. “If you really want to stop your treatment, I could make an early closing report…in which I’ll declare you fit to return to your team.”

His brows arch. “You’d do that for me?”

“Yes, and I wouldn’t be lying.” I’m not sure my boss would approve, but I feel confident enough as Wyatt’s therapist to make this call. “If ever there was a situation in which we could expect you to flip out, then it was when you met your dad.”

“But I got angry…” A puzzled line curves on his lips.

It makes him so vulnerable and cute, I’d love to hug him.

“Yes, but you didn’t attack him,” I say. “You used the tools I taught you to keep your emotions at bay, and you succeeded.” When I see his doubt, I add, “Anger therapy isn’t meant to eliminate all anger. That’s unrealistic. We aim to give you coping mechanisms you can rely on when a situation threatens to get out of hand. And you proved to me that you’ve internalized these teachings well enough.

“So I’m cured?” he asks.

“Not exactly,” I sigh, “but you made tremendous progress, enough for your coaches to let you play in the next season. There’s still work left for you, though. Especially if you decide to rekindle with your dad. That’s why I’ll put a recommendation in my report for you to meet with a therapist once a month. I’ll check our associates’ list in Georgia and propose some valid professionals who could follow up with you.”

Wyatt gives me a small smile. “This seems reasonable, thank you. I told you, you’re selfless.”

A heat swamps me at his comment.

I want to support Wyatt’s dream of returning to his team. And I think that his key problem has been tackled. Fury won’t affect his field performance anymore. He now knows what triggered his frustration, and he has faced his father without losing his cool. This knowledge will empower him and keep him centered.

But by offering him a closing report, I also have my own interest at heart. Stephanie would fire me if she learned that I let Wyatt quit without providing what his coaches wanted. I couldn’t just let our therapy end without proper closure.

Also, shameful though it is to admit, I’d like for Wyatt to return to Georgia as soon as possible—before he can realize that I’m never going to go on a second date with Bill.

As if Wyatt can read some of my thoughts, he asks, “How does it feel to complete your first therapy?”

“Strange… Even if we…” I wiggle my finger between us. “I mean, even if this between us…” Don’t go back to that fuzzy discussion. You’re in a safe, professional tone now. Keep at that. I clear my throat. “What I want to say is that I’m happy we got you to a better place in such a short time. You’ll do well in that training camp.”

Wyatt nods. “It’ll thrill my coaches to hear this.” His phrase doesn’t carry even a grain of joy.

Isn’t he happy to return to his old life? To his career?

Wyatt doesn’t let me ponder this and says, “Can I ask you for one last piece of professional advice?”

“Of course.”

He meets my gaze. “Do you think it’s okay if I postpone my childhood talk with Mom? I don’t think I should pile more on top of what’s just happened. I feel a bit overloaded right now.”

From his wounded but longing glance, I understand that he isn’t referring to the meeting with his father as the cause of his troubled mind, but to my refusal.

“Uhm, sure. You can speak to your mom whenever you feel ready, as long as it happens,” I mumble.

“Good. I’ll call her tomorrow to let her know, and after that, we can head back to Phoenix.”

Sitting in Wyatt’s Corvette for several hours would be more than painful for both of us after what happened. “Perhaps I should catch a bus,” I say, avoiding his gaze.

Wyatt’s mouth twitches. “You don’t want to spend the ride with me?”

“No, that’s not why I—”

Wyatt lifts his hand. “No explanation needed. I get it. You can even send your closing report via email; this way, I don’t have to come into your clinic anymore.” His voice is bitter but not accusing.

My throat closes up. “I can do that if that’s what you prefer.”

“Yes. It might be better. Whenever I see you, I just can’t… It’s too hard to—” Wyatt sighs. “Ah, but you don’t want to hear this.”

My heart wants to tell him he’s wrong. I do want to hear it. But I’m frozen with the