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

thrilled with my decision, but he’ll still have one season’s worth of contract with me. I might propose his services to a younger teammate, too, to placate him.

Next will come to my toughest call: Coach Fielding.

I’d prefer to make this an in-person conversation, but our head coach is on vacation, so even if I drove to Georgia now, I wouldn’t find him there. But I can’t wait till training camp with this announcement.

Coach Fielding will probably be disappointed…or maybe not. After all, there is Jamal. The guy’s got talent; if I pass onto him all my knowledge during my last season, he’ll be a beast by the time I leave the team.

Finally, I must notify Joe of what I’m planning. He’d crack if he learned it from the news and not from me.

I can already hear his, “Well, slap my head and call me silly if you ain’t realizing I was right all along,” in my head.

My buddy knew what he was talking about.

We entered the world of professional football on our own terms, and that’s how we need to exit it. I won’t be kicked out from the league a few years down the road because I’m too old to play.

No, I’ll walk out with my head high while my passion for the game is still breathing. And I’ll start a new, glorious dream—which, hopefully, will include Ellie.

Chapter 35

(Ellie)

When I wake on Saturday, my eyes feel like I’ve sprinkled glass dust on them—dry and aching. My tongue sticks to my palate, and my throat is parched.

Why didn’t I cut Laia short when she narrated to me Wyatt’s goodbye visit?

I knew my mind would use her description as a justification to relive my last talk with Wyatt.

My gaze drifts to the countless tissues scattered around the floor, and I wince.

Last night I might have switched off the light and pretended they weren’t there, but now, here they are, looking like tiny white boats ready to sink into my blue rug.

Each crumpled ball is visual proof of the unsettling truth that I’m not as good a therapist as Stephanie praised me for being. If I were, then after I ended my call with Laia and retreated to my room, I’d have applied the fantastic visualization and powerful positive affirmation techniques I teach others instead of sobbing like a crazy lady into the wee hours.

I draw in a breath and rub my cheeks.

Okay, one slip doesn’t mean a thing. I just need to get back on track, and eventually, this emptiness will disappear. 

I jump up and notice with pleasure that the movement doesn’t worsen my lurking headache. I hurry to collect the scrunched papers and throw them into the bin beneath my desk. I bring a set of fresh bedding from my wardrobe and begin stripping my blanket.

There’s a knock on my door. “Come in,” I yell.

“You’re changing your sheets again?” Cora’s startled question resounds behind me.

“Yep,” I answer without turning.

“But you just did that last night after moping and polishing our kitchen floor, rearranging the bathroom cabinet, and deep cleansing our sofa.”

“I know,” I say, tearing off the pillowcase, “but I’m imagining that this cushion is my heart and I’m clearing it of any unwanted feelings.”

There’s a small gasp, then Cora’s sympathetic voice. “Is it working?”

“I’m not sure yet, but I’m sticking to it just in case it does.” I drop my naked pillow back to my bed.

Perhaps this thought-action combo brings something. After all, I went to my clinic every day after returning from Kingman. I also made it through telling Bill that I preferred to stick to a cooperative relationship between us.

Cora’s warm palm lands on my back. “You can attack my bed too. And Hope’s. Anything if it helps to forget Wyatt.”

Her phrase lures a smile to my lips.

It’s nice to know my friends have my back, even if they disagree with my decision.

I came clean with my roomies about Wyatt on Tuesday, right after I got home. My confession wasn’t so much motivated by the fact that Wyatt’s therapy ended. Though I wasn’t bound to secrecy anymore, I just wanted to hear my friends say that I’d done well.

While they didn’t quite say that—in fact, Hope called me a nitwit, and Cora, who I thought would compliment me on my self-discipline and maturity, claimed that Wyatt’s revelation might just push him into her green category—after some time they hugged me and assured me they were on my side, no matter what.

At this memory, a warmth fills my chest, and I drop my pillow to go hug Cora. However, as I turn to her, my jaw sinks.

She’s wearing an orange-and-blue striped, off-the-shoulder top and a pair of shorts. That she’s fully dressed isn’t weird—despite her habit of sleeping in on the weekends to compensate for her early weekday alarm—but her attire certainly is.

I could explain her color choice, way too gaudy for her usual self, with the fact that she must’ve grown tired of her darling summer dresses. But when my eyes move to her ankles, I know something’s off. Instead of proper heels, her go-to footwear even for grocery shopping—Cora sports comfy wedge sandals.

I narrow my eyes at her. “Where are you going?”

Before Cora can answer, Hope bounces into my room.

“Oh, sweet heavens,” Cora exclaims at her, “you’re wearing it all wrong!”

Hope’s face moves into a confused grimace, and she tugs on her sloppy, oversized blue T-shirt, which is tucked into a pair of black spandex shorts. “What do you mean?”

“You need to treat this jersey as a dress.”

“But when I told you what I’d be wearing, you said I’m too old to have it on without shorts,” Hope complains.

Cora rolls her eyes and points at her. “This is not what I meant, bless your heart.” She sighs and adds in a commanding tone, “Come here, let me adjust it, sugar.”

She hauls Hope’s jersey out of the shorts and smooths it down. “Look, now it’s good. The shorts aren’t supposed to show. They’re there to make sure