“Yup, bye.” I have to stop myself from speed-walking out, disbelief flooding through my system at almost being caught fantasising over Nathan Slater.
I don’t know why my mind went there. He’s a cranky asshole who hates me. And I hate him.
I can’t deny he’s hot. I can’t deny that his voice makes the hair on the back of my neck spike up.
But he’s… him.
And I’m me.
And allowing my head to go there—even for a split second—is far too dangerous.
8: Nathan
My father has some nerve. I’m unsure exactly how he manages to get past security and sneak into our locker room after every game. But I imagine all he has to do is show the security a few photographs of him and me together, and they let him through, thinking he’s a proud father who just wants to congratulate his son.
But he’d stormed in here as if he were a coach. Not only did he speak to me like shit, but my team, and that’s a line he knows not to cross. I’m protective of them. They don’t deserve to be subjected to his deprecation.
Cam, our physio, calls me into his office, and I lie down on the small cot he’s set up. It’s far too small for my six-foot-three frame, and I shift uncomfortably, the scratchy paper on top of it gyrating against my skin.
“You’ve got to invest in a bigger bed, Cam. I beg you,” I say, allowing my head to flop back onto the plump pillow.
He chuckles, oiling his hands up and manoeuvring my leg upright, my knee pointing to the ceiling. He gets to work, and I hiss in pain, gritting my teeth.
Cam’s a decent guy who joined the team last season after finishing school. However, he’s Renee’s son, and although he claims he isn’t overly involved in her life, I’m still wary of him. But he has a job to do, and so do I.
“Well, maybe you guys should just stop growing,” he responds as he digs into my skin with the pad of his thumbs, my hamstring screaming, tense and tight.
“Ease up, man.”
He stops and gestures for me to flip over. With every press and knead, the tension my body so desperately wants to hold onto begins to dissipate, the pain transforming into nothing more than a dull throb.
Massages are known for being relaxing, but sports massages are far from pleasurable. It’s almost as if Cam gets satisfaction from causing us pain.
Is that what they taught him in school? To be a psychopath?
“How’s the volunteering going? I saw the photos.”
“Fine. We’re going back to the animal shelter tomorrow.”
“You don’t strike me as an animal kind of guy.”
I don’t respond, opting for a low grunt instead. As a child, I was desperate for a bunny. I still remember the day my parents got into a raging argument because my mother came home with one as a surprise for me.
My father wasn’t best pleased, and he threatened to boil it for dinner. I spent that evening crying into my mother’s shoulder while hugging Tiggles—a name nine-year-old me had come up with—but when I woke up the following day, Tiggles was gone.
My father had made my mother return him. He claimed I didn’t have time for pets. That they were a waste of time and it was only going to die and leave me heartbroken, distracting me from practice.
“How’s Mae settling in?”
Cam’s question catches me off guard. I clear my throat, feeling the frustration begin to rebuild in my body as I think of Mae’s delighted face when we stepped into the animal shelter and how I’d rained on her parade by being a grouchy asshole.
Does a part of me feel bad? Yes. But can I let it distract me? No.
Something is fascinating about her, though. Not only because she’s beautiful but because of how she carries herself. The apparent bone-deep love she has for animals. The fake smile she plasters on even though there’s sadness lingering deep within those almond-shaped eyes. That smart mouth of hers, snarky comments slipping out before she can bite her tongue.
I can’t help but find the strange combination somewhat intriguing.
And I don’t fucking know why.
