The sky is painted in broad sweeps of orange and gold. The sound of the sea meeting the shore wraps around me like a hug. And I sense the relaxation, the joy, the calm and it makes me want to cry.
How long has it been since I’ve enjoyed a day at the beach?
“You’re not sleeping,” Gage comments. It’s not a question but a statement.
I glance up at him.
“Jesus, Cal,” he murmurs, reaching out to push my sunglasses back to the top of my head. “Look at me.”
I do as he says.
His jaw tightens and his teeth click together as he takes in my expression. “Why are you here?”
I arch an eyebrow. The frustration I clung to my entire flight here—a flight I couldn’t sleep on due to the intense turbulence—morphs into anger. “You turned off your phone,” I hiss, jabbing a finger at his chest.
My fingertip is met with hard muscle, and I yank my hand back as if burned.
What the hell am I doing? I don’t cross these kinds of lines and lose my cool with clients. But Gage was never just a client. He always saw too much—was too damn perceptive.
I take a centering breath and step down the stairs that lead toward the sand. Gage follows me. When I get to the bottom, I toe off the sneakers I wore on the plane ride and leave them.
The sand rises between my toes, and I relish the feeling. The freedom.
“Grayson Watches offered you an endorsement deal that?—”
“I know,” Gage cuts me off.
I glare at him. “This was one of your dream brands to work with.”
He huffs out a sigh. “I know,” he repeats, quieter this time.
“If you sign the deal now, and we moderate the language, the deal may remain intact, regardless of what you decide next,” I explain, giving him a knowing glance.
If he retires, he may lose this endorsement deal. But Gage still hasn’t given a clear indication as to what his plans are for next season. Does he want to play one more year? Does he want to stay with the Coyotes? Or is he ready to hang up his cleats and move on to his next chapter?
I know he’s invested his money well and could have retired years ago. In fact, it’s something he briefly considered after he tore his ACL in the season opener a few years ago.
Given his age, older by NFL standards, and injuries, no one would blame him.
I stop walking and look at him.
His expression is unreadable. Conflicted.
“Gage,” I sigh.
He shakes his head. “I’ll think about it, Cal.”
“About the offer? Or next season?” I press, wanting to know where his head is.
“Both,” he replies simply. Then, he reaches for my wrist and tugs me a step closer. “But this week is my parents’ fiftieth anniversary and I’m off the grid. I turned my phone off for a reason.” He takes my phone from my grasp and slips it into his pocket.
“Hey!” I dart forward, my arms snaking around his hip before he clasps me tightly.
“You need a break, Calla Lily,” he breathes out the nickname he’s used a handful of times.
And every time he does, it stops me in my tracks.
It’s too personal. Familiar. Genuine. Every year on my birthday, Gage sends me a bouquet of breathtaking Calla lilies. Pink, to symbolize his admiration and appreciation.
