You’re dangerously good at this. But I should probably get up before I talk myself out of it. Day off or not, I’ve got a dozen things waiting.
@HalfWritten:
What kind of things?
@OneLastLine:
The usual, mostly pretending to have my life under control. I’m going for a run first, though. Clear my head.
@HalfWritten:
Sounds perfect. Maybe I’ll do the same, minus the running part. Promise me you’ll be safe, yeah?
@OneLastLine:
Always, and maybe when you’re donenot running, you can tell me what kind of coffee you’d order if we ever met.
@HalfWritten:
Deal. Talk soon, sunshine.
I linger on that last word—sunshine—before closing the app. For a moment, I lie there, staring at the ceiling, my chest a tangled mess of warmth and confusion.
This is the kind of man I should fall for. Attentive, gentle,easy.
So why does my heart still race for the one who walked me through a crowded airport like I was the only person who mattered in the world?
I toss the blanket aside and swing my legs over the edge of the bed, the floor cool beneath my feet. My head’s still a little fuzzy from the champagne, but I need to move.
A run. Nothing clears my mind like trying to outrun it.
I pull on black running shorts, my favorite oversized Metallica T-shirt, and a pair of worn-in tennis shoes. The shirt hangs loose, the way I like it, roomy enough to keep me from thinking about how my stomach moves when I run, or how the fabric sticks to my skin when I sweat.
I’ve always been athick girl. I’ve learned to own it, or at least fake owning it on the days I don’t. Working in sports means being surrounded by people who look carved from marble: lean, fast, perfect. Some days, I love myself loud and proud; other days, I shrink a little. Being the “bigger girl” in rooms full of athletes hasn’t always been easy. Especially when one of them happens to stand six feet four, with eyes the color of a brewing storm and a way of looking at me that makes my pulse forget what it’s supposed to do.
I sigh, grab my phone and earbuds, shove the phone into my waistband, and head out.
The morning air is salt-sweet, the kind that smells of sunscreen and ocean. One of the perks of living in Great Lakes, our apartment is only two blocks from the beach. Bri calls it her “therapy,” but really, it’s mine.
I start slow, sneakers crunching over sand and boardwalk, music filling my ears. Taylor Swift, obviously, because, apparently, I’m a glutton for punishment.
Running never feels good while I’m doing it. My thighs burn, my lungs ache, my brain tries to bargain for a shorter route. But every time, somewhere around the halfway mark, something clicks. My thoughts smooth out. My heartbeat and the waves sync up, and it’s just me, the ocean, and whatever chaos I left behind.
Until the music in my earbuds cuts off, replaced by the sound of my phone ringing.
I slow to a jog, then stop, pressing a palm to my knee as I answer, breathless.
“Hello?”
“Catalina! I’m so sorry to bother you on your day off.”
It’s Emily, the assistant coordinator for the Strikers.
“You’re not a bother,” I say, adjusting one earbud so I can hear her better. “What’s up?”
“I actually havegreatnews that I didn’t want to wait to tell you until tomorrow.” Her voice sounds brighter than usual. “The team approved a new budget, congratulations, you’re getting an assistant.”
For a second, I think I misheard her. “Wait, what?”
