He smirked. “Sonofabitch won’t admit it yet, but he wants you.”
Before I could reply, two of my teammates stopped by, slapping my shoulder. “Good work, Wheaton. Good to have you back, Captain.”
“I’m not back yet,” I muttered. But as I stretched out my legs, feeling the old fire still burning, I realized—with more certainty than I’d had for months—that I could be.
My agent chuckled. “They know you’re better than any toddler they bring on to replace you.”
I pulled my phone from my bag and checked the screen. Nothing. It was still nighttime in California. After the first few days that were a blur of jet lag and medical appointments, I was split between two time zones—living on London time but always aware of Rio’s time.
Nights were hard—falling asleep without her in my arms. Mornings were harder—waking up to an empty bed, realizing I’d only dreamed of her and her scent.
“Made it to training today,”I texted.“Still not completely broken. But my heart is missing. Do you have it?”I texted.
To Simon, I sent a drier version. “They’re still testing me and will not negotiate before they decide what they can get out of it. Hope everyone’s okay.”
The headlines later that day tooted the same tune—“Wheaton’s Future Unclear.”
Tell me something I don’t know.
In the whirlwind of the past ten days, there was only one thing I knew for sure—I loved Rio.
Her reply to my text came in the late afternoon.“I’m looking.”
A moment later, my phone buzzed again. A selfie. Rio at the counter of the health shop, smiling.
“It’s there somewhere. Check the palm of your hand,”I texted.
I smoothed my thumb over the screen, tracing the curve of her sweet face. My chest ached. Though it was invisible, it was there in her hand—my heart. Raw. Completely hers.
Simon’s reply wasn’t far behind.“Everyone’s good. Be good yourself and keep me posted. All my girls send their love.”
He probably didn’t mean to include Rio in that. But I did.
Training the next day went okay.
“Wheaton, join us for a pint tonight?” Dennis asked as we walked back to the changing room.
I hesitated.
“Come on, just a little get-together with some of the lads,” he said, nodding toward the guys ahead.
“Okay.” I rolled my shoulders, loosening the tension in my muscles.
John, our center-back, came up from behind and hooked an arm around both our necks, dragging us into a headlock. “Wheaton’s worried we’ll get him pissed. He’s a good boy now.”
“Piss off,” Dennis and I said at the same time, laughing and shoving him away.
We met at a club in Chelsea. The kind of place where the drinks were overpriced, the music was just loud enough to make proper conversation impossible, and half the crowd was there to be seen.
I hadn’t been in a place like that in months. This was no Shore Thing. Here, everything felt surface-level—too polished, too curated, too desperate to be important. Maybe I’d always known that, but now Isawit.
A round turned into two, then three. The team was in good spirits, ribbing me about my time in the States, calling meHollywood, and joking that I’d come back soft. I gave it back just as good.
“Soft? Mate, I could take you on while tying my cleats.”
“Don’t get me to take you on, Granddad.” John smirked, knocking back his beer.
“What this granddad can do in reverse, you haven’t figured out how to do in first gear,” Dennis shot back before I could reply, raising his pint. He was in his mid-thirties too, and like me, had no intention of rolling over for the younger lot just yet.
