I take my phone out of my clutch and scan the text from Tamiko. “He’ll be the last one through. He’s not thrilled to be here.”
“Can’t blame him. The royal palace is a lot,” Hollyn says gazing around. “Though there seem to be quite a few people excited to meet the team.”
I glance up from my phone to see Ava with Ember and Gage just past the receiving line. Ava looks like the cat who’s about to catch the canary.
“None more so than my youngest sister,” I say before catching a glimpse of Tamiko walking beside a tall, hulking man.
While I’d known he was tall—six foot five—I hadn’t thought enough about exactly what that height and breadth would mean in person. As they finish the royal gauntlet, Tamiko steers him toward me, and my heart does a weird kick in my chest.
Nerves.
The sensation is one I’ve experienced a lot in the last few months, and I don’t know why I didn’t consider that throwing myself into a new career avenue might produce the exact feeling I wanted to avoid.
I’m not drowning, I’m floating, and soon I’ll be swimming.
The reminder calms the flare-up of anxiety.
“Sawyer Tucker,” Tamiko says when she’s close enough, Logan trailing slightly behind her, “this is Logan Bishop.”
“You’re Sawyer?” His voice is low and gruff, and although it suits how tall and wide he is, it’s a more mature sound thanI expected. I’d heard his voice on TV, but I’d been so focused on his stiff presentation that I hadn’t considered his pitch and tenor. He still has a beard, though it’s slightly less unkempt, and his hazel eyes have the wary quality I noted in the videos.
“That’s me,” I say, holding out my hand to shake.
He doesn’t make a move to take it. “You’re the one who’s going to be training me?”
“I’m your physiotherapist.”
“I asked for a trainer.” He turns to Tamiko, his expression unreadable. “My contract says atrainer.”
“What is it you want a trainer to do?” I ask, genuinely curious. His intensity is surprising.
“Prevent me from getting injured. I don’t want someoneafterthe fact. I want to stop it from happening at all.”
“I have my doctorate in physical therapy,” I say. “I’m confident that whatever you need, I can provide it.”
“But you don’tknowwhat I need,” he says, irritation clear in his tone. “My contract isveryclear.”
“You two getting to know each other?” my father asks, ambling over.
“Something like that,” Logan says. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing here,” he mutters, turning away.
“Sawyer is an extremely talented physiotherapist,” my father brags, and I have no idea how he’d know if that claim was true. “Best on the island.”
Logan focuses on the ceiling and seems to be gathering himself. The stubborn streak I was warned about might be ready to rear its head. “You worked with a professional sports organization before?”
“When I did my doctorate at Northern University, I worked in their athletics department. My experience there was pretty vast.”
“And since then?” he asks.
“All my experiences since then have been on the island.” Where there have been no professional teams until now. I’m sure we’re both thinking it.
He runs a hand through his dark-brown hair that’s still shaggy. His obvious frustration at my level of experience—despite having a doctorate—starts to snuff out my confidence. While I’m not sure I can make him love Bellerive, Iamsure I can treatanyinjury. One man is not going to make me feel like I don’t know what I’m doing—not again.
“Your last name is Tucker?” he says, and his skepticism is dripping off each word.
“Yes.”
“He’s your dad?” He points at Jonathan Tucker standing beside him.
