1
JOELLE
"Come on, Jo, let's go out tonight before you fly out to Italy." Polly's voice carries down the hallway.
I don't look up from the suitcase open on my bed. It's a mess of folded linen and half-decent intentions. I've got a list on my phone titledItaly,and the first two items are wine and more wine.
"I'm exhausted," I call back. "I have so much to do." Which is true. I'm one of the physiotherapists for a London rugby team. Five years of bodies breaking and healing and breaking again. Players who swear they're fine while their hamstrings scream otherwise. Coaches who want miracles. Schedules stacked like a game of Jenga, where I'm always the one holding the tower up.
Polly appears in my doorway, arms folded, her blonde hair in a glossy ponytail, eyes bright with determination to get me to come out. "You're stressing about the wedding," she says. Not a question. A fact. "One night. And honestly …" She grins. "You also need to get laid."
I drop my head back with a groan. "I've been busy."
"That's not an excuse, that's a crime." She walks into my room like she owns it. "I don't know how you do it," shecontinues. "Rubbing those men down every single day. Your hands on their thighs, their arms." She wiggles her brows.
"Because I'm not boy crazy like you are." I give her what's supposed to be a stern look, but it doesn't last. A smile forms despite myself. Polly collects men like loyalty cards. She doesn't even mean to. She's a PR girl with a roster and the confidence of someone who has never questioned her own appeal.
"Not my fault I'm irresistible," she says, grinning.
That part is unfortunately accurate. Gorgeous blonde hair. Blue eyes. Curves that could stop traffic. The rugby boys look at her like she's the best thing they've ever seen. Then there's me. I’m usually in sweats with no makeup, my dark hair pulled back so tight it could pass as a facelift. My hazel eyes only pop when I’m angry or sleep deprived, and I’ve never exactly been known for curves. I’m all straight lines. I could make more effort. I know I could. I just don't see the point when my hands smell like menthol rub half the time, and my brain is always scheduling someone's recovery timeline.
Polly leans on the suitcase, blocking me from folding anything else. "Come on. Let's get dressed up and hit the town."
"I'm tired." I moan.
"You're always tired.” She softens just a fraction. "You don't get weekends. You don't get to be a normal person. One night won't kill you."
I stare at her. I want to say no. Should say no. I have a flight tomorrow. My family is waiting in Italy. A brother who's about to get married to a woman the entire family doesn't like. But Polly looks at me like I'm a rescue mission, and I can feel my resolve slipping.
"Fine," I say, surrendering.
She squeals. "Yes!"
"I have conditions."
"No conditions."
"I'm wearing pants," I tell her. I feel more comfortable in them.
Polly’s face scrunches up. "Absolutely not." Then her grin turns wicked as she darts out before I can argue. I know I’ve already lost. I hear drawers open and hangers clatter. When she returns, she's holding up a white mini dress.
"No," I say immediately.
"Oh, come on." She pouts. "You would look hot in this."
"Polly,” I warn, already knowing I’ve lost.
"Just once," she begs. "You always wear a top and pants out. It's boring."
"It's comfortable."
"Comfortable is what you wear when you're grocery shopping. Tonight, you're going to be … seen."
I hate attention. "I don't want to be seen."
She steps closer. "Do it for me. Please. One night. Then you can go back to being a hermit physiotherapist who scares rugby players into stretching."
I narrow my eyes. "I don't scare them."
