He took my hand and shook it. “No problem.”
As Sean turned and left, I checked the time on my watch. I was anxious to get home, but practice wasn’t over, so I went back to the field. The team didn’t give me much chance to think about what Sean had said. I had to be on top of them every moment. Finally, in the last twenty minutes or so, they got their collective shit together and started executing. I shouted encouragement instead of correction, and like the flip of a switch, morale turned. They were fired up and ready for their next playoff game.
Time ran out, but we ran a few more plays to solidify the formation. When I released them to the locker room, everyone was in a much better mood—including me.
The aftereffects of the previous day’s migraine started to catch up with me on the way home. It was a bit like a hangover. I was fatigued, my head was fuzzy, and my body ached. I knew I’d feel better after a meal—and I probably needed water—as well as a good night’s sleep.
Which made me think of Pen, and sleeping next to her the night before.
I’d been too out of it for anything to happen. But it hadn’t been about that. It had felt good just having her there—being close to her.
When I got home, it took me a minute before I realized she wasn’t there. I’d held it together all day and my brain was freaking tired. I hadn’t even noticed her car wasn’t outside.
I stood in the kitchen, feeling like a kid who’d just dropped his ice cream cone. In a puddle. While being rained on.
What was wrong with me? Hadn’t she said something about meeting Melanie at the Steaming Mug? She was probably still there.
And why was I suddenly jealous of Melanie for getting to spend the afternoon with Pen?
I kicked off my shoes and sat down on the couch, then closed my eyes and ran my fingers through my hair. I was just tired. It had been a long day and I was still recovering. That was all.
Or was it?
Opening my eyes, I looked around. Signs of Penelope were everywhere. Her shoes by the door, her teakettle—not to mention an entire basket of tea—in the kitchen. She’d added little touches all over, stuff I’d hardly noticed until that moment. Fall decorations, throw pillows on the couch, a mirror near the front door.
And her paintings. I knew the ones that were hers without needing to see the signatures. She had a distinct style—somehow both realistic and whimsical. For some reason, it made me wonder how she was doing on her creek painting.
I got up and went to the spare room she’d transformed into a studio. It was there, on the easel, and as far as I could tell, it looked finished. I could practically hear the creek trickling past the smooth rocks. Smell the pine. Sunlight streamed down through the surrounding trees and reflected off the water.
It was captivating. Just like her.
And standing in the doorway of that room, staring at her painting, it hit me square in the chest.
I was in love with her.
Why then? No idea. I should have realized it a thousand times before. And maybe I had, but I’d been too afraid to admit it.
I couldn’t deny it anymore.
Clutching my chest like I was having a heart attack, I staggered back to the living room. What was I going to do? I was leaving, moving across the country.
Or was I?
What if I didn’t? What if I turned down the job and stayed?
Was I actually thinking about altering my plans for her? Could I turn down my dream job?
Fuck. I collapsed onto the couch again. I didn’t want to go. Didn’t want to leave her. Suddenly the thought of moving across the country seemed absurd. There was no job that mattered more than she did.
Except, what if she didn’t want me?
Or, more to the point, what if she didn’t want meenough?
Twice, I’d been there. Twice, a woman had seemed to want me—seemed to want what I did. And I’d been wrong. Neither of them had wanted me enough to stay.
Kind of like my biological father.
I didn’t think about that guy very often, but once in a while something would remind me that he existed. That the man who’d fathered me had abandoned his entire family—my mom and my brothers. He’d tried to drop back into my life when I made it to the pros, and dropped right back out again as soon as I’d been injured. Asshole.
