Law #3: Don't Fall for the Athlete: Sweet Second Chance Romance (Laws of Love) by Agnes Canestri (black books to read txt) 📗

I expect my boss to be sitting on her blue egg chair, her favorite place when chatting with clients, but she’s standing beside her desk, her back slouched forward and her forearms leaning on the beech surface. She’s panting heavily and murmuring numbers under her breath.

I sprint over to her side and pat her between her shoulder blades. “Is everything okay?”

She flinches then slowly pushes herself up to a straight position. I jump back to avoid bumping into her belly, which is huge and low.

Very, very low.

Counting, sweating, and the position of her bump… Oh goodness, is she in labor?

“I’m fine.” Stephanie gives me a confident whisper. “It’s probably just a few Braxton Hicks. Have been getting them since this morning.”

I furrow my brows. I’m no obstetrician, but I know those prodromal pains don’t come in the fortieth week. “You’re almost at your due date. Sure these aren’t regular contractions?”

Stephanie shrugs. “And what if they are?”

My chin drops. “If they are, then we should time them. To know how far along you might be.”

Stephanie skipped all her prenatal preparation classes because the times collided with her work schedule, but given that she’s a renowned psychologist, I didn’t expect her to be this clueless about this topic.

“How many minutes apart are they now?” I ask.

She twitches her mouth left to right, grabbing the side of her desk so briskly that the pencils on it jiggle. After a loud moan, she says, “Perhaps six minutes?”

“Six? Oh, gosh,” I exclaim. “We should get you to your hospital, then.”

Before she can answer, another wave hits her. Her face distorts into a grimace of pain, and she falls forward to her desk again.

I pat her back while humming “one, two three” in a tone as soothing as I can, considering the circumstances.

When her contraction is over, she pushes herself up and shakes her head. “Not yet. My baby won’t come yet.” She glances down at her abdomen. “Did you hear me, Frank Jr.?”

“I don’t think it’s possible to will a labor to stop,” I say. I’m actually sure it’s not possible, but I don’t want to sound obnoxious in front of Stephanie while I’m trying to get into her favors.

“I don’t need it to stop. Just to pause while I secure this deal,” she answers. Her eyes are still fixated on her belly which is rumbling and drifting like an alien is trying to break free from it.

Of course!

In all my worry that I might end up becoming an impromptu midwife, I’d completely forgotten that Stephanie is supposed to be with her visitors.

My eyes dart around, scanning the spacious office, but it’s empty.

“Weren’t you having a meeting?”

Stephanie blinks up at me and nods. “Yes, I still am…with a new client. The guy just stepped outside to talk with his agent. They wanted to discuss the timelines I proposed to them.”

My chest tightens.

So it didn’t even occur to my boss that she could pass this case to me. Okay, I have a little time. First, I need to learn more about this new client and find an angle to prove how beneficial my involvement would be. “Why does this man have an agent? Is he some celebrity?” I ask.

“Sort of…he-he-ho-ho…” After her lame attempt at Lamaze breathing, she brushes a hand through her blond pixie and adds, “At least in sports circles. He’s a football player.”

My eyes widen. “A pro?”

“Yeah. NFL.” Stephanie grins at my reaction. “I know, right? It’s fantastic. I never had a football player before, but his kind could be a gold mine. All that violence these guys use on the field is bound to transfuse into their reality. Which makes them ideal candidates for therapy.”

Stephanie is right.

If we get in with our local NFL team, the Arizona Cardinals, and they start to refer their problematic players to us, it could mean a steady influx of clients.

And suppose I were to become the referral person in Stephanie’s office for these athletes. It could mean a guaranteed promotion.

My boss sniffs. “Let’s just hope they’ll accept my conditions. They’re in a hurry, but with my state”—she caresses her stomach with both palms—“I can’t start the guy’s treatment for another four weeks. Maybe three, if my C-section heals fast.”

That’s my opening.

I quickly shift into my power stance and level my boss’s gaze. “I could begin with this player right away.”

Her eyes round. “You?”

I ignore the utter astonishment in her voice and continue, “This way, you could accommodate the client’s desired timeline. Also, I know a lot about football. You could use me in this case.”

Her eyes narrow. “Seriously? I didn’t take you for an NFL fan.”

“But I am. Huge, huge fan. Yes. I watch all preseason games too, not just the Super Bowl.” I hit an upbeat tone and bob my head, hoping these gestures will cover up my lies.

In reality, I haven’t seen a football game for a long time. Not since Wyatt got drafted and left. And even before, I wasn’t a super fan of the sport.

More like a super fan of him.

No, I can’t be bogged down with his memory now. Instead, I search my mind for all the fancy terms I heard him throw around when we were dating. When I locate three that might impress my boss, I say, “I know what a Shotgun Formation is, and a Squib Kick, and a Horse Collar. I’m your gal for this job.”

Stephanie scratches her chin. “What’s a Horse Collar?”

“That’s a…” My brother’s frustrated yell when he watched a fault in Wyatt’s latest game while his fiancée and I prepared dinner flashes through me. My shoulders relax. I give Stephanie a confident smirk. “It’s when a defensive player brings down a ball carrier by grabbing onto the back of the man’s collar.” Or something similar.

Stephanie clicks her tongue. “I thought you were just bluffing.” She chuckles. “Not that I’d have known. I don’t know a thing about football. I never even heard the name of the Atlanta Kites’ quarterback before he walked into