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

Before I know it, I’ve already whipped around and yelled, “Repeat that, if you dare!”

Rodriguez’s brash expression wavers, but he squares his back and repeats his untasteful joke. Or tries to.

Before he gets further than the word “quarterback,” my knuckles crash against his jaw.

Crack!

A startled “what the f—” from Leo.

Then Rodriguez is stumbling backward, grabbing at his face, while his eyes, bewildered but still obnoxious, flick to my face.

“You jerk, you almost dislodged a tooth,” he mumbles, spattering rosy-tinted saliva on his white jersey.

The sight of his blood, more than anything else, snaps me out of whatever demonic possession I was under. I peer down at my hand, still clenched tightly.

Leo leans over and examines Rodriguez’s chin, then he throws me an accusing glance. “What’s the matter with you, Wyatt? Rodriguez was just teasing you.”

“It didn’t sound like it,” I mumble sheepishly, still in utter shock over what I’ve done.

I’ve never biffed anyone in the face on purpose before. At least not since I grew out of the age of school fights. And here I’ve just fed a knuckle sandwich to one of my own teammates.

Rodriguez pulls himself tall again, wiping his mouth with the back of his palm. The red stripe glistening on his skin as he lowers his arm makes my stomach churn.

How could I have done this? And why?

I know our wide receiver’s venomous tongue. So why did I have to seek him out? And why couldn’t I deflect his dirty chaff?

Rodriguez glares at me, and when I met his gaze, he growls.

He’s about to launch himself at me to reciprocate my blow. Okay, all the better. I’ll stand and take his punch without protecting myself so we can be even.

Before Rodriguez can advance, Coach Williams arrives.

Rodriguez immediately lowers his arm and starts to spew a bunch of accusations about me at our strength coach, throwing around phrases like “blind rage,” “without reason,” and “went ballistic.”

I just stand there, listening to him.

My chest is a tempest of contradicting emotions. I feel shame that I flew off the handle, but it bugs me that Rodriguez is describing me as if I were a seething beast.

“He provoked me,” I chime in as soon as Rodriguez takes a pause. “I might’ve overreacted a tad, but I’m not a nutcase.”

Coach Williams must see this, right?

But as I blink at our strength coach, my stomach tightens.

Coach Williams and I go way back. He used to train me in college when I was still the Arizona Wildcats’ golden boy. I know his facial expressions and I can see the pure disappointment in his eyes as he gawks at me.

After a second of silence, he looks away from me, back to Rodriguez. “Go clean yourself up. We’re starting the tape revision soon.”

When Rodriguez doesn’t move—he probably wants to stay and gloat about the inevitable scolding I’m about to sack—Coach Williams shouts, “Now! You too, Leo.”

We like to joke that our strength coach must wear weightlifting shoes in the shower and eat only steaks from bison he catches himself with nothing but a knife and a loincloth. His yell certainly has the desired effect: Rodriguez and Leo sprint toward the lockers.

I brace myself for Coach Williams’ chiding as he turns his perfectly cylindrical body toward me, but instead, he only says, “We’ll forget about this, for now. You may join the others in the viewing room.”

A breath I didn’t even realize I was holding rushes out from my throat.

Thank heavens Coach Williams is reasonable and doesn’t let this outlying behavior influence his judgment of me.

Before I can rejoice about this turn of events, he adds, “After the tape session, present yourself in Coach Fielding’s office where your punishment will be established.” He accompanies his phrase with a somber glint that shimmers like a big fat screw you to any chance of this day having a happy ending.

Chapter 2

(Ellie)

After wiping my vanity clean, I arrange my toiletries in equal distances from each other then take a step back to study my work. My lipsticks are in a neat line, their spacings matching those of my nail polishes. Perfect.

Will my boss trust me enough to agree with my proposal? What if she doesn’t? And what if she does and I fail her?

Oh, no! Without my hands busy, my mind has apparently resumed its angsty loops.

While my fingers were moving, the worries tugging at the back of my mind were hushed, but now, my chest brims with nervous anticipation once more.

Should I ditch my planned talk and wait till my boss is back from maternity leave? Knowing Stephanie, her absence will be short, anyway. I can’t imagine her staying at home longer than a few weeks.

No, I can’t let this idle thought settle in my chest. It’s only an excuse to avoid doing what I know I need to do.

Tomorrow is my perfect chance.

Right now, Stephanie’s bound to be more receptive to my proposal due to her hormones. I need to use this opportunity to break out of my catch-22. It might sound exaggerated, but that’s indeed what I’m in.

I work my butt off, going way beyond what any other assistant does, yet my boss won’t allow me to take the lead on any of our cases. She claims it’s because despite the right qualifications, I still lack the practical know-how. But if I follow her reasoning, I’d need practical experience to be considered for a promotion, and I can’t have clients on my own because I don’t have enough experience.

Frustration bubbles up in my throat as I ponder my situation.

Not wanting to let the sensation invade me, I quickly scan my bedroom for something else to do.

The problem is that my dressing table was the last piece of salvation. I’ve vacuumed my floor, dusted my shelves, arranged my books, changed my sheets, wiped the windows and all possible surfaces. Twice.

My eyes drift to my bed, and relief floods me.

The pillow’s still sitting too much to