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

mom was always attentive to his needs, even when he behaved like a jerk. I, on the other hand, wasn’t obedient. And I often insulted him for his drunk habits.”

I draw in a deep breath because Wyatt’s confession crushes my lungs into an iron corset, and I need to ease it up. “It’s always wrong to abuse a child, no matter the motivation behind it. Why didn’t your mom get any help?”

Wyatt sighs. “Don’t blame her, please. She loved my dad despite his vices. Whenever she could, she held him back. She truly believed that it was the booze that turned him into a beast.”

“Was that true?”

He lifts and drops his shoulders. “Not sure. I don’t remember him clean. In most of my memories he’s either sobering up, or he’s fully-loaded. The withdrawal made him more on edge than anything else.” He clicks his tongue, and his gaze wanders to the water. “Mom always said that, deep down, my father loved us, and he’d change once he sobered up. Of course, he never got to that point. He was still a drunk when he walked out on her.” He shakes his head. “It should’ve been the other way around.”

“What did your father want when you spoke?”

He shakes his head. “We didn’t. I never answered him. But based on the texts he kept sending me, and on the call he made to my mother today, he’s found the light.”

“He called your mom too?”

“Yeah. And she was stupid enough to answer him. Even listened to him depicting his hogwash metamorphosis for thirty minutes.”

“Do you think your dad is lying about his transformation?”

Wyatt gives me a cynical look. “I don’t believe for a minute that he’s changed. And even if he did, I don’t care.”

Despite the traumatic past he’s just revealed to me, I doubt the truth of Wyatt’s last statement. I think he cares about what his father does. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have unleashed his bottled-up emotions on another player after his father contacted him.

Wyatt is stuck with his grudge, and it does him no good. It’s putting his career in jeopardy and probably affects more parts of his life than he’s aware of.

Also, perhaps Mason Harrison changed. If Wyatt could see and accept his father’s metamorphosis, then he could let go of the ghosts haunting him.

But I’m not sure Wyatt is ready to hear any of this yet, and I can’t push him into anything he isn’t prepared to face.

What I can do is to explore his beliefs a bit more.

I smile at him. “Do you want to talk about why you think you don’t care?”

Wyatt shakes his head. “It’s Friday, Ellie. Your work is over for this week.”

“On Monday then.”

He sighs. “Sure.” Then his strained expression softens, and a raw glint invades his eyes. “You know…” His glance dips briefly to my lips before he continues, “If we’re talking about true triggers, then I’ve got a confession to make. If I were to move home—”

A shrill quack interrupts him.

We snap our heads toward a bush where the sound came from. A mother goose, followed by a bunch of baby geese, toddles out from the leaves. They march over to the other side of the island, quacking loudly, and jump into the water.

I glance back at Wyatt. “What did you want to say?”

He clears his throat. “Nothing. Just that there are many other reasons I could move home.”

“Like what?”

“Like reconnecting with my roots. I didn’t realize how much I missed being with the people I care about.”

I will see nothing in his statement.

“Yeah, like Devon and Pete,” I say lightly.

“…and you,” he adds with a rough edge that soothes and burns at the same time. The air almost crackles around us as we stare into each other’s eyes.

Okay, this one is hard not to misinterpret. And even harder to ignore the wildly galloping beats it unleashes in my chest.

“What do—” I break off. If I give into my curiosity, I’ll go down a treacherous path.

First, I’m his therapist, which is already a big no-no for the feelings currently brewing in my chest.

Second…it’s Wyatt, for crying out loud. I know the effect he can have on me. Even now, just looking into his eyes, I feel like I’m floating on some kind of balloon. If I let my guard down, I’ll slip.

And I can’t do that with him.

Not again. 

I turn away from him and scan the landscape for some detail to which I can redirect our conversation. My eyes land on a group of young boys on the other side of the bridge. They’re throwing a football.

I point at the kids. “Are they playing that catch’em-something game you and Dev used to spend hours practicing in our backyard?”

Wyatt takes a second to answer, as if he needs time to refocus his mind. “Pick’em up Bust’em, you mean?” He squints, studying the boys, then shakes his head. “Nope. That’s an every-man-for-himself setup, but half of these kiddos are shirtless while the others have their polos on, so they’re teamed up.”

I’d kind of deduced this on my own, but I figured, what better topic to distract Wyatt from our previous conversation than his one and only passion?

I stare at the children and try to think of some other bogus question. I’m afraid if we stay in silence long enough, that charged atmosphere will come back.

A swishing sound cuts through the air.

I glance up, and the kids’ ball is flying right in my direction.

My mind launches to calculate its trajectory. Is my best chance of avoiding the hit to duck or to move?

Before I can decide, Wyatt jumps forward and into the air. He seizes the football with the ease of someone catching a pack of potato chips and lands back on his feet.

My shoulders relax. “Ah, goodness. I already saw myself with a nasty concussion.” I touch his arm. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he answers, then his glance moves to where my fingers engulf his biceps. His eyes flick to mine, and heat seeps into