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

same thrills as it used to, I’ve no idea what I could do with my life if I weren’t part of the Kites anymore.

Joe rolls his eyes. “That’s because you do nothing else besides the training, the games, and the occasional night out. If you did, you wouldn’t be as scared of dipping your toes into something new.”

I shrug. “I’m not afraid. Maybe I’m just not interested in life after NFL.”

Joe snorts bemusedly. “I bet a therapist could make a whole lot out of this statement.”

“Thanks for the tip.” I whack him in the chest then grin. “Perhaps I’ll bring this up in my anger management class. Then at least the shrink and I will have something to talk about. Given that I don’t have rage issues.”

Joe laughs. “Yeah, do that.” He rounds his brows at me. “Where will you enroll?”

“I’m going back to Phoenix. That way, I can at least combine my punishment with seeing some friends and visit my mom too.”

Strange anticipation settles in my chest at the thought of going back. Eleven months have passed since I last traveled home.

“And keep the guys from learning that you need therapy, right?” Joe winks at me.

It’s superfluous to deny it, so I just nod. “Yeah, I’d rather shoot myself in my own leg before letting that stinky Rodriguez learn what his joke cost me.”

Joe clicks his tongue. “Well, to be fair, it cost him something, too. But okay, I understand. I might do the same if I were you.” He scratches his chin, then his eyes illuminate. “I just remembered. There’s this famous behavioral clinic in Phoenix, the Phoenix Stars. They run a program called Tame Your Inner Beast.”

“Don’t tell me, they curbed you into the docile being you are?” I wiggle my brows.

Joe rolls his eyes. “Nope. But a guy on my old team went to their program and came back rather revolutionized. He even handed out personalized thank-you notes after a game to whoever’d passed him the ball.”

“That’s not something I’ll do. Not now, not in my grave.”

Joe chuckles. “You don’t have to. But at least ask your agent to check it out.”

“Okay, I will,” I answer because I know Liam will take the news of my blunder much better if I offer him a concrete idea on how to clean up my act.

Joe cocks his head to the side. “You think you’ll have some free time while you’re getting your brain ironed out? I’m visiting my folks in New Orleans next week, but after that, I could pop over to Phoenix for a weekend.”

“Definitely.”

“Great.” An eager glint invades Joe’s eyes. “I bet you still know enough gals from your college days?”

“I went to Tucson,” I answer, smiling. “But one of my best pals, Pete, has surely got you covered.”

Joe is on a perpetual search for a potential girlfriend who could suit his Momma’s expectations of a “Southern lady”. The problem is that he mostly dates fangirls, which undermines his efforts from the get-go. Groupies might love football—or at least our fat paychecks and fame—but they also lack self-respect, discretion, and tact.

Joe claps his hands, then points at me. “But they need to be fine as a frog hair split four ways. Got those too?”

Without wanting, my thoughts drift to a pair of emerald eyes I haven’t seen in years and my breath catches.

“Yeah,” I murmur.

“Perfect. Then I’m definitely coming to see you.”

I only hear his comment with half an ear, because my mind is stuck in the memory of those freckled cheeks and long eyelashes, complementing that striking green hue.

Chapter 4

(Ellie)

As I exit the bus, sweat pearls trickle down my spine, making my sleeveless purple top stick to my back like a second skin.

No matter how many years have passed since I moved to Phoenix, it’s still a shock how hot late June can get here. Like when I see pics of Mickey Rourke and feel bewildered every single time how he could ruin his face like he did with all that plastic surgery.

When I first moved here from Kingman, I thought I knew what I was getting into. I believed the summer would be only a lick warmer. I never realized that my hometown’s average of ninety-three degrees was only tortilla chips and dip to the carnitas chimichangas that would await me in the valley’s June doom.

Today is no exception.

It might not be blazing enough to fry an egg on the sidewalk, but still, I’m pretty sure if I left a black skillet out for five minutes, I could sneak that extra heat in and have a delicious second breakfast.

Though we’ve passed the summer solstice, the dryness is still stifling. My tongue sticks to my palate like a dry sponge, and a slight spasm runs through my belly.

Afraid that these might be precursors of a heat cramp, I reach into my bag and pull out my cucumber-lemon water. I take a few avid gulps without slowing my pace.

When my clinic’s building comes into sight, I sigh in anticipation of the AC’s cool breeze before I enter the reception hall.

I greet the guards then go straight to the elevator and press five.

While I travel to the floor where my unit is located, I try once more the power stance Hope showed me. I spread my feet a little, pop my hip out to my left, and cross my arms.

I inhale, waiting for the composed self-assurance Hope promised would descend upon me. After ten counts, I still feel utterly ridiculous, not one bit like the strong career woman my roomies swore I looked like when I’d practiced in front of them.

But since Hope said this posture is one of her major success factors in the courtroom—and Stephanie will be as harsh as any jury, if not worse—I’ll give this stance a try.

The elevator chimes, and I hurry out.

I first rush to the bathroom and pat my face with a paper towel to soak up all the excess moisture caused by the bus ride. I