Page 13 of Just Say Yes

“Come on, man,” Trent said, his tone turning vaguely patronizing. “It’s just an exhibition game. You’re not playing for a medal here.”

“I know that,” I snapped, the edge in my voice surprising even me. “I just ... something isn’t the same anymore, and I don’t like it.”

“Getting old sucks, doesn’t it?” Trent joked, but there was an undertone to his words that didn’t sit right. “Don’t sweat it, though. You’ll get through the offseason and be back to training before you know it.”

“Maybe,” I muttered, my grip tightening on the phone. Next season was starting to feel like a distant, fragile hope—a final chance to prove I wasn’t done yet.

“Anyway,” Trent continued, his tone shifting. “You’re probably drowning in postgame groupies. We need to catch up soon so I can get in on that.”

“Yeah,” I said, forcing the word out. “Thankfully, there aren’t really any groupies here.”

There was a pause, and then Trent chuckled lightly. “Thankfully? You really are losing your edge. Where are you?”

“Outtatowner.” I smiled, because even the name was quirky and charming.

He laughed again. “Well, you’re in the middle of nowhere. What’d you expect? There’s absolutely nothing memorable about that shitty town.”

I harrumphed a noncommittal noise. I could feel my irritation growing, so I ended the call before I let my shitty mood ruin my best friend’s night too.

When the call ended, I stared at the screen for a moment before slipping it into my pocket. I looked around the quaint little town. It really wasn’t half bad if you were into blueberries, crappy diners, and nurses who were excessively hot and wanted nothing to do with you.

I chuckled because, let’s face it, I just happened to like all three.

FIVE

MJ

This is stupid.

This is stupid.

This is stupid.

I held the sticky note with Logan’s number in my hand as I paced across the wooden floors of my childhood home. You would think the opulent estate would be where many fond childhood memories were safely tucked away.

You’d be wrong.

Up until my father was arrested, the King estate was his kingdom, and he ruled with an iron fist. I was pushing thirty, living with my aunt Bug, with no clue what to do next. I looked around. My bedroom was my sanctuary, but maybe it was time to get an apartment—finally do something becauseIwanted to do it.

Trouble was, I didn’t really know what I wanted. In the past, when I’d trusted my gut, things went terribly wrong. So I learned to focus on what was safe. If I put one foot in front of the other and kept moving, I wouldn’t stumble.

Now I’d spent so long not stumbling that I just felt stuck.

I stared down at Logan’s note, his phone number written in blocky, masculine handwriting at the bottom.

I knew he still wanted me to attend a match, but he hadn’t pushed. A part of me hated that his confident, aloof attitude about it made me want to go to see what all the fuss was about.

The note had started to curl at the edges from how tightly I’d been gripping it. Logan’s number stared back at me like it held some kind of forbidden mystery.

Calling him would mean stepping into something unknown. And unknowns had a way of biting me in the ass. I paced across the room, the wood creaking faintly under my sneakers, my thoughts tangling with every step.

A small knock sounded at my door. My pacing stopped as my heart skidded in my chest. “Come in.”

The door cracked open, and Aunt Bug stepped inside. Her expression was tight, her eyes guarded in a way that made my stomach twist.

Something was wrong.

“Hey, MJ.” Her voice was softer than usual, almost hesitant. “Busy?”

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