Page 29 of Unwritten Rules
Does she want to push me further? And if she does, will I be able to answer her questions?
Thankfully, she changes the topic.
“What’s your biggest fear?” She shoots me a pointed look. “And don’t you dare say spiders.”
I snort a laugh. “What type of question is that?”
Tatum’s tongue swipes her bottom lip, her shoulders lifting in a shrug. “Well, I know how much youlovemy random questions, so I asked the first one that came to mind.”
The emphasis isn’t lost on me. I had snapped at her in the car back in Barrenridge for asking me random questions, but the truth is, I enjoyed them. It had me wondering what was going through that head of hers, and how she could be so chatty knowing what we were about to do. It was an unusual experience, but one that had me repeating it in my head days later.
“Okay, fine,” I say, relenting. “I’m afraid of not being good enough.”
Tatum pauses, her eyes snapping to meet mine. “What?”
Exhaling a sharp breath, I press the palm of my hands into my eyes, needing an excuse to tear my gaze from hers. “I don’t need your pity, Tate. I’m aware of how crazy it sounds.”
Tatum lowers my leg to the ground, her hands disappearing. “It’s a very real problem to have, Sin.”
My hands fall from my face, and I’m met with the most dazzling eyes staring back at me. Tatum has her hands resting on her thighs, features soft as she watches me.
“What?” I murmur, throat tight.
“If you didn’t fear not being good enough, then you wouldn’t be human.” She swipes her hand over her forehead. “I mean, I have the same fear. What if I’m not good at my job and I let people down? What if I’m no longer good enough for my friends? Or my future partner drops me for someone better? The possibilities are endless, which makes the fear stronger that one day, it could happen.”
I push up onto my elbows, holding her attention. Electricity hums in my veins, making the beating of my heart more erratic. Does this woman have a one-way ticket to my brain because what the hell? It’s as if she jumped into my brain and pluckedthose same fears from the box I keep them hidden in, and reread them to me without missing a beat.
“You… you feel the same?” I swallow hard, watching as Tatum fiddles with the hem of her black polo shirt with the Wolves logo.
“Of course. It’s okay to be afraid of the unexpected or how people perceive you. Given your career, I’m sure you face it a lot, and your fears of not being good enough differ from mine, but it doesn’t make them any less real.” Her mouth curves into a half smile. “I find that the best way to fight through the negative thoughts and overwhelming feelings is to breathe.”
My brow arches. “Breathe?”
Tatum nods. “If you find the pressure too much, just focus on your breathing, and I promise you that it’ll help push away the thoughts, allowing you to think with a clear head.”
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. She wants me to breathe? That’s it? The notion sounds far-fetched, but with how she’s looking at me, all soft eyes and warm smile, I don’t have the heart to tell her that. Instead, I smile and nod.
Talking about something so deep and personal has my heart thundering in my chest, itching to steer the conversation to something less private. I know if I don’t, I’m going to get trapped in a web I might not be able to escape from. Because I’ll want to know her fears, and that’s not something I should want to know, not when I have to keep myself in check.
Clearing my throat, I murmur, “So, uh… should we keep going?”
Tatum nods, and shuffles to her position from earlier. I don’t miss the disappointment that seeps into her features as she extends my leg over her shoulder, or her inability to look me in the eye as we continue the session in silence.
I want to get to know her, in every way that makes Tatum who she is. But I can’t. Not when her father made it explicitlyclear the guys on the team need to stay away from her. And I just know that if I get to know her on a deeper level, one that only a select few have the privilege of doing, I’ll be in too deep with no way out.
Remember who she is, Sin. Tatum is off-limits.
I exhale a sharp breath, running a hand down the side of my face. I was right—being this close to Tatum is fucking torture.
If I hadto name one of my least favourite things to do with my time, it would be eating dinner with my parents. For two hours, I’m forced to listen to my father tell me ways I can improve in my career and how I can set myself up for the future. And then, factor in my mother complaining about my twin sister’s good deed of looking after Gran instead of pursuing a career in law, and I’m ready to throw myself into oncoming traffic.
Most people would be thrilled if their parents were so involved in their life, but not me. I can’t stand my father breathing down my neck after every game, media interview, or training session. If I’m not playing to his standard, then he’s going to make sure I know about it. The lectures are endless, but I’ve learned over the years to drown out his voice and nod along.
Ever since I joined the league at eighteen and moved up from the reserve grade at twenty-one, my career has been shared with my father in an attempt to live out his glory days. He was forced to retired at twenty-six after a career-ending injury to his knee. I’ve seen the footage of the tackle, and let’s just say it was fucking gnarly. Dad made it his mission to get me playing rugby from the age I could walk, citing it was in my genes to followin his footsteps. I believed him, because why wouldn’t I? I was just a kid who wanted to make his father proud. And now that I’m exactly where he was at my age, my career has become his fixation—something to take his mind off the fact that all he can do in the sport is be a commentator and punter.
Forks and knives clink against porcelain plates, echoing off the high ceilings. It’s too white in here—too plain. Mum doesn’t like bright colours or anything that could make the house appear “cluttered” or “dirty”. Growing up, Mia and I weren’t allowed to hang posters on the pristine white walls in our bedrooms for fear of making them dirty, because God forbid visitors glanced into our bedrooms and saw anything other than perfection. Hell, I couldn’t decorate my room with anything that wasn’t beige, white or cream. I think it’s the reason why I can’t stand light colours, choosing to now wear black or grey clothes, and have my room be as dark as possible.
“Sin, honey, how is your recovery going?” Mum’s airy voice cuts through the suffocating silence.
