Page 49 of At First Smile
“It’s not foolish. When the heart knows, it knows,” JoJo scoffs.
“Gretzky played center. Rowan is a defenseman,” I mutter.
“Looks likesomeonedid some googling last night.” JoJo leans close and whispers, “Verbal salacious smirk emoji.”
I avert my gaze.
“Ugh,” Trina groans. “New rule, if I can’t achieve-drop, you can’t mention men that hurt our friend. Well, unless we’re planning their downfall.” Her lips purse. “By the way, in your googling did you happen to locate Rowan’s address?”
Oh, my besties.I roll my eyes and pour another mimosa.
After one too manymimosas and enough carbs to start a bakery, I stretch out on the couch. Wind chimes sing in the gentle June breeze. The scent of jasmine floats into the room through the open windows. The sweet scent tickles my nostrils.
It’s just me and all my thoughts. JoJo took a rideshare back to her place in hopes of napping off the tipsy aftermath of boozy brunch. Trina, who switched to coffee after her second Bloody Mary, logged off to go plot world domination or whatever she does on a Sunday night.
Possibly.The word hums inside me with a promise I dare not let myself touch. I shouldn’t be thinking about Rowan. About seeing him again. I should listen to Trina, forget him, and move on. It’s how she’s dealt with past breakups. Though, with Trinashe’s the breaker and not the breakee. Also, this isn’t a breakup. We weren’t dating. It was just one day.
One amazing day.
Sitting up on the couch, I expel a hard breath. “Ugh!”
Logically I know this is as foolish as Trina cautions. The warning bells that roar with other men have been silent with Rowan. He hid part of himself. He left me. He…
“He’s protective,” I murmur, bending my legs and wrapping my arms around them to rest my chin on my knees. “There’s a reason. There’s more to this. I know it.”
My eyes flick to my mobile in the glittery pink case on the coffee table. We hadn’t exchanged numbers, but he knows my social media handle. I shift to sit on my knees and scoop up the phone. Like a starved woman searching for the tiniest crumb to quell her hunger, I open my phone and pull up Instagram.
Since last night, I’ve not been online. The last post on Cane Austen and Me is a selfie taken with Harley before he performed and a video where Stacy tagged me as I sang. There are also seventy-five notifications, including an alert that @HarleyGuitarGuy is now following me.
I ignore the notifications and go directly to my inbox where ten new messages wait for me. Scrolling, I see that none are from Rowan Iverson. Unless he’s using an alias online.
I open the first message.
Ms. Meadows, my name is Miguel Reyes, I’m a reporter with the LA Press and would like to get a comment on a story I’m writing about the need for universal design in public spaces to support true accessibility. My understanding is Rowan Iverson assisted you during a recent trip due to accessibility challenges as a visually impaired woman. Would you be open to speaking with me?
“What?” My eyes almost bulge out of my sockets.
I open the remaining messages. All are requests from reporters from various media outlets. Each asking about Rowan helping me navigate airports. Turns out I’m not the new girlfriend. I’m just…
“His charity case.” I toss the phone onto the coffee table. “Goodbye Rowan, or whoever youreallyare.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Pen-ance
Rowan
The heavy clatter of weights reverberates around the training room. Daily workouts aren’t mandatory during the off-season, but I’ve not lost the habit. It keeps me at peak physical strength for the upcoming season, even if I’ll spend the first five games watching from the stands instead of playing. My suspension means I can’t be within fifty feet of the bench, penalty box or dressing room. Completely cut off.
Lifting also offers some momentary mental clarity and respite from all that torments me. With each mile on the treadmill or rep on a weight bench my brain settles into my workout and away from everything else. It’s why I drove from my condo to the Bobcat’s training center. Every morning, no matter where I am, I wake at six a.m. to workout.
Not every morning.With another triceps kickback, I attempt to push away the sensation of waking up just three days ago with Pen snuggled into me. The melodic hum of her steady breaths. The softness of her body pressed against me. The utterrelaxation coursing through my veins at her in my arms and the panic that induced. It’s what drove me from her bed.
It’s not her you’re protecting. Greg’s smug face flashes in my eyes.
“Damnit,” I growl and drop the weights to the ground with a loudclunk.
“Tossing the equipment around won’t help you get brownie points that I assume you’re trying to get by being here while your teammates are on vacation.”
