Page 35 of The Defender
“We created some guides and games to help you remember this info later,” I said. “I can?—”
“Thank you, Brooklyn.” Jones cut me off. “We’re out of time, but this is only the first week of our monthly cycle. Next week, we’ll focus on practical applications of the concepts we learned today…”
I snapped my mouth shut. My teeth ground together before I forced myself to relax.
I thought games were a fun way to engage the team, but Jones thought they were “infantilizing.” I mean, yes, Sports Nutrition Bingo wasn’t a peer-reviewed journal article, but we were dealing with footballers. If anyone liked a good game, it was them.
Jones kept talking. So much for running out of time.
I held back a sigh. I ignored Henry when he tried to engage me in conversation again about his night out at Neon and scanned the room instead.
The players all sat in front of their respective lockers. Most were paying attention, but a few were definitely zoning out. Stevens kept sneaking peeks at his phone, and every minute or so, Adil would whisper something to an exasperated-looking Noah.
My gaze skimmed over Asher and landed on Vincent. Like the others, he was dressed in a black-and-purple training kit. His long-sleeved shirt hugged his muscles, and the purple contrasted perfectly with his dark coloring. He lounged against his locker, his expression intent as Jones finally ceded the floor to Greely, the assistant coach. My dad wasn’t here. He rarely attended presentations, so Greely often stepped in for him until the actual training started.
Vincent must’ve felt my eyes on him because he turned his head, ever so slightly, toward me.
Our gazes met, and my pulse slowed to a breathless crawl.
We hadn’t talked much since our texts on Friday night. I’d spent all weekend in my room, working on the ISNA application, but every so often, images of our messages would float through my head.
We don’t love each other.
We don’t hate each other either.
Two sentences that encapsulated our long-standing dynamic. For over a year, we’d held fast on the middle ground between love and hate. Neutral, convenient,safe.
But our new living situation had upended that entire dynamic. I couldn’t escape him anymore. He was always there, taking up space and filling up my thoughts, and the more time we spent together, the further I inched away from the middle ground.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t headed in the direction I wanted, but I couldn’t find a way to reverse course.
Vincent’s gaze flickered at the edges, his expression inscrutable. We were across the room from each other, yet I could practically smell the subtle spice of his aftershave and feel the warmth of his skin against mine.
My heartbeat thundered in my ears. He leaned forward, and?—
Loud chatter broke out. The tension fractured, and blood rushed to my face as I realized the team had been dismissed.
Players swarmed toward the exit. Vincent remained in his seat, his gaze holding mine for an extra beat before he stood and followed them out to the pitch.
It wasn’t until he was out of sight that I released a shaky breath.
Our moment had lasted less than a minute, but like our texts, it lingered on my mind far longer than it should’ve.
While the team trained outside, Henry and I returned to our joint office. Thankfully, he’d stopped regaling me with tales of his tequila-fueled birthday party—for a nutritionist, he drankquite a lot—and I was able to focus on my work. Hours passed, and I was about to head out when Jones called me to his office.
“Good luck,” Henry said without taking his eyes off his screen. He was reading a fitness article that conveniently featured a half-naked photo of a Victoria’s Secret model.
Good luck? What was that supposed to mean?
My stomach pinched with nerves as I entered Jones’s office and took the seat opposite his.
It’s fine. He’s not going to fire you.I only had a month or so left in my internship, and I’d been a model employee. Well, except for that time Henry asked me to “please fetch some tea” for him, and I dumped a heap of salt in there instead of sugar. He never asked me to get him a drink again.
“You did a good job on the presentation today,” Jones said. “Minus the part about the games at the end.”
“Thank you,” I said politely, fighting the urge to sigh.
Jones had worked at Blackcastle for fifteen years. I respected him, but I secretly thought he was a bit too rigid. It was either his way or the highway. There was no room for argument.
