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Finally, they rise as Trina purses her lips, then says, like the words are candy in her mouth, “I guess it’s a good thing that you’re so…flexible.”
I roll my eyes. “Why did I tell all of you?”
I just gave my friends the overview of the last week or so. I had to. I didn’t want to feel all these feelings alone. And really, who would better understand than the women who know what it’s like to fall for more than one guy at once?
“So what happens next?” Trina asks, lifting her coffee cup. “I mean, besides you getting a day-long massage after the pounding you took?”
“I guess we’re just friends?”
Trina frowns. Ivy furrows her brow.
Aubrey hums then asks, “Is that what you want?”
“It’s what we all agreed to,” I say, a non-answer.
Aubrey fixes me with an intense stare in her brown eyes. “But is that what you want?”
It’s a fair question. But I don’t know if I can have what I want. But maybe I can have enough. “I want…them in my life. And I know they all have so much going on. Their careers, the team, the game,” I say, and that barely covers the complication.
Ivy arches a brow doubtfully. “Don’t lie to us. Don’t fake your feelings.”
I wince from her raw words. That’s what I’ve done, in a way, for a long, long time. I stop doing it. “I want…more but that doesn’t mean I’ll get it.”
Ivy squeezes my arm and gives me a soft, sad smile, understanding that you don’t always get what you want.
We’re quiet for a moment, nursing our drinks before Aubrey asks, “So which yoga move was the most useful?”
I’m stone-faced as I answer. “All of them, Aubrey. All of them.”
I go home, settle in at a cheap card table I bought at the thrift shop along with a hard metal chair, flip open my laptop, and spend the evening and the next day finishing my column for Steven’s website, adding the byline Just A Girl. After I read it over ten times and show it to my friends for feedback, I hit submit on the piece titled Cracking the Case of the Missing O—A Guide for the Great Boyfriend.
That’s done. And really, that was the point of the last week—to learn what makes a great boyfriend.
That’s what I tell myself.
That’s what I have to tell myself.
The next day I’m at the Sea Dogs arena, setting up mats in a workout room for the guys on the team, settling back into my regular routine.
One of the forwards strides in. Wesley was just recently traded to the team earlier this season, but he’s settled in quickly and makes friends with everyone. He’s dressed in shorts and a T-shirt with the arms lopped off. Ink crawls up his arms, black swirls and lines. “Briar, we’ve been having a debate,” he says as the new team captain, a guy named Christian, comes in next. “Who is the best student in this class? It can’t be anybody but me, right?”
Christian scoffs. “You need way too much praise.”
“No. I just speak the truth.”
“I never play. You’re all excellent,” I say.
“You heard her. I’m the best,” Wesley says.
The rest of the guys wander in, including Trina’s husbands—Chase, the former captain who stepped down so he’d have more free time for her and their dogs, and Ryker. The other guys filter in, too, and when everyone sets up, I say, “Now let’s work on a little yoga for stress relief. You all work so hard as a team, and Nova and I thought it’d be good to help let go of some of that…also as a team.”
They grumble but do the class anyway.
As they stretch, twist, and just breathe, I’m reminded of how important it is that all the guys rely on each other.
Like my guys. They’re off in Chicago today, probably working out before their game this afternoon. Are they in sync even more than usual?
When I leave class, I send Rhys a note, asking if he met with his agent. It’s what a friend would do, after all.
