When practice ends, we all make our way to the showers. My calves are on fire and an ache has settled into my lower back. In the locker room, I shed my clothes and grab a towel before heading for the stalls and making quick work of rinsing off the day’s dirt, sweat, and blood. I have no intention of sticking around any longer than I need to. No need to chance another confrontation with Holt. Not when I’m as hot-headed as I am right now.
Done in the shower, I grab my clothes and get dressed before retrieving my things from my locker. Shouldering my bag, I linger a few minutes while the other guys finish up. Holt is talking nonsense a few rows away, and I tune his aggravating voice out.
We need to come up with a plan. One that actually has a shot of working, because on top of what Holt did to Cecilia, if today’s practice is anything to go by, he’s becoming a goddamn liability for the team.
Glancing at my phone, I fight the urge to text Cecilia. To see if she’s okay.
She was visibly shaken after her encounter with Holt. But I know she wouldn’t have accepted any comfort from me. She wants to stand on her own two feet. I get that. But there’s nothing wrong with having a support system. With having people in your corner to watch your back. It’s what I have with Felix, Atticus, and Julio. Hell, after today, I feel confident enough to add Deacon into that mix.
Cecilia needs to know she has people. She has me.
I should message her.
I’m going to message her.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard and I type out a text only to delete it.
Fuck.
It’s not complicated. We’re not together, but we can still talk. Right? I mean, we haven’t. Not for the past several weeks. But we could. There’s no rule saying we can’t be … friends.
The word is bitter as I roll it around in my head.
I don’t want to be her friend. The thoughts I have when it comes to Cecilia Russo aren’tfriendly.They’re obsessive. Consuming. I want to know the girl inside and out. On an intimate level.
I want to know the girl she was before the assault. Know the survivor she’s become. The fighter she is each and every day.
And I want to meet the amazing woman I know she’ll be after she has time to heal. I want to know every version there is to know of Cecilia. And I want to lay claim to every goddamn one of them.
Fuck, I’m going to turn into a stalker or some shit with the way my thoughts are wandering, but I can’t help it.
I want to own her. Mind, body, and soul. To strip her bare and memorize every inch of her sun-kissed skin. To get inside her head and know her innermost thoughts. Her secrets. Her fears.
Friends.
I barely manage to stifle a laugh and shake my head as I continue glowering down at my phone. No. I don’t want to be her friend. But if soccer has taught me anything, it’s that forward progressis never instant. I’m used to delayed gratification, and winning Cecilia back will be the sweetest form that there is.
Decision made, I type out a quick message.
Me: Hey.
She has her messages set to show read, so I see the moment she opens my text.
Seconds tick by without a reply, and I consider typing out another one.
Am I that guy now? The one who sends a string of messages in some desperate bid to get a chick’s attention?
There are no little bubbles. Nothing to indicate she has any intention of responding.
I rub the back of my neck. Fuck it. Guess I am that guy.
Me: Can we ta?—
I delete the text without sending it and try again.
Me: How are you?—
No. Shit. Why is this so hard? I delete my second attempt and take a deep breath. Just be casual. She won’t want me checking in on her. Despite Austin being a fucking creep. I know asking how she’s holding up is the last thing she wants to hear from me. It’ll just make her throw more walls up.
