“That’s no problem. My boss told me I won’t travel much to start.”
“When she’s done with school on weekdays, she either has volleyball practice or goes home with Alessia Carpenter.” His fingers drum against his thigh,as if this is all logistics and he’s still not hard sitting on my table. “You can pick her up from there when you get back to the city on the nights I’m not around. Get her dinner, help with any homework. Yeah?”
I nod. “Of course.” I’ve met Alessia a few times now. She’s married to Natasha’s cousin and her former roommate and a teacher at the elementary school in Brookhaven. She’s also currently pregnant with her and Gabriel’s first child. Funny, spunky, and absolutely head-over-heels for her husband. They’re adorable together.
Seth exhales, nodding once. “Alright. Thanks. Tonight, I’ll be home in time. But Wednesday and Thursday this week, I’ll need you.”
“Got it.” I smile and rest a hand on his arm. “You can trust me.”
His gaze drops to where I’m touching him before slowly lifting back to my face, and the heat between us hits me instantly. But this is normal for me. Natural. I’ve always been touchy, affectionate without thinking twice about it.
Although… maybe I should’ve thought twice this time.
The guy had just started softening beneath his sweatpants, and now the fabric is tightening all over again. His jaw flexes. He clears his throat and shifts, making another painfully obvious adjustment that sends heat rushing straight to my cheeks.
Oops.
“I’ll see Sawyer tomorrow,” I say quickly, pulling my hand away before I accidentally make things worse. “And I promise you won’t regret this.”
I don’t wait for his response, too eager to escape the tension buzzing between us, but just as I reach for the handle, I swear I hear his rough voice behind me—
“I have a feeling I might.”
Chapter 12 – Brianna
“Coach said I’m not starting on Saturday.” Sawyer slams the door of my SUV shut with a little more force than necessary, her pout already firmly in place as she slides into the passenger seat and buckles up.?
I glance at her as I back out of the middle school parking lot. Her arms are crossed over her chest like armor and eyes focused firmly on the dashboard like staring at that will change her circumstances. The push of her bottom lip and the heavy sigh that follows send me straight back to a younger version of myself. I remember this exact feeling, the sting of being overlooked, of feeling like I’d done everything right with my training only to be passed over for someone better.
The last time I remember feeling this way, I was in physical therapy school. I’d had my sights set on a coveted rotation working with the number one quarterback in the NFL. I had straight As, perfect attendance, glowing reviews from all myinstructors, but none of it mattered when they chose someone else despite my qualifications and skills. It had felt like a punch to the gut.
But instead of wallowing, I kept pushing and recognized there must have been a reason I didn’t get the job that I couldn’t see. Eventually my hard work and tenacity ended up paying off. In my next clinical rotation, I landed a spot working with the number one baseball team in the league in Wisconsin which allowed me to be closer to my mom during her last years of life. That’s when I fell in love with baseball. It’s funny how things end up working out.
I reach over and give Sawyer’s arm a gentle reassuring squeeze.
“It’s just the first game. You’ve been working hard. You’ll get your shot. Just because you’re not starting now doesn’t mean you won’t play on Friday.”
She exhales, her arms still folded as her bottom lip wobbles slightly. She’s quiet, and I try to think of what my mom would’ve said to me in this moment—something warm, something encouraging. She probably would have held me in her arms and stroked my hair, too. All the soft words die in my throat as my mind drifts to how badly I miss her.
Ever since she passed away, it’s like all those little encouraging sayings and bits of advice she would give me have slipped further out of reach. I’ve tried to hold on to them, tried to keep her memory alive by carrying her words, traditions, positivity and rituals, but sometimes just thinking about her hurts too much.
I rub at the hollow spot in my chest, a familiar pang of guilt tugging at me. I don’t mean that I want to stop thinking about her. I could never forget her. Iwillnever forget her.
“How about this?” I force a smile, desperate to lighten the mood. “We go home, I spike some volleyballs at you so you can practiceyour digs in the backyard, then we eat a ridiculous amount of pizza and pass out while watching a movie?”
Her lip twitches. The pout lifts just a little as her brown eyes peek toward me. “Pizza?”
“Pizza,” I confirm with a grin.
“And another rom com?”
I smile. “As long as it’s age appropriate, yes.”
“That sounds good.”
She finally uncrosses her arms and reaches for the radio, turning it to her favorite station. Some nasal voice croons about broken trust and heartache—pop music that would’ve been on repeat in my own life when I was her age. It’s catchy and predictable, and I’m certain it’ll be stuck in my head the rest of the night. I sing along with her, matching her energy as she belts the lyrics at the top of her lungs. I get it. Predictability is comforting. It’s why we rewatch the same set of movies, binge our favorite shows on repeat, and reread the same books repeatedly.
In a world that’s constantly shifting, predictability feels safe.
