Page 9 of Heal Me, Love Me

A woman took the aisle seat beside me, gave me a quick smile, then pulled a paperback from her tote bag. I wasn’t trying to read over her shoulder, but the book fell open in her hands, and the first line I saw might as well have been aimed directly at me.

“You motherfucker!” Parker yelled as he dropped his bat and charged toward me.

Great.

Even the universe was throwing enemies-to-lovers bullshit in my face.

I looked away, but not before catching a few more lines.

As soon as he’d stepped into the batter’s box, I was ready to unload. I didn’t wait for a sign from Anderson. I just wound up and threw. The fastball drilled Parker in the ribs, and then it was on.

Of course.

A baseball player getting hit on purpose because someone had decided pain was the easiest way to make a point. Apparently, I’d boarded a flight and sat next to the paperback version of my current emotional breakdown.

“You wanted to kick my ass? Bring it on!”the guy in the book growled.

I turned my attention back to the window before I could read any more. I didn’t need fictional athletes trying to murder each other in front of me too.

Real ones had already done enough damage.

Sacramento was coolerthan LA when I stepped outside the airport, and because it was later and I was running on nothing but fumes, the chill went straight through me. I turned my phone back on to order a rideshare and immediately regretted it once the texts started loading:

Keaton

Please answer me

Devon

Call me back

Derek

Dude where the hell are you?

Mason

Not to be dramatic, but if you’re dead, I’m gonna be pissed

Also Keaton is freaking out

Of course, Keaton was freaking out, and for a second, the worry behind Mason’s message cut through my anger. I knew I should let him know I was safe, but contacting him would open the door to a conversation I couldn’t handle yet, so I locked my phone and slipped it into my pocket. A few minutes later, the rideshare pulled up, and I climbed in. The driver confirmed my name, then followed the route to my parents’ house without another word.

I could’ve gone straight to the rental, but my motorcycle wouldn’t help me move my shit, and I wasn’t about to call anyone from the gym for a favor, not tonight. So I went to the only place I could. I hadn’t planned to show up at my parents’ house without warning, a duffel bag over my shoulder and my whole life coming apart around me, but nothing about tonight had gone according to plan.

When the car pulled up outside, I thanked the driver, grabbed my bag, and walked up the front path. I hesitated at the door, debating whether to knock, ring the bell, or turn around and pretend I hadn’t just flown back from LA because I couldn’t survive one more minute there.

A few seconds after I knocked, the lock clicked, and Mom opened the door wearing one of Dad’s old Air Force sweatshirts and pajama pants, her brow furrowing the second she saw me. “Rowan?”

“Hey, Mom.”

Her gaze dropped to the duffel on my shoulder before she opened the door wider and pulled me into a careful hug. “What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in LA.”

They’d wanted to come to my fight, but I’d talked them out of it, telling them it was just a debut on an undercard and not worth the drive. The truth was, I hadn’t been ready to look across an arena and see my parents watching me get punched in a cage.

“I’m not anymore.”

She eased back, keeping her hands on my arms as she studied my face. “What happened?”