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Unlike the failures of his personal life. The stress of his decision—knowing he’d have to fight hard every day to resist the temptation to return to his sport—combined with the worry over his mom’s health and knowing that he’d upset Lark all over again, was a two-ton weight on his chest. He entered the garage from a side door to edge past his sports car and climb into his pickup truck.
He needed a break from the building site his home had become. A break from the media and the pressure of getting back in the game. He hit the button to open the garage door and started the truck’s engine.
“I’m looking forward to some downtime,” he reminded Dex, for what seemed like the tenth time, as he swapped the phone to Bluetooth through the vehicle’s speakers.
He hadn’t said much to his agent about the situation with his mom since, at the end of the day, they weren’t really friends. Gibson respected Dex’s business savvy, but he wasn’t all that certain the guy had a life outside of sports.
Dexter spoke over the background noise of city streets, traffic and whistles, horns and air brakes. “You thought that once before though, remember?”
Of course he did. He’d been ready to retire to save his marriage. After a tough road trip through Canada, he’d told his agent he needed to retire, that the time had come to make his marriage a priority. But by the end of that playing season, Lark had already moved out of the home they shared. She’d packed up while he was on the road, not even bothering to inform him they were through until he found the last of her boxes in the foyer of their Los Angeles home.
He’d made the decision to retire a little too late, apparently. So he’d called Dex and told him not to schedule the retirement announcement. He’d played two more seasons until his mother’s health worsened to the point where he couldn’t ignore the decline.
“I remember all too well. But this time is different.” Now his mom needed him.
Hell, Gibson had to prove tohimselfthat he could be the son she needed. He’d messed up too many other things in his life to get this wrong.
Gibson backed out of the driveway just as his general contractor arrived for another’s day work on the house addition. Gibson gave the guy a wave as they passed, then he stepped on the gas to head toward one of his favorite Catamount retreats, an old stone bridge that had fallen into disrepair along a backroad not far from his place.
Lark had taken him there once and they’d dangled their feet into the creek. He visited it often whenever he was in town now, always in hope of the peace they’d experienced there—together—that first time. Somehow, the spot was never quite the same without her, but that didn’t stop him from returning there anyway.
“But the offers are only going to be available for so long, Gibson. You know that as well as I do.” Dexter’s warning felt more than a little ominous. “The clock is ticking.”
Nothing like piling on the pressure.
Gibson nodded absently, even though his agent couldn’t see him, as he drove along the feeder creek for the White River. The road had shade trees on either side, cooling the interior of his truck as they blocked the sun.
“I realize that, and I appreciate you looking out for me. But I don’t see myself changing my mind about this.” No matter how tough it would be to ignore all the texts from his teammates urging him to return for one more season, a year when a playoff run was finally a real possibility. Tough enough to ignore the social media stories from fellow players touting their off-season workouts.
Normally by this time of year, Gibson would be deep into endurance training to prepare for the fall, traditionally his favorite time of year.
Disconnecting the call on his dash, he planned to leave his phone in the truck cab once he reached the bridge. That way, he wouldn’t be tempted to scroll.
And he wouldn’t be distracted by any more photos of Lark.
Even though he wassurehe’d seen signs of a spark between them in that picture that had run of them together. He was grateful when the bridge came into view up ahead since he needed some peace.
Except he wouldn’t be finding it anytime too soon because he could see the tall, sexy figure of his ex-wife already there.
Three
Fingernails digging into the soft bark of a birch tree, Lark heard an approaching vehicle. Her breath hitched even before she turned to see her ex-husband’s dust-covered blue pickup trundling along the bumpy road.
Had she come here—to a favorite spot of hers that she’d once shared with him—purposely hoping she might run into Gibson?
Of course not, she thought to herself as she turned back to the view of the shallow creek water rushing just below her feet. She was simply too stubborn to relinquish a spot she loved to him. She’d refused to take much from their marriage when they had ended things, recognizing that she’d brought little enough into the union with her very average salary and minimal belongings. But this? This quiet retreat place near the old bridge had beenhersfirst.
Her spine stiffened at the sound of his truck door slamming. The crunch of his boots across dried leaves and pine needles on the forest floor.
Belly tightening as he approached, she forced out a long breath to calm the swell of emotion.
“I know I can’t keep you from living in Catamount,” she reminded him, lifting a stick from the ground to swipe through the surface of the creek. “But I don’t think it’s too much to ask if I want to claim this spot as my own.”
Even her own ears could discern that she sounded more like a wounded child than a grown-ass woman. Why was it that this man could bring out the worst in her?
His step paused. Birds chirped and fluttered through tree branches overhead as Gibson went silent, giving her a moment to rethink her approach. A moment to regret. But before she could recant the inhospitable words, he spoke.
“You’re right. It’s not too much to ask.” The timbre of his voice shot through her, the vibration of it familiar. Entwined with happy memories, not just sad ones. “Would you like me to go?”
