Page 57 of The No Try Zone
The woman I met in Vegas isn’t here. That woman was sure of herself in a way that the woman who is at this very moment out on the pitch with her brother isn’t. Yes, the Sam down there is sure of herself – very,verysure of herself, actually, and it’s sexy as hell – but it’s different. The Sam in Vegas was warm and open. Trusting. She believed in herself, and for some reason, she believed in me. The smiles I got from her that night are ones that I have yet to see again. I’ve gotten close to seeing them, but since we returned after Christmas? Nothing.
That’s the part that fucks me up.
I shake my head and turn away from the window. She’s fine. I’m fine. This is the right thing to do.
I just need to concentrate on the upcoming season, which is coming up quickly. Sam will do her thing and I’ll do mine. It’s what I wanted.
But if it’s what I wanted, then how come all I want to do is sink to my knees and beg the woman I met in Las Vegas to come back?
I step to the window and look back down. Sam’s out there with Ollie, Ansel, Carter, Woods, and Lennox. And they’re doing…yoga? I’d heard she was doing sessions for the staff while we practiced outside. I watch, unable to help a sigh as Kari comes into view with a phone. I know they have to film content to put out there, but I swear half of it is thirst-trap material.
The men sink into the saddest imitation of a warrior pose that I think I’ve ever seen, and Kari winces even as she keeps the phone trained on them. Ouch. My players clearly need to stretch more.
This is the kind of thing she’s supposed to be doing.
It is. I know it is. And it’s got nothing to do with me. With us. There is no us.
Her chin lifts, and I’m certain she can see me looking at her. I freeze. Maybe she can’t. Maybe if I stay still, she’ll think it’s a trick of the light and ignore me. But she doesn’t stop looking. And because I’m nothing if not a pathetic shell of a man, I raise my hand and place it on the glass.
She looks away.
I curse and back up.I’m an idiot.I need to focus. She’s clearly moved on. It’s what I wanted. What I made happen when I acted like an utter and complete asshole. Being ignored by her is the nicest thing she could do, and I’d do well to remember it. This is the woman I’m married to, after all. There’s nothing stopping her from going to Scott and telling him everything. Or telling Neesha in HR. Or even going to the press, though I doubt she’d do that.
I flop into the desk chair and swivel, taking in the office. The framed jerseys from the past five seasons I asked to be mounted, the table and chairs where I meet with Ryan and Elliott, the blue of the sky, the couch. Everything I’ve killed myself to get to, and all I feel is hollow.
Chapter21
Sam
ICAN ALMOST convince myself that the man who is the Granite’s head coach is just that: the head coach of the team I work for. My boss’s boss. He’s not the man I met and married in Las Vegas. He’s not the man who made me feel safe and seen and loved just for being myself. He’s not the man who made me come so hard I saw stars and basically said everything we’d done was a mistake. Nope. He’s just the head coach of the Atlanta Granite, the team that I’m lucky enough to be working for as a physical therapist.
I remind myself that I signed a no-fraternization policy when I started. That I’d broken it before I even signed it. That I blew right through it when I had sex with the head coach in his office.
The head coach. Not my husband. Not the man who cherished me for a few precious hours in the heat of the Las Vegas desert last summer.
That’s what I tell myself as I walk up to his office to see about carving out an hour for some basic yoga stretches with the team three times a week. We can talk business. We’ve done it well enough over the last couple of weeks. We’ll keep doing it. And if I die inside a little every time we talk, then that’s fine. I’ll just keep picking up those pieces of my shattered heart and gluing them back.
He’s standing behind his desk when I rap on the doorframe, holding a piece of paper and staring at it with an unreadable expression on his face.
“Coach?” I use the term on purpose. No more Colin. And definitely no more Matthew.
He looks up, color draining from his face as he drops the paper. Our eyes meet. His mouth opens and closes soundlessly, the picture of anguish.
My chest squeezes and I fold instantly, using the name I hope works. “Colin.”
That seems to snap him out of it. “It’s real,” he croaks.
“What’s real? Are you okay?” I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t ask him. It shouldn’t matter. I fold my arms, reeling my emotions in and reminding myself that whatever problems he has aren’t mine to share or solve. “You know what? Never mind. Forget I asked that. I think we need to wrap yoga into the team’s –”
He shakes his head. “You’re not listening. It’s real.” His voice cracks on the last word.
I find myself standing in front of his desk with no memory of getting there.God dammit.Closing my eyes, I take a moment to remind my body that it answers to me and not Colin. When I open them, my gaze goes straight to him. But he’s staring at the paper on the desk, so I do the same.
And there, staring up at me, is an oversized piece of paper with the wordsCERTIFICATE OF MARRIAGEemblazoned across the top. I’m looking at it upside down and the typeset is so fancy it’s almost unreadable, but there is absolutely no mistaking those words.
It’s also painfully easy to read the words below it.COLIN MICHAEL THICKEandSAMANTHA ABIGAIL NASH.
It’s cold in here. Very cold.
