Page 5 of The No Try Zone
How many people like me does she talk to in a day? Horrified, maybe a little humiliated but trying to keep it together, willing ourselves to paste on a smile in hopes it’ll get her to press some magic button that undoes the past twenty-four hours?
I couldn’t move. Because if I moved, then I was giving up. But what else was there to do? As I stood there, pushing my thumbnail beneath my other nails in succession, the woman’s eyes flicked to the line behind me. It wasn’t subtle.
So I thanked her and left, the ring burning a hole in my jeans pocket.
I lean back and stare out the window at the desert below as the plane takes off, literally disconnecting me from the city that chewed me up and spit me out. It’s not long before the plane flies over the Grand Canyon, and I lean back, letting myself fall into that drowsy area between sleep and wakefulness, hoping for the memories of last night to lock into place.
Chapter1
Colin
24 Hours Earlier
ISHOULD LEAVE.
That’s the first thing I think when the woman slides onto the stool to my right, taking the last open seat.
I should definitely leave. Especially with the way she caught my attention in under a millisecond as she waltzed my way, her reflection holding me captive in the bar’s mirrors. Long blond hair swishing as she walks, chin up, one hundred percent confidence with a touch ofdon’t fuck with meattitude. She’s not looking for anything, not interested in anyone.
And it’s exactly why I should be grateful she’s sitting next to me. Because I’m not interested in anyone either.
I’m here to relax. That’s it. To take time for myself and just be. Which my sister thought was hilarious, and precisely why I came by myself. I have seventy-two hours before my life completely changes. Why not spend a couple of days doing something I’ve never done?
“Sure, Colin,” my sister had laughed. “Take your controlling self to Las Vegas. Let’s hope you’re not eaten alive.”
The scent of something woodsy and feminine drifts toward me as I tip my tequila back, and I palm the bar to hold myself together. This woman has not so much as looked at me, but it doesn’t matter. There is no world in which I could ignore her. No world in which I’dwantto, despite every rule I have. I set the glass down, my jaw tightening.
The bartender is in front of her almost instantly, ignoring the other patrons and offering a friendly grin that says he’s more than happy to provide her with anything she wants.Anything.I’ve been a coach for far too long not to recognize that look in all its various forms.
“Do you have any Australian wines?” she asks above the din, her accent immediately placing her from the very country she’s asking about.
He nods, and she orders a Chardonnay before shifting in her seat. She pulls a book out of her tote, and the signal is plenty loud: Don’t engage.
I keep my attention on the wall of televisions looming behind the bar, their screens giving me glimpses at current and older games of just about every sport I can imagine: baseball, golf, boxing, Formula 1, football, even cricket. The screen with the one sport I want to watch, rugby, is way over at the other end of the bar, and the entire place is packed. Never mind that this is one of countless bars in this hotel, or that there are at least a hundred more just like it along the Strip. There’s no moving. Besides, I can see the screen well enough if I angle my head just right.
I squint. Looks like a rerun of Ireland playing the All Blacks last year, over in Chicago. Great game. What I’d give to have that level of talent to choose from. But here in the U.S., football gets most of it. Still, I’m on the cusp of signing to coach the Atlanta Granite, one of our pro league teams, and that means I finally get my chance to make a real impact. Years of hard work and sacrifice have led me to this point. Years of effort, all with the singular goal of supporting my family. I promised my grandfather I’d take care of my mom and sister, and I always keep my promises. And now I’m here, so close to having everything in my grasp. All I have to do is keep my head down and stay focused.
On the screen, Ireland’s eighth man sprints down the pitch at Soldier Field, tossing the ball behind him with barely a glance. Number seven, the openside flanker, grabs and tosses it in one smooth motion back to the eighth man while the All Blacks surround them, tightening and pressing in. The game moves incredibly fast, but if you’ve played and coached as long as I have, it’s like watching a ballet with dancers at the height of their careers. It’s fluid and beautiful, with an element of elegance even as the guys dive and tackle, ruck and maul. There’s a level of respect and etiquette on the pitch that you don’t get in any other sport. Well, usually. Sometimes you reallydojust want to beat the shit out of the other team with zero mercy. But most of the time the sport truly adheres to the old saying: rugby is a hooligan’s game played by gentlemen.
The bartender brings her the wine and she hands over her card. “Open tab?” he asks, and she shakes her head.
“One drink only.” She glances at me in the mirror as the bartender moves away, her expression neutral, assessing.
All I do is dip my chin in return. A silent confirmation that I see her, I see her book, and I don’t plan on talking if she doesn’t. Do I think she’s going to be left alone? No. But will I be the person to bother her? Absolutely not.
Sure enough, she’s not turned two pages of her book before some asshole in a too-tight button-down and eye-watering amounts of cologne is bending into her space on the other side, leering down her shirt before attempting to make eye contact. She doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge him.
He keeps standing there, clearly wanting her to engage.
She doesn’t. Instead, she turns the page and takes a sip of wine. All without looking up.
My lips quirk.
“You here alone?” the guy finally asks.
It’s all I need to fully turn my attention to the two of them.
She flips another page and deigns to glance at him before looking right back at her book. “Yes. And it’s going to stay that way.”
