Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 86064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
He looks off as he considers his words, his slanted black brows pinching together. “Yes and no, obviously. Do I miss the guys? The thrill of battle and the satisfaction of victory? Of course, I do. It’s addictive and one that’s hard to break.”
An addiction? All my alarm bells go off.
He walks over to where Camilla sits and runs his fingers through her hair.
“Do I miss feeling like tenderized meat every Monday morning? Do I miss considering whether I can make love to my wife because the pain is so bad? Fuck, no. But mostly I don’t want to be away from my family. The traveling was the worst for me.”
“Grant doesn’t think he has anything else.”
“He doesn’t need a talking to. He needs to be issued a beatdown. He’d be a great coach. And knowing Grant, he’d thrive in it at the NFL level. The coaching is as competitive as the playing.”
Looking up at my big brother, with all the responsibility that was foisted on him at such a young age, it’s a miracle he turned out as well as he did.
“Thanks,” I say with a smile.
“Are you coming to the ceremony?” The Titans are retiring his jersey at next weekend’s home opener and we’re all going to honor him.
“Of course. I’m so proud of you. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“He’ll be there.”
“Don’t remind me.”
It’s an unwritten rule that when things look bleakest, when you’re sure they can’t get worse––they usually do. The Monday after spending a beautiful weekend with my brother and his family, Ronan served me with papers requesting joint custody.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“Ms. Shaw, this is Amy Green. I’m writing an authorized biography on Ronan McCabe. He gave me your number. I’d appreciate it if we could meet for coffee sometime. I’d like to speak to you about him.”
It’s the third message she’s left in two weeks. I call her back and arrange to meet her for coffee. The walk from our apartment in the West Village to my place of business on Hudson Street, where The Bend is located, is exactly twenty minutes depending on the weather.
Even though it’s September the city air feels solid, sticky, and oppressively warm with the lack of breeze. As bad as it is, walking around downtown Manhattan is at the top of my list of favorite things. The vibe here is like no other, the sidewalks always packed with young hipsters and dreamers from faraway lands, students and the ultra rich hoping the cool factor will rub off on them.
I can always draw energy from it. Also the sensory overload stops me from obsessing about Grant. The NFL season kicks off this week and as much as I want to deny it to myself I know I’ll be glued to the sports channels praying I don’t catch any bad news about him.
My cellphone rings again. I fish it out of my messenger bag. The sight of Grant’s name flashing onscreen stirs up too much pain so I send it to voicemail.
I can’t be that for him anymore––the girlfriend with no rules or boundaries. I’m a rules-and-boundaries kind of girl. Always have been. I want it all with him. Not a life where we chase our own dreams separately and try to carve out some time for each other. Like he said, I deserve more. And leotard-wearing Wonder Woman wouldn’t settle for anything else.
After teaching five back-to-back classes, I wait for a few stragglers to file out so I can pick up Sam and head home. There are always a few that take forever and tonight is no different. I watch them say their lazy goodbyes, willing them gone with my pointed stare. The good news––it works.
This space is enormous in comparison to the Hamptons location. It’s a converted turn-of-the-century factory with oversized arched windows and even better––a wait list. I have scraped and bled and sacrificed for this business and Ronan has put me in a position where I might have to sell my share to fund a lengthy custody battle. Not to mention the loan from my brother that I still have to pay off.
Hoping is for suckers.
I walk around, collecting the last of the mats that were not put away, shutting off the lights, when a knock comes from the open doorway. I swivel around to discover Grant standing inside the room dressed in sleek, tapered black running pants, black sneakers, and a gray t-shirt. He looks so good I almost start crying right then and there.
Fortunately, I’m far enough away and the studio is dark enough that I have cover, time to gather my wits and stuff it all back down. If he senses weakness, he’ll never stop. I’ve never met a man with more tenacity and focus; when Grant wants something he gets it. And I’m no match for that. Like Roxy, I’ll inevitably wind up on my back with my boobies in the air.