Chapter 50
ACE
The leg press slams down at the end of my set, weights clanging a little too obnoxiously loudly when I don’t control the machine all the way to the bottom as I should do. Today? I don’t particularly give a fuck about weight room etiquette.
A long grunt of relief rips out of me as I stay in the seat for a moment, knees bent, while my chest heaves, my quads and hamstrings burn, and I catch my breath.
Sweat drips in my eyes briefly before I lift my tank to wipe at my brow, then simply end up pulling the whole thing off.
I bunch it up and scrub it back and forth over my whole face, tempted to use it to smother a groan.
I’ve pushed myself hard today. But limping out of here with cramp and jelly legs is a welcome and very necessary distraction from topics and thoughts I don’t particularly want to address memories of.
Things like poor decisions.
Things like midnight kitchen run-ins.
Things like kissing my best friend’s little sister.
Mistakes I can’t undo, like taking her mouth and losing my control, all while being unable to shake the subtle feeling of Renfro from my mind.
She’s his girl. But he’s my… I don’t even know what the fuck to call him.
Adding to that, she’s my scent match. And the most fucked-up part of it all is that I can’t say shit about any of it without ruining everything.
That fucking kiss.
I’m an idiot. A complete moron who can’t be trusted to be alone in the same room as Wren Murphy, that much is clear.
She walked in, and it took all of five minutes before I had my tongue rammed down her throat, drinking the sweet nectar of every single one of her soft moans.
My phone pings from where it’s sitting on the floor with my water bottle beside the machine.
I heave myself off the leg press and give it a functional wipe down.
I’m sure half the team doesn’t even bother when they use any of the equipment in here, but I’d rather not leave a sweaty outline for the next guy who comes along on their circuit.
Other members from the team and some of our development squad are also in here training, but I’ve kept my headphones on with my usual leave me alone scowl.
Look, it’s nothing personal, and it’s not that I’m against training with the team, but fuck, I see them and their stupid goddamn faces damn well every day. Sometimes a guy just wants to throw some heavy weights around and deal with his guilt in peace.
I’m expecting it to be Renfro texting me, or Murphy. Except when I swipe open my notifications, it’s a different Murphy I’m confronted with.
Unknown Number:
Hey, I’m sorry to text out of the blue, but I could really use your help. It’s kind of important, and your opinion is the one I trust the most on this.
Oh, it’s Wren, by the way!
What the fuck?
Wren has my number?
Wren Murphy has my number and is texting me?
Wren Murphy has my number, is texting me, and wants my opinion on something?
My stomach clenches, and I hurriedly look over at the rest of the room to make sure no one from the team is lurking right there.
I’ve seen it happen a hundred times to other guys in the past. Dudes think they’re being sly, texting a hookup in secret, and next minute, some big mouth has read everything out loud, word for word, over his shoulder.
Like a fucking primetime broadcast around the entire locker room.
I stare at the screen, dragging a palm over my mouth as I try to work out what to do here. My heart fucking pounds, palms going clammy.
Do I reply?
Do I delete her text?
Do I march into Theo Brennan’s office, put in for a transfer, and move to a West Coast conference team?
I quickly save her contact in my phone. Fuck. I’m so fucked.
Peaches:
Please?
Atlas Palamo wouldn’t say no to this face, would he?
She immediately sends a photo, and my entire stomach goes through a fucking somersault when I initially think it’s going to be a selfie—in which case, I think deleting my entire phone’s contents wouldn’t even be safe enough to make sure Murphy didn’t discover I had a photo of his sister and send me to an early grave—except what comes through is a slobbery wet nose, whiskers, and shining, light-brown eyes.
Ruby.
I almost crack a grin but catch it fast before any of my team spots me smiling at my phone.
That would be like blood in the water to those fucking sharks.
Crumpling my brows into a suitable scowl-frown situation, I type with the sort of painfully slow speed only I can manage.
Voice to text is way fucking easier, but I’m not about to do that in here where the team can hear me.
Me:
Just at training. But for Ruby girl, I can make time.
Peaches:
Shit. I’m sorry! I made an educated guess and assumed you might have already been finished for the day.
Yeah, I probably should be. It’s not Wren’s fault that I’m all kinds of twisted up over her and needing to put in an extra-long session of weights to avoid the inevitable.
Going to Theo’s place.
Scenting her everywhere.
Me:
It’s fine. You caught me between sets.
Peaches:
Promise?
Me:
What can I help with?
Peaches:
Okay, well, I’m doing the graphics for Wagging Tails’s Instagram. Except I’ve totally stared at it all for too long, and I need a second opinion on what I’ve made.
Me:
I’m telling you now, whatever it is, it will be great.
Peaches:
You don’t know that.
I’m feeling the weight of these dogs’ future online stardom resting on my shoulders. What if I don’t do them justice? They’ll never forgive me if I mess up their online debut.
That’s a lot of canine pressure.
Me:
I really don’t know. I’m no good at this stuff.
I just play rugby.
Peaches:
You can’t give me the gruff ‘I’m just a rugby player’ routine. I was there for that interview, remember?
I know all your secrets.
My pulse kicks up a notch reading Wren’s text. There’s no stopping me from overthinking it. Is she hinting at our kiss? Is she saying she’s realized why I always keep my distance? Does she know we’re scent matches and she just hasn’t said anything because she doesn’t want me at all?
Fuck.
I rub a hand over the center of my chest absent mindedly as I contemplate what the hell to even say to that.
This right here is my entire problem. This is why I don’t engage with her.
This is what happens: I’m always a clumsy oaf tripping over my words and have no idea what to even say to this girl.
Because I shouldn’t be saying anything to her at all.
I’ve spent so many years shoving any and all thoughts about Wren out of my mind, pretending she doesn’t exist—because she isn’t an option, she’s a girl who simply can’t exist for me—and now here she is, seemingly thrust in my face at every turn, and I simply don’t fucking know how to handle it.
Me:
You should probably text Renfro.
There. That’s it. Problem solved. I’ve done the right thing and told her to go talk to him instead.
He’s basically her boyfriend, right? And I can guarantee he’ll be over the moon to curl up with her on the couch and scroll through whatever graphics she’s created on her laptop together.
That’s what he’s excellent at. He’ll be charming and swoony and then probably pound her into the mattress, wrapping her around his knot all night long. Real coupley shit.
Peaches:
C’mon, I know how much you adore those furry goofballs. You must have a preference?
I shake my head, almost muttering out loud to myself. But I type out my grumbling instead.
Me:
What would I know?
I tackle guys into the turf. I throw a rugby ball around. I’m unqualified to look at something as important as your course project.
Peaches:
Ahh, that’s where you’re wrong, Palamo. We have this thing in marketing called consumer profiling.
Consider yourself my life-sized guinea pig.
Me:
Right now, I feel more like a lab rat…
Peaches:
Rodents have incredibly high IQs.
Me:
Did you seriously just call me a rodent?
Peaches:
Thank you for helping.
Here, I’m going to send them through now. Take a look at these and let me know what I need to change, would you?
Wren ignores me, and suddenly I’m on the receiving end of twenty or so graphics of the different dogs up for adoption at Wagging Tails.
My chest squeezes. They honestly look amazing.
Each photo manages to capture their personalities, from the excitable to the cuddly snugglers, from the extroverts to the shy, nervous ones.
I’m kind of in awe. Each has a little profile to go with their photo, capturing their likes and dislikes, all done in a way that really makes their uniqueness shine, without making any of their special traits that need to be considered when adopting sound like a flaw.
Peaches:
I’m hoping you’re awestruck into silence.
Not trying to think of a polite way to tell me that I need to seriously reconsider my career path.
Me:
They’re incredible. Seriously.
My fingers itch to write more. Things I want to say but can’t.
You’re incredible.
Do you have any idea just how special you are?
Did you know your scent is like a midsummer’s day and my favorite pie all rolled into one? The fruit my mom used to take me to pick after school, and then she’d bake one to celebrate after every game I played in the junior league, while she was still alive?
Peaches:
You’re not just saying that because you’ve got weights to lift and you want to get rid of me?
Me:
Those dogs are superstars in your hands. They’ve never looked more dashing.
Peaches:
Okay… I’m choosing to believe you.
I do like those, but I was considering something like this as an alternative?
As I watch her text come through, I reach for my drink bottle, tipping it back to take another sip while holding the phone in front of me. Another image comes through, and this time, when it pops up on my screen, I choke on the mouthful of water, spraying it everywhere.