14. Sarina
fourteen
sarina
If You’re Going to Make Sounds Like That
“W ait a minute.” I stare at the massive yacht bobbing under the marina’s morning light. “When you said you booked a restaurant, I was thinking more like IHOP.”
His lips tip up.
Have I mentioned how much I love his lips? Or his beard? They’re a dangerous combination of soft and rough—full lips centered between a perfectly maintained short beard. A beard that left the most delicious burns on my inner thighs all those months ago. A beard I can still feel the sensation of, even now when I look at him.
And God, if just looking at him doesn’t make me clench my thighs involuntarily.
What am I thinking, wanting a friendship with this man? Can a girl even have a friendship with someone she imagines doing very “unfriendly” things to her alone in her bed? When she imagines his fingers in place of her own?
Can two people who have this kind of pull between them—who’ve shared the kind of night we shared—ever be “just friends”?
A part of me demands answers while the other provides them. Yes, they can be. They have to be. Because I’ve lived through this rollercoaster before—the perfect highs followed by dreadful lows. A ride so nauseating that, when it’s over, all that’s left are the bruises—the scrutiny, the constant pressure to be deemed worthy, and the fear of being replaced.
And yet . . . there’s something disarming about Troy. Something that threatens the foundation of my sky-high walls. Something that I want to believe is unlike any man before him. Like when he looks at me, he doesn’t see an object to own or improve, but just . . . me.
The kind of look that makes me wonder if maybe, just maybe . . .
Nope. Like I said, I’ve been on this ride before.
“Technically, it has a chef and dining area,” he replies, amusement dancing in his eyes. His warm hand rests on my lower back, guiding me toward the gangplank. “So it could still be considered a restaurant . . . just on the water.”
“But . . .” I trail off, trying to ignore how the marina breeze, accentuated with notes from his cologne—that honey and cedarwood I can’t get enough of—makes my stomach flip. “You told me this was going to be casual. A breakfast between friends.”
The corners of his eyes crease. “Isn’t it?”
“Not sure I’ve ever had a friend take me to breakfast on a boat,” I argue, but my traitorous feet continue up the gangplank while my breaths feel shaky, both from anticipation and anxiety.
“A yacht,” Troy corrects me while his thumb rubs a small circle on my lower back, sending a zip of electricity up my spine. “Maybe you need to reevaluate your friendships, then. Plus, I thought this would give us some privacy.”
Privacy. The word has a contradiction of feelings whirling inside me, especially with that glint still in his eyes from when he picked me up. Thank goodness we’ll avoid prying eyes, enthusiastic fans, and paparazzi, but privacy also means being alone with a man who makes my head fuzzy.
“Still, this just feels like a lot for a friendly breakfast .”
He grasps my hand with his left one, leading me the rest of the way up the gangplank. It’s no surprise he’s favoring his left arm—the one not recovering from surgery. He looks back at me with a wink as we continue forward. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were worried about being alone with me, Ms. Spicymustard.”
I narrow my eyes at him, feigning irritation, but it only makes him chuckle.
We reach the deck, and I follow Troy to the bow when my steps falter and my heart does that dangerous flutter it’s getting accustomed to when it comes to this man. The aroma of coffee and fresh food hits my senses as I take in the scene straight out of a magazine.
Several tables are arranged with heavy bouquets of lilacs, covered silver platters, large bowls of fruit, and thermoses of what I suspect are coffee and creamer. Amongst them all, a bowl with packets of mustard.
A plush L-shaped seating area that looks affixed to the deck faces the sparkling water and is adorned with light-blue cushions and several large throw blankets displaying the Blazers’ logo.
“Troy . . .” I whisper almost to myself, but I know he’s heard me. “This is . . .”
So thoughtful. So sweet.
So incredibly dangerous.
“Before you argue with me again,” he protests, guiding me toward the seating. “Everything here is friendly. See? Separate blankets, cushions, and plenty of space. I even brought my referee whistle in case you get handsy with me.” His eyes twinkle as he looks over the marina. “I won’t apologize for the view, though. I know it’s breathtaking.”
Yeah, it really is. But it’s not the marina I’m looking at.
“Is this your yacht?” I ask, sinking into an unbelievably cozy cushion, the breeze pulling a few wisps of my hair.
His hands slip into his pockets. “Her name is Golden Pearl .” He flashes a smile. “Probably no surprise there, huh?” At my soft knowing laugh, he continues, “Both Pearl and I love being on the water; outdoors in general. I bought this after she was born, in her honor.”
“It’s spectacular,” I murmur, watching a pair of seagulls float across the sky. “I don’t know if you’ll ever get me to leave.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Troy lifts his hands, eyes widened in mock surprise. “Are you already planning on moving in? We haven’t even gotten past breakfast.”
“Relax.” I roll my eyes to counter the way my skin heats in embarrassment. “Your yacht and I have an agreement to stay strictly platonic.”
His roared laugh has me giggling, but when our eyes meet, the humor transforms into something else. Something that makes my heart feel like a trapped hummingbird inside my ribs.
Troy clears his throat, breaking off the charged silence between us, and waves at the tables behind him. “Want me to make you a plate?”
“You don’t have to do that.” I rise from my seat. “Especially with your arm. How’s PT going, by the way?”
He shrugs. “I still have a long way to go before I’m able to pitch again or even lift heavier weights, but my doctor says I’m ahead of schedule. Though not being able to show Rome and the other kids how to throw a curveball has been the hardest part of my recovery.”
“Well, Rome talks about your coaching non-stop. So, even if you’re not pitching in front of those kids, you’re making a huge impact on their lives.” I move toward the spread of food, trying to deflect from how soft my voice just got. I take in the array of delicious items that were hidden beneath the silver domes, including his promised pancakes, scrambled eggs, strips of bacon, and . . . my brows rise. “Grilled cheese?”
Troy smiles, pouring us cups of coffee. “I even have mustard packets for you. I may have cleaned out three different delis and gotten myself on a neighborhood watch list, but it was worth it.” He winks. “Told you, I make a mean grilled cheese. Well, you have to taste it and tell me, but I have a feeling you’ll like it.”
I stare at him, dumbfounded. “You made these? When?”
“Earlier this morning. But my chef did the rest.”
“This morning?” I ask in disbelief. “That must have been so early for you?—”
“I wanted to,” he interrupts. “Now, tell me, do you like cream and sugar?”
I nod, though my throat feels clogged as I try to process everything.
Five minutes later, Troy joins me on the large sofa with his plate and coffee as I look out at the marina. I’m sitting in the corner of the L-seating with a blanket on my lap while Troy takes up a space to my left, leaving room between us but close enough for me to catch the notes of his cologne.
After dipping my grilled cheese into the spicy mustard, I take a big bite, surprised by the moan that escapes me. When I look over, I find Troy giving me a knowing smirk. Ugh, he was so right—this is possibly the best damn grilled cheese I’ve ever had.
His eyes heat under his white cap and his smirk disappears. “Sweetheart, if you’re going to make sounds like that during this entire breakfast, it’s going to make being friends fucking torture.”
I nearly choke on my bite, reaching for my coffee. “I’m sorry?—”
“Don’t apologize.” His lips lift. “I’ll take it as a compliment. Though, I’ll admit, hearing those noises of yours again . . .” He takes a sip of his coffee, his gaze making my cheeks ignite.
I shake my head, trying to get some control back, even though it’s clear I’m losing. “Can I ask you something?”
He chuckles, the rumble vibrating between us. “I was just going to say the same thing. Go ahead.”
I pop a piece of cantaloupe into my mouth. “A question for a question?”
“Sure.”
“I’m curious about you and Ellie.” I clear my throat. “I mean, I obviously know how it ended but . . . how did it begin? What made you want to marry her?”
“Wow.” Troy’s brows lift as he finishes the bite of eggs in his mouth. “I guess we’re coming out swinging with the heavy hitters already, huh?”
I give him a sheepish smile. “Should we come back to that one later?”
“No.” He takes another sip of his coffee. “It’s something I really like about you. You don’t bullshit, nor do you accept my bullshit. I like that when you want to know something, you simply ask.” I watch his jaw work as he seems to consider his words. “Ellie was Pearl’s ASL tutor.”
My eyes widen. “Oh . . .”
“She came over a lot, and Pearl started to love and rely on her.” He shifts uncomfortably. “When I was home, I saw the way they connected. Ellie didn’t just communicate with Pearl, she understood her.”
“The way a mom might,” I add, feeling a weight on my chest, knowing it wasn’t just Troy’s heart Ellie broke with her selfish act, but Pearl’s, too.
“Pearl lit up around her, and my parents felt close to Ellie. Hell, even the guys from my team liked her.” He pauses, searching for words. “After a while, I started to think maybe I needed to feel the same way about her. That if my little girl and my family loved her so much, then maybe I should, too.”
“And did you?” I ask, moving some food around on my plate, not meeting his eyes.
Troy’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “I thought I did. Or maybe I just wanted to, for Pearl’s sake. But, deep down, I think I always knew I was trying to force something that just wasn’t there.” He shrugs, a frown pulling down his lips. “I wonder if maybe she felt that, too. Maybe it was the reason she decided to sleep with someone else.”
“That’s not an excuse,” I blurt, my voice sharper than I intended. “If she had doubts about you guys, she had plenty of time before the wedding to express them. Instead, she went on letting Pearl get more attached.” I stab another piece of fruit with more force than necessary. “I could tell she was a piece of work in the brief time I met her, but how she hurt you like that? What a terrible human.”
I can’t help feeling pissed and hurt for Troy and Pearl. Given that Pearl was abandoned by her biological mother, this wasn’t the first time it happened to her. And that just makes me even more furious. Ellie must have known Pearl’s story, and she still chose to do what she did.
Troy moves closer, thighs pressing against mine as he tucks a wisp of hair behind my ear. Taking a quick breath, I try not to flinch at his proximity, hoping he doesn’t see the extra makeup I dabbed around my eye.
“Sometimes what happens is for the best,” he murmurs, his calm eyes trying to tame the fire in my angry ones. “Like Pearl. I wasn’t ready for her, nor was I thrilled about the idea of being a dad at the time. But fuck if she isn’t the best thing that has ever happened to me.” His warm caress finds my jaw, his thumb running along it. “Like you. If Ellie hadn’t done what she did, would I have found my new friend?”
I force myself not to lean into his touch, the heat of his hands branding my skin.
Suddenly, his eyes widen like he’s just realized something. “Shit! That reminds me. I got you something!”
“Me? Haven’t you already done enough?” I ask, watching him disappear into the main cabin before he returns with a gift bag.
He hands it to me with so much pride rolling off him, you’d think he was showing me his trophy collection. “Open it.”
Carefully setting aside my plate, I remove the lilac tissue paper from the bag, tucking it under my plate before peeking inside at the . . . shiny, multi-colored fishtail house slippers.
Troy clears his throat, unable to read the emotion on my face. “I figured since you’ve worn weird slippers at least fifty percent of the times we’ve met . . .”
“Troy . . .” A prick of emotion catches at the corners of my eyes. I quickly discard my sneakers, sliding my feet into my new slippers before giving him a feigned glare. “More like twenty-five percent. And I’ll have you know, the bare-chested centaur slippers you saw me in were limited edition .”
“Oh, I believe you. Those centaurs were clearly hitting the gym.”
I giggle as he settles down next to me again.
Watching me wiggling my feet, he speaks. “Okay, my turn to ask questions.”
“Question,” I correct him. “As in, one question.”
“Pretty sure you asked me fifteen follow-ups after your one question,” he refutes.
“They were more like sub-sections.” I lift a finger when he’s about to speak. “And before you ask, no, you’re not allowed any.”
Leaning back next to me so our thighs and shoulders connect, he pulls a blanket over us to ward off the breeze. “How’s that fair?”
I turn to look at him and God Almighty, he is close—close enough for me to see the silver ring around his golden eyes. Close enough that just a few inches separate his lips from mine.
“My game, my rules,” I mumble, hoping he can’t hear the hammering in my chest.
Troy throws his head back to laugh, his eyes glassy when he looks at me again. “You seem to have a lot of rules, Ms. Spicymustard. And speaking of them, my question is about one of your rules.”
I groan, already knowing where this is going. “Not this again.”
“Yes, this again. Because, as of now, all I know is that you don’t date athletes. Not why you don’t date athletes.”
I sigh, watching boats bob peacefully.
My guarded walls urge me to give him only a sanitized version. My ex-husband was an athlete; it didn’t work out between us and I don’t want to go through that again. Done. End of story.
But something about the past hour we’ve spent together—the privacy, the vulnerability he’s never afraid to show, and his thoughtfulness—urges me to be honest.
He’s right. I despise bullshit, preferring to sit in silence than torture myself or anyone else with mindless drivel. It’s the exact reason I wasn’t able to make friends with the club wives at Jamie’s tournaments. I couldn’t bullshit or hobnob the way they all seemed to do naturally.
“I was married to Jamie Weston,” I finally say.
I decide to start with the most impactful reason for my rule. I’d dated a football player named Travis in college—prior to dropping out after three semesters to go to cosmetology school—who also happened to be a douche. But, given I still have to get back to work today, one story is all I can divulge at the moment. Needless to say, between Travis and Jamie, I learned never to date a man in the spotlight.
Troy nods. “I know who he is.”
“I was his sister’s stylist for her wedding years ago when I lived in Los Angeles for a brief time. That’s how Jamie and I met. At first, it was great, a quintessential romance. Jamie, the golden boy of golf, swept me—this regular girl, still trying to figure things out—off my feet. He was attentive and sweet. Everything you’d expect from a devoted boyfriend.”
I tug the blanket tighter around me as Troy’s arm slides around my shoulders. He pulls me in, and after a moment of hesitation, I let my head fall back on his shoulder.
“Jamie sort of just took control of everything. Within a year, we were married and pregnant.” I let out a hollow laugh. “Looking back, I should have seen it—the way he orchestrated our lives, making decisions before I could even process the options.”
“Sure, I could have, and should have , put the brakes on it. I should have seen the obvious narcissism and emotional manipulation. But when you’re young, na?ve, and in love, red flags aren’t always decipherable. I had no idea what it meant to be the wife of a celebrity—the constant public scrutiny, the cameras, and the fear of never being enough.”
Troy’s fingers find mine under the blanket, squeezing in reassurance.
“And soon, even Jamie’s love became one-sided, replaced by his expectations. His constant need for me to be someone else. Someone better. Someone . . . not me.”
“What . . . ?” Troy’s chest rises and falls against my back, but I don’t miss the way he stiffens. “What do you mean, someone not you ?”
“Someone who could lose the pregnancy weight a month after giving birth. Someone who could play the part of his devoted wife, while looking like a supermodel twenty-four-seven. Someone who didn’t have dreams of her own, and someone who would just focus on making his dreams come true.” I take a breath. “Did you know he wanted me to give up hair styling all together, saying it was a low-class job and we didn’t need unnecessary press?”
Jaw hardening along with his eyes, Troy grits, “He didn’t deserve a fucking minute of your time, Rina.”
Rina.
My fingers freeze under the blanket as I realize I’d been tracing circles on the back of his hand. Even months later, hearing that name on his lips makes my stomach flip. And for reasons I don’t want to acknowledge, I restart my fingers’ movements on his hand.
An alarm bell rings in the recesses of my mind, asking me what the hell I’m doing, but I shush it away. Truthfully, the bell’s been blaring for quite some time; I’ve just turned it into white noise.
“It was when I told my sister and Piper that I was actually considering quitting my job that they smacked sense into me. Apparently, they’d both seen the way I’d morphed into someone else—someone they didn’t recognize anymore.” I laugh humorlessly. “A person I didn’t even recognize myself. So, right around Rome’s third birthday, I decided I’d had enough. Because it wasn’t just about protecting myself anymore; it was about Rome, too.”
Troy rubs my bicep. “I get that. Believe me, I do.”
I nod, knowing he’s talking about Pearl. “We still get photographed from time to time, especially when Jamie is in town for tournaments. But it’s nothing like L.A.”
Troy’s shoulders slump as he exhales a short breath. “And that’s why you don’t date athletes.”
I swallow the bitter taste in my mouth. “And that’s why I don’t date athletes.”