CHAPTER FIFTY
Lucas
The place hums like it normally does—with laughter and music and noise. There’s no way it can’t when there are this many people in one place all working toward a common goal.
That’s why I’m not worried about perception when I stand in the doorway of Emery’s office and wait for her to finish talking on the phone.
“Yes. It’s a proposal I’m writing on how to improve the medical and PT side of the program.
” She looks up and startles when she sees me standing here.
She lifts a finger for me to wait a minute as her smile widens.
“Exactly. Prevention is the key goal, so any input from your experience is welcome.” She pauses and writes something down.
“I truly appreciate and will look forward to getting the email.”
The call wraps up and the minute she ends the call, she sinks back into her chair.
“More proposal research?”
She nods. “Yes. My mentor from my fellowship—”
“Mirna, right?” She’s told me so many names of people without me ever seeing faces, so fingers crossed I got that right.
The way her eyes spark, say I have. “Yes. Mirna. I reached out to her and she put me in touch with a friend who runs the Phantoms program. So, I reached out.” She tilts her head to the side, eyes scanning the hallway before they move back to me. “What can I do for you?”
That’s a loaded question, if ever I’ve heard one. My smirk says as much. She levels me with a warning glare.
“I need help with something.”
“Oh?” Her eyebrows lift. “What’s that?”
“I have a place that’s offering me some state-of-the-art technology for shoulder rehab. I thought I should get you to approve it before I begin my treatments there.”
Her eyes narrow. “Lucas. You don’t need any state-of-the-art anything. You need—”
“I’m going whether you approve it or not.
” Her sigh of frustration is there, but so is her desire to know more.
I’m banking on that. I lift my phone and hit send on the text to her I already pre-wrote.
“Just sent you a text of the address. You’re welcome to drive with me, but .
. . bad optics. Meet me there in thirty? ”
“I can’t just up and leave,” she sputters.
“I can’t change the appointment.” I take a step back. “I’ll see you there.”
And when I turn around and walk down the hall with her staring after me, my grin is full force because I know she’ll be there.
She’s too curious not to be.
“Lucas.” Emery gets out of her SUV and shields her eyes from the low-setting sun and looks around. “This isn’t any kind of rehab facility.” She turns around to take in the field to the right, the trees all around, and the small lake to our left. “What are we doing here?”
I love the little crease she gets between her brows when she’s confused.
“It is a rehab facility. My kind of one.”
Her eyes narrow, confused. “I don’t understand. I thought—”
“You work too much, and I’m being selfish. I wanted a few hours with you away from our apartments and work. In the daylight where we’re technically not hiding.”
“Lucas. I have work and charts and . . .”
“And you’re going to play hooky with me.”
“I don’t play hooky.”
I step forward, take her hand in mine, and brush a kiss to her lips. “It’s okay to break a rule every now and again.” I wink. “And check out a new rehab facility.”
Her shoulders straighten as she struggles with her strict work ethic and her desire to be with me. “A new rehab facility, huh?”
I can see the minute she gives herself the permission to bend those rules she normally wouldn’t break.
“Yes. The boat’s right over there. The fishing poles and a cooler are loaded in it, ready for us to take a few hours for ourselves.
” I laugh as her eyes widen and her head shakes.
“It’s good therapy.” I start walking toward the boat.
“Just for a few hours. You can pretend it’s medical research. Stress reduction. Exposure therapy.”
“I don’t think lakes are therapeutic.”
“Clearly, you’ve never been fishing.”
She stares at me like I’ve just spoken another language. “Fishing?”
“See?” I grin. “Already educational.”
“Lucas, I don’t know about this.”
I extend my hand. “C’mon. I thought you came to Austin to live. Let’s live.”
Her lips twitch as she draws in a long breath. “Fine. Okay.”
It doesn’t take long for her to get settled in the boat before I start the small outboard motor and head us out to the middle of the lake. It’s quiet in that early-evening way—sun’s low, water’s glassy, and the air is warm but forgiving.
I let up on the throttle and the boat shimmies, causing her to grip the sides of it.
“This feels unsafe,” she says.
“It’s a boat,” I say. “Not a bull.”
She eyes the tackle box suspiciously. “Why are there worms?”
“Bait.”
“They’re alive.”
“That’s how the fish like them.”
I swear to God she actually squeaks. “Absolutely not.”
I laugh so hard I nearly drop the rod I’ve picked up. “You don’t have to touch them.”
“I am not touching them. That’s not even an option.”
“You went to medical school, handled cadavers and blood and guts, and you won’t touch a silly worm?”
“I have to draw a line somewhere,” she says.
I bark out a laugh. “You’re hilarious.”
“No. I’m rational,” she says with a decisive nod.
I bait the hook for her, demonstrating slowly, and when I hand it back, she looks equal parts impressed and horrified.
“You did that without flinching.”
“I’ve had lots of practice. Now let me show you how to cast it.”
After a few demonstrations with my own rod, she casts horribly but squeals when the line splashes.
“I did it,” she shouts.
“That was perfect,” I lie.
“It was?”
“Absolutely. Natural talent.”
She knows I’m lying but she beams as she settles into the boat, body tense as if she expects to get a bite right away.
I guess I should have managed her expectations a little better, but the longer it takes the better for me. Because the view from where I’m seated isn’t bad at all.
We sit there, lines in the water, talking about nothing and everything.
“So when you’re about to get the ball from the snapper,” she says. “What exactly are you saying? It sounds like some random code a kid made up in a schoolyard.”
“I’m telling them which play is coming,” I say. “Sometimes I’m tossing in a few extra things to throw the defense off or to trick them to jump the line of scrimmage.”
“A false start, right?”
“Yes. Exactly.”
“Huh. Interesting.”
“Did you ever play sports?” I ask.
“Let’s just say I tried a lot of different ones and wasn’t particularly good at any of them.” She laughs. “And it’s not for a lack of trying.”
“What was your favorite?”
“Volleyball? I think.” She shrugs. “I liked being part of a team more than anything. The friends. The inside jokes. The feeling like I belonged.” She meets my eyes and tilts her head. “So yes, I understand that part when you talk about it.”
I nod in response.
“What did your parents say about all those different sports? You don’t talk about them much.”
Her smile is automatic. “They let me try whatever I wanted. They thought all the experiences would make me a more well-rounded person.”
“I have to agree with them there.”
“And I guess I don’t talk about them much because they’ve always just been there. Dependable and unchanging. Does that make sense? Like they’re a constant. We text randomly throughout the week. I don’t know.” She falls quiet.
“What is it?”
“I feel bad talking to you about how I take my parents for granted when yours . . .”
“Don’t feel bad for me. They’re there in the background, but the connection is just flat. Besides, I have Brendan. I have the families I’ve created at each club I’ve played for. I can’t complain in the least.”
Her smile is soft. I see compassion there but not pity, and I appreciate that.
“I can’t believe you got me to play hooky, Lucas Hale. I do not play hooky. Ever.”
“You and your rules,” I say, but when our eyes meet, I realize just how much they’re a part of who she is.
She relented on disclosing my scans. She’s going against her own moral code for me. She’s challenging everything she believes about herself, everything that she’s built her career around—for me.
Oof.
Unable to resist, I lean in to kiss her—slow, easy—and the boat rocks with the sudden transfer of weight.
She yelps and tumbles forward, landing half on my chest, half tangled in the fishing line.
I bark out a laugh while somehow making sure to grab her pole so it doesn’t fall overboard.
“We were going to tip,” she says breathlessly, bracing her hands on my chest.
“We were not going to tip.” I brush my lips against hers. “But it was my foolproof plan to get you a little closer to me.”
“Is that so?” she asks as she pushes herself up, cautious not to rock the boat again.
I hand her back her pole, use my now free hand to cup the back of her neck, and pull her in closer so I can taste her kiss.
Christ. Fishing and my woman. What more can a man ask for?
“Hmm,” she murmurs. “You can rock my boat any day.” She laughs as I narrow my eyes at her and shake my head. “Too cheesy?”
“Way too cheesy, but I’ll take it.”
“So will I.”
She grins and falls silent as she reels her pole in to check to see if the worm is still on it. I watch her. Can’t help but not.
And I realize something that scares the hell out of me.
I don’t know how to do this. I’ve been with women, dated them, but not like this. Not the kind of dating where you look forward to seeing the person every day, where your stomach flips when you do, and where someone is willing to put themselves on the line for you.
It’s real. It’s incredible. It’s foreign.
Yeah, I don’t know how to do this, but I know I want to learn.
Her line tugs suddenly.
“Lucas!” she gasps. “Lucas.” She flails her free arm as if I’m not two feet away and can’t see her already. “I think I caught something.”
I grin. “Told you. You’re a natural.”
She glances over at me, love and happiness in her eyes. “No, this is all you, Hale. You’re the perfect coach,” she says as she begins reeling in her first fish.
I cheer her on, feeling surprisingly confident that the future doesn’t feel like a threat anymore.
It feels like a lake at dusk, a woman laughing beside me, and hope.
“No, this is all you, Hale. You’re the perfect coach.”
Is coaching the way forward for me?
“Not all players can be coaches, but I have a feeling you’d be great at it.”
Maybe, just maybe, this is where everything after football begins.