Chapter 8 – QUINN #2
Probably? Is that meant to be ironic? And it was nice of him to ask how I’m doing or even say he hopes I’m doing well. Asshole. I read his text three times, then scroll up because sitting right above his fresh text is the one he sent me from the plane when he broke up with me.
Russel: I’m on a plane heading to Dallas.
You may or may not have heard, but I’ve been traded there.
Actually, I got myself traded. I wasn’t happy with my contract, nor have I been getting the ball as often as I deserve.
Dallas wants me, and that’s how it has to be.
It’s how I want it to be. I’m sorry to end us this way.
It’s not because I don’t love you, but I have to take care of myself and my future, and you’re stuck in Boston.
I know this hurts and is sudden. I didn’t know how else to say goodbye.
I scoff. He didn’t know how else to say goodbye? How about like a fucking adult?
A fresh wave of bitterness rolls through me. Screw him. There’s nothing important he could possibly have to say to me, and I sure as hell am not calling him back. He’s so good with texting that he can tell me whatever has him reaching out now that way.
I shove my phone back into my bag and storm off, only to slam straight into someone. Their phone nails me in the chest, and that, along with my speed and momentum, shoots me off my feet. I fall on my ass, and the phone that had hit me flies through the air and lands right on my foot.
I stare down at my sneaker, wishing I had worn clogs today instead. Ow. That hurt. It got my big toe.
The guy hisses out a curse. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going. Are you okay?”
At least it wasn’t my head the phone hit. I laugh. Jesus hell, this day is already a day, and it’s not even noon.
The guy crouches, humor dancing in his voice as he picks up his phone. “I’m going to assume laughter is good? Seriously, did I hurt you?”
“I’m fine. I wasn’t watching where I was going either.” I look up into a pair of bright blue eyes framed by translucent glasses. I blink and blink again, feeling my jaw unhinge as I do. “Rhett?”
What on earth?
He’s doing the same shocked blinky thing at me. “Quinn?”
I lick my lips and try to stand. He grasps me at my elbow and helps me up, except his hand doesn’t leave my arm, and he’s doing that thing where he stands very close and makes my neck crane to peer up at him.
Funny, for as little as I’ve thought about Russel over the last four years, I’ve thought about this man a lot over the last four months.
Wait. Hold up.
“What are you doing here?” he asks as if reading the thoughts I had yet to speak.
“I...” I lick my lips. “I work here, I guess you could say.”
“Work here?” His brows pinch, and he takes a step back, noting my outfit.
I do the same, scouring over his red shorts and gold and red Rebels T-shirt that clings to his muscular chest and shows off the ink on his arms. He also has a whistle around his neck that I don’t like the look of, given how familiar it is.
Horror dances across his features as all the blood drains from his face.
“Quinn Reyes, MD, orthopedic surgery and sports medicine.” He reads the stitching from above the left breast pocket of my scrubs.
“Reyes.” My last name is mumbled like a swear in church, but I’m too fixated on what he’s wearing to care.
“Do you work here?” The question is reflexive and rhetorical. I already know the answer by that whistle and wardrobe, but I’m still at the denial stage. The hopeful stage. He could be some deranged fan, but fuck my life, I know his words before he says them.
He drags a hand across the top of his head, messing his short hair all up, which is tragic since it was perfection before. “Um. Yeah. I’m the new head coach. Are you… Are you related to…”
My gut sinks, and my knees grow weak. “Yes. My brothers are Crew and Mason Reyes, and my father is Asher Reyes.”
He emits a slightly sardonic laugh. “Your brothers and father. Right. Because of course.” He takes another step back before he kicks the cinderblock wall. “Fuck!” A head shake. “You didn’t say anything when we met. I mentioned them.”
“You didn’t tell me you were the new head coach,” I throw back at him.
His hands land on top of his head. “I couldn’t. It was a handshake deal at the time, and after that, we didn’t talk about who the other was.”
“I don’t tell people about my family.”
He nods slowly, his eyes wide and unblinking. “Now you work here.”
It’s not a question. It’s an expletive. This is what we get for not disclosing our personal information. For being surface-level while also not being that at all. It’s my fault. That was my demand.
This is gutting.
Since we made each other come over FaceTime, our texts, our contact…
we were dating. As in, I wouldn’t have tried to meet anyone else, nor would I have entertained the idea.
He called me his girlfriend. That feels strange since this is the first time I’ve seen him in person in months, but it also doesn’t.
I was his, and he was mine, and what the fuck?
Did I mow over kittens and puppies in a former life? I can’t even blame him for this. That’s almost the worst part because I have no one to be mad at except myself.
“I coach your brothers, and your father is my boss.”
“Yep. I got that far too. At least you didn’t knock me up that night, or this would really be a special kind of pickle.”
“Huh?”
I shift my weight and stare down at the floor.
“Sorry. Ignore me. I make crass or inappropriate jokes when I’m overly stressed or upset.
It’s a defense mechanism.” Then I laugh.
“You already know that about me.” He knows more about me than anyone outside my inner circle.
“We talked about that a couple of months ago when we discussed our worst habits. I told you that, but you had already figured it out, and you told me you never close things like cabinet doors or toothpaste because your mind is usually going while doing menial tasks.”
I need to shut up. I’m rambling now.
But what. The absolute. Fuck?