3. CHAPTER 3
Livia
The chicken is sizzling on the grill pan and the vegetables are ready for a light sauté.
My apartment smells like olive oil and garlic, a nod to my mom’s Italian heritage and a small reminder of dinnertime aromas while growing up.
Of course, I could have gone to my parents’ for dinner tonight, given that they live twenty minutes west of my apartment, but it was too late by the time I left the performance facility.
I’ve only been back in my hometown of Portland for two weeks.
Although I’d accepted Patrick’s offer to become the director of Human Performance over three months ago, he graciously let me have the time to wrap up my independent consulting service I’d built in Los Angeles the last four years.
While I very much enjoyed using my skills in a consultancy model—across many types of sports—the lure of coming back home was too strong to ignore.
Also, Patrick Rowe is a hard man to say no to. Not only were the salary and benefits he offered me on the mind-boggling side, the passion with which he pushes this team forward intrigued me. He’d be an incredible study on peak mental performance, for sure.
I chose to live downtown because I love the energy and the apartment is still in the process of becoming mine.
There are stacks of boxes I haven’t fully committed to unpacking shoved against the wall of the second bedroom, a bookshelf that’s half-organized—or half-abandoned, however you decide to view it—and I still have one suitcase full of business clothing, which I thankfully don’t have to wear anymore.
Give me some comfy workout gear and I’m in heaven, and the volume of branded leggings, shorts, shirts and sweatshirts that the organization gave me fills the spare bedroom closet.
At least the kitchen works.
I love cooking so much this room has been sorted from day one. Some priorities are nonnegotiable.
The kitchen bleeds into the living room, and past the front window, I see the gorgeous tree-lined streets of Nob Hill.
It’s the type of neighborhood that feels almost like a fairy tale with Victorian storefronts and warmly lit sconces, and it’s all so very far removed from the hustle and bustle of LA.
It feels so wonderful to be back home and to have a job that stirs excitement and wonder within me.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
Molly.
I answer it the way I always answer my best friend, which is to always say the first thing on my mind. “My day has officially been made.”
“You say that every time I call,” she replies drolly.
“It’s true every time,” I quip back.
“How was your first day?” she asks, and I can hear the faint but urgent noise of the emergency room in the background.
She’s a trauma nurse and whenever I hear the muffled PA announcements or the urgent beeping of some monitor, I know she’s calling me on one of her breaks, tucked into a corner of the hospital when she needs five minutes for a breather.
“Good,” I say, and mean it. I flip the chicken in the pan and reach for the glass of Pinot I poured the minute I walked in the door and kicked off my shoes. “Really good, actually.”
“Tell me everything,” she says wistfully, because she thinks I landed my dream job and she’s all in on the fantasy of it.
“Molls… the facility is unbelievable. I’ll give you a tour sometime. But in all the professional sports organizations I’ve worked with in the past, I’ve never seen anything like this place. Patrick built it as if he’s got a point to prove.”
“Yeah.” She snorts. “That he has the most money.”
“No, it’s not like that.” I give her a rundown of the rehab wing, the workout facilities, and the over-the-top amenities for the players, including their own restaurant. “Sure, he wants to win, but he really wants to take care of his people.”
“Well, you are the one who has the best skills to evaluate and read people, so I’ll take your word for it.”
“He didn’t hire me to tick a box on some organizational wellness checklist. He’s all in.”
“And he’s hot,” she muses, even more wistfully.
I roll my eyes. “You know, that’s not a relevant professional consideration for me.”
And even as I say those words, an unbidden thought comes into my head.
Locke Donovan.
That man is drop-dead gorgeous, and I’d have to be dead not to notice. I try to refuse myself the brain space to reflect on how attractive he is.
Tall, broad, all-consuming. His dark blond hair is long, wavy, and unkempt, but in a way that looks hot.
Strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, and pale blue eyes that are glacially cold.
He has that type of disarming handsomeness that makes you forget to look both ways before crossing the street, and then BAM… flat as a pancake.
As a woman, it’s only natural to notice such things, and I have. He’s handsome. I noted it, and now I’m moving on.
“So, is he single?” Molly asks.
I blink in confusion thinking she’s talking about Locke, but that can’t be. All my reflections have been compliments of my intrusive thoughts.
And then it hits me. “You mean Patrick Rowe?”
“Yes, silly. Patrick Rowe. I mean, if you loved me, you could set me up with him, you know?”
I giggle because she’s joking.
At least, I’m ninety-five percent sure she’s joking because she’s very happy with her longtime boyfriend, Josh. “I am not setting you up with my boss,” I say primly. “Because if it didn’t work out, I’d lose my job, and there are limits to my patience with you.”
Molly snorts. “Maybe you should make a play for him.”
“Totally inappropriate,” I say dismissively, but he’s a man any woman would be over the moon to have. He’s powerful, intimidating in the ways that make you tingly, and underneath it all, he has this level of control that seems almost godlike.
“He’s impressive,” I finally say, picking my words carefully so Molly doesn’t continue with an obsession about the man. “Genuinely. Not in a look-at-what-I-built way, but in a manner that shows he really cares about this team, far beyond the investment. You can feel it.”
“Interesting,” Molly says, and I know exactly what she’s doing with that word.
“Stop.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were about to say several things.” I glance back at the chicken, satisfied with how it looks, and move to the stack of mail on the counter. Holding my phone between my ear and shoulder, I flip through it while Molly chatters on.
Bill.
Catalog I didn’t ask for.
A notice from the building management.
An envelope the size that would contain a card. My name and address are handwritten and there’s no return address.
However, I don’t need one as I know exactly who it’s from.
My stomach dips a little. “Son of a bitch.”
“What?” Molly asks, concern evident.
“Grant sent me a card,” I say dully. I mean… it’s his handwriting, all sloppy and at too sharp an angle. “Hold on a second.”
Molly waits for me silently as I open it.
As expected, inside is a greeting card. It features a field of daisies at sunset, a “no occasion” type card, the inside completely blank except for his handwriting filling the right side.
Livvy,
I know you don’t want to hear from me but I’m asking you to read this anyway.
I’ve done a lot of thinking about what happened between us, and I know I handled things badly.
I handled a lot of things badly, and I’m not making excuses for that.
I just miss you so much. I think if you gave me the chance to show you how much I’ve changed, you wouldn’t regret it.
You were the best thing that ever happened to me, and I let that go because I was stupid.
I don’t want to spend the rest of my life knowing I didn’t try everything I could to get you back.
Please… just one conversation. That’s all I’m asking.
Grant
“Listen to this,” I say, and then read it out loud to Molly.
The silence on her end lasts exactly two seconds. “Absolutely not,” she hisses. “He doesn’t get a second chance.”
“I know,” I readily agree.
“I know you know,” she says on a gust of frustrated air.
“It’s just… he put his hands on you.” Her voice has shifted to the strict tone she uses as an ER nurse, the one that doesn’t raise in volume but somehow gets more commanding.
“He grabbed you hard enough to leave marks, and when you tried to walk away, he blocked the door. He went physical and there’s no going back to that. ”
“I know, Molls,” I say gently. She knows I’d never give him a second chance, but she’s worried. She knows how scared I was after that incident so she’s in mama bear mode. “You know me… I don’t put up with shit like that.”
“I know,” she huffs. “I just… I don’t trust that asshole. Why is he even writing you? He’s clearly not letting you go.”
“I’ll ignore him and he’ll eventually move on,” I reply confidently. “Besides… he’s in LA and I am not.”
It’s the nine hundred miles separating us that have me feeling confident.
Breaking up with Grant wasn’t hard to do.
He cheated on me and that’s a line that can’t be uncrossed.
But when I confronted him on it, he showed me a side that I didn’t know he possessed.
He grabbed me and the look on his face was honestly terrifying.
His grip was like iron and I felt my muscles bruising.
I was able to tear free, intent on making a run for it, but he blocked me and I could tell… he wouldn’t have let me leave.
To this day, I wonder what would have happened had his neighbor not knocked on the door looking to borrow a cup of sugar. Grant seemed to snap out of it and he let me go, but I don’t trust him. I mean, the whole cheating thing was proof his moral compass is lacking, but that look on his face…
I suppress a tiny shudder and shred the card, tossing it into the trash. I take a sip of wine and swallow it slowly before pulling out a small pan for the vegetables.
“All right, my bestie,” I say into the phone. “Tell me how your shift is going? Any gross injuries?”
“Oh no you don’t,” Molly chides, but I can tell she’s done talking about Grant. “You’ve barely scratched the surface on how your first day of work went, and well… I’m doing the same job you’ve heard about for the past seven years. I’ve got five more minutes on my break, so fill me up, buttercup.”
I smile as I heat the pan and drizzle some oil. While my parents are my biggest supporters, Molly is a close third. She’s my true ride-or-die. I tell her about the other coaches and the friendly security guard, Jimmy, who gallantly walked me to my car tonight.
“Did you meet any of the players?” she asks.
“A few, and before you ask, I’m not setting you up with any of them either.”
“As if.” She sniffs haughtily. “In case you didn’t hear, I actually date an orthopedic surgeon.”
“Yes, I know,” I drawl. “There is one player today who stood out though. He’s going to be a tough nut to crack.”
Molly knows better than to ask me his name and she understands the ethics…
the precise line between what’s appropriate to share and what isn’t.
I’m not a therapist, so I don’t carry the same confidentiality framework, but I carry my own version of it.
Always have, and that version says you don’t discuss a client by name.
“Let’s call him Bartholomew,” she suggests.
“That works. At any rate, Bart’s been mandated to work with me, meaning he has no choice. And I can tell he doesn’t like it.”
I think about the way Locke walked out of my office without a backward glance. He’s going to be in for a rude awakening tomorrow.
“You’ll reach him,” she says confidently. Because she’s my loudest cheerleader.
“He’s—” I think about how to say this. It’s a specific situation with anyone outside the professional context. “He’s going to be a challenge,” I say carefully. “He’s a very guarded person and doesn’t see the value in what I do and isn’t interested in being persuaded.”
“But you’re going to persuade him anyway.”
I dump the cut veggies—zucchini and onions—into the pan and the oil hisses.
I think about pale blue eyes that registered me like a threat assessment and dismissed me inside the same breath.
I think about the way he said, I don’t need your help.
It wasn’t defensive and there was no anger.
It was just… flat, and that actually told me a lot.
I took that to mean he doesn’t think he deserves help. Therein lies the difference.
“I’m going to do my job,” I say. “Whether he cooperates or not.”
“That’s my girl.” I can hear her smiling. “Okay. More important things… what trouble are we going to get into this weekend?”