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It’s strange. I have friends. Some guys on my team I’m so tight with, I’d throw down for them no matter what the cost. Drew? He’s like a brother to me. So why do I feel this intensity in my newfound friendship with Ivy? I’m not sure.
It’s only been a little over a week of nonstop texting, but already she’s become essential—a bright spot in my life.
Maybe too bright: I miss her and want to see her. That’s the truth, as weak as it sounds. I don’t want to be lying on this bench doing endless reps until my pecs burn and my arms feel like thick, wiggling slabs of raw beef. I want to be face-to-face with Mac, actually have a real conversation with her, take her out for a beer and shoot the shit.
Mac would love it; she’s like one of the guys, only better. More fun, maybe? I don’t know. I just know I like her. A lot.
I grunt, sweat trickling down my brow and into the corner of my eye, and try to concentrate. But it’s hard. The tile ceiling overhead blurs, and I think of my phone in my pocket. The urge to pull it out and text Mac is strong. But I’m supposed to be training, not goofing off. So I push the weight-laden bars up once again and blow out a breath.
Shit. I’ve lost count. Doesn’t matter. I know my limit. And when I’m done, I can text Mac.
As if my thoughts activated it, my phone buzzes against my thigh. I hesitate, weights overhead, my arms quivering. The phone buzzes again. Mac.
I let the weights settle into place with a clank and then heave upward, digging in my pocket for the phone. It isn’t a text but an incoming call.
“Yeah?”
“Remind me to work on your social skills, Grayson,” says a gruff voice. “Can’t be answering like that when scouts are actively checking you out.”
It’s Sean Mackenzie, Ivy’s dad and the man I’ve decided to sign as my agent as soon as I’m done with my season.
I run a hand through my hair, pushing the sweat-slicked strands off my forehead. “Pretty sure they’ll want me regardless of my phone manners, Big Mac.”
I reach for a water and guzzle it down.
“Don’t be too sure of that, kid. Image is everything.”
He’s right, of course. Which is why I know I’m making a good decision in choosing him.
“What’s up?” I ask, wiping my mouth with my forearm. Big mistake—I’m sweaty as fuck. Grimacing, I reach for a towel. “Or is this part of some random buff-and-polish-the-client initiative you’re testing out on me?”
Mackenzie chuckles. “Smart-ass.” Silence and then, “I have a favor to ask.”
Surprised, I pause in taking another drink of water. “Shoot.”
“It’s about Ivy.”
Instantly, he has my full attention. I sit up, my heart beating oddly fast. “What about Ivy?”
“I know you two have been corresponding”—the word comes out as a sneer—“and we’ll be discussing that in detail later, Grayson.” He doesn’t hide his irritation.
“Uh...”
Yeah, witty reply, but I can’t blame Mackenzie for being pissed. Ordinarily, a father has every right to want his daughter far away from me.
“Look, Mackenzie, Ivy and I are friends. She’s like a...” I trail off, the cliché stuck in my throat because what I was about to utter isn’t the truth.
But Mackenzie finishes it for me anyway. “Like a sister to you. Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard the same from Ivy.”
He has? I guess that’s good that she thinks of me as a brother. I dig my fingers into the tense muscles at the back of my neck. “Right, so we’re good? Because I got—”
“I’m stuck in New York. A ball player got arrested for a DUI, damn idiot.” He sighs. “Anyway, Ivy is coming home from London and is due to arrive at the airport in... Hell. She’s probably there already. Her sister has the flu, or I’d send her.”
I jump up, knocking the water bottle down with my knee.
“You mean Ivy is sitting at the airport and no one’s there to greet her? After a fucking year away from home?” Okay, I’m shouting. But fucking hell, Ivy deserves a better homecoming than that.
And what the fuck? I just texted her last night. She said nothing about leaving London. Why?
