Page 29 of The Sweet Spot

“Good,” I tell her, relieved to know this isn’t a one-way thing, desperate to fuck her but positive that’s not a good idea. Not here. Not now. “Come with me to Boston.”

“What?” she stiffens. “Boston?”

“I’ve got a few things I have to take care of before I can give the Revolution everything I’ve got. I’m going to be up there for a few weeks. Come with me. No one there knows you. They’ll leave us alone...”

“Deacon,” she chews on her bottom lip and shifts. “I wish I could, but I just gave my notice. I can’t take the next few weeks off. My colleagues have summer vacations planned. I’m the only one here to cover for them. I can’t do that. Not to Max. Not to the team.”

I run my thumb along her jaw, disappointed. “You sure, Brynn?”

She turns her face and kisses my palm, sending a bolt of lust so damn hot and sharp through me that I swear this woman could bring me to my knees. “I wish I could. I really... really do. But I can’t. Not now.”

She looks up at me through long inky lashes. “When are you leaving?”

“When I’m done here.” I cup her face in my hands and press my lips to her forehead. “Can I call you later?”

She lifts her face and ghosts her lips over mine. “I’ll talk to you later, Coach.”

The words don’t feel like enough, but I don’t have any other choice.

BRYNLEE

Sweating the stress out has always been my favorite form of therapy. Beating the hell out of a heavy bag was fun from the very first time my dad laced my first pair of pink boxing gloves on my hands and showed me proper form. Was it a little unconventional that this was my fourth birthday gift? Yes, yes it was. Did I think Mom was going to kill Dad when he did it? Also a resounding yes. But that didn’t stop him from working with me for a few minutes every day until my form was perfect. Perfection never came. But I’ve been pretty damn close since sometime around age nine.

Child prodigy?

No. Definitely not.

More like a precocious kid who loved this gym more than any other building she’s ever set foot in. Some things never change. And while the Revolution arena comes a very close second to Crucible, Crucible will always hold the title of my first love.

I think, deep down, I knew I’d end up right here one day, working with these fighters, but I wanted to hone my skill and earn my place like every other member of the team had to. I wanted to come here on my own terms, in my own time, and now it feels like my hand was forced.

Mom believes everything in our lives is the result of the effort we put in. But she’s also the first one to try to pull the damn strings, even if we don’t want her to. I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. But her actions hurt. And actions have consequences. She’s always said that. Coming to terms with the consequences might not be easy for her, or me for that matter, but it is what it is now.

Dad likes to say everything happens for a reason, even if we’re never privy to exactly what that reason is. Maybe there’s a reason this is happening now. Maybe there isn’t.

I’ve always fallen somewhere between their two lines of thinking.

I’ve put in the time and done the work. I’m an excellent physical therapist. I’m pissed my choice was taken from me. I can admit that to myself, if not to anyone else.

Maybe this is the kick I needed right now.

Maybe not.

Maybe it’s all bullshit and I could have been happy with the Revolution for another ten years. Guess I’ll never know. But while I’m heartbroken to leave my players, I’m trying to look at this as kismet. Maybe this thing with Deacon will turn into something or maybe it won’t. Either way, knowing I won’t be working under him in a month certainly makes the journey to figuring out what a relationship with him could look like if I chose one a whole lot easier.

And based on the magnetic pull that seems to be charged between us, I’m not sure there’s any choice to be made.

These are the thoughts running through my head as I pound out my frustrations on the bag with true tunnel vision. So much so, I don’t notice when my brother, Killian, walks up next to me until he pops one of my earbuds out of my ear, and I have to pull the jab I’m about to throw before I clip his jaw.

“Are you stupid?” I ask over the loud base of Linkin Park still playing in one ear. “I almost hit you.”

“I know how to duck.” He holds the little white AirPod in front of my face. “You’re listening to old school. I like it. Who pissed you off?”

Killian is three years younger than me and an entire foot taller.

Does he have incredible reflexes? Of course he does. But mine are better.

I fake a jab, then stomp his foot, and he drops my AirPod into my glove.

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