Page 59 of The Kiss of Deception

I set my phone back down with a groan as the physical therapist, Chace, presses one particular sore spot in my groin, praying for my girlfriend’s sweet venom to distract from the torture of a massage.

But it never comes, and the torture continues without distraction.

One, two, ten minutes and the ping never echoes again. Only the pang of uneasiness that spreads from its embryo right above my heart with every second of radio silence.

Again, the lack of answer isn’t rare or unprecedented. It’s the standard. Combined with the cryptic start of the conversation, though, it raises all my pores in pinpricks, and my skin itches.

Something isn’t right.

Something feels wrong.

The bugs under my skin are awakened. Not the old prickly things that whispered—these scream with fangs and claws that sink with ferocity and foreboding so sharp that I almost miss the old ones. Those have been dormant, mute, I now realize.

My muscles lock with uneasiness, prompting Chace to ask, “Everything okay, man?”

“Yeah. Just got a weird text from my girl, is all,” I reply without thinking.

Which is all I’ll say, already more than I planned to divulge. I won’t discuss Zoe with anyone else.

“Women. There’s no getting them. Those minds work in different ways.” His deprecating chuckle grates on my frazzled nerves. “Want my advice?”

“Not really, no.”

Exactly as suspected, he ignores my rejection. “Apologize. Tell her she’s right. Get her flowers. Or jewelry. Chicks like shiny expensive shit.”

Thankfully, my face is buried in the crook of my arm. Otherwise he would see my opinions on his sage advice.

“I am sorry. For the poor soul who makes the mistake of marrying you.”

He chuckles again, like it’s a joke—a funny one—then declares the torture concluded.

Fucking finally.

I need to go home.

The muscular injury in my adductor has plagued me for weeks.

It erased my name from the call for the national team, reducing my participation in the international break to the attendance of a friendly game—in the stands.

Injuries are the number one nemesis of any athlete, thieves that steal the opportunities I’ve been fighting for all my life. But this time, it didn’t feel like the universe robbed me, but conspired bigger than my human aspirations.

The reason was Tobias Westwood.

Toby and I met in a one-minute-elevator-ride in the Lucilla, which, much unlike his granddaughter, was precisely how long it took to strike a fast friendship. I asked which floor he was headed to, and with the answer 39, the family ties were unveiled. In a fortunate turn of events, Zoe wasn’t home, so us boys ended up holding a cup of tea and a conversation in which I learned to eradicate the word soccer from my dictionary permanently.

A little over one year later, as soon as I heard his England would be playing a friendly match in Boston, I extended a proposal: see his selection in his second home.

He doubly surprised me by countering my offer: why get tickets, when he owned a box?

“Last time I was here, my little bee was so little.”

He looked around, reacquainting himself with a home he thought he’d lost, adjusting his eyes to long years of distance.

“What’s the deal with you Westwoods and the bees?”

There was so much homesickness when he responded. Nostalgia and the love and the pain that would never disappear—and acceptance of that, too.

“My wife’s name is Beatrice. I called her B. So, Zoe—Zoe Beatrice Westwood—declared she wanted to be a bee like her grandma. She’s our little bee.”

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