Page 9 of All Signs Point to Malibu

“And whose fault is that?” Warren asks wryly.

Shit went down two years earlier...

I was walking through LAX, dressed in travel chic, pulling an expensive carry-on behind me as I weaved through the travelers in the departures lounge on my way to a life coaching conference in New York.

Warren was walking in the opposite direction, a football logo’d duffel bag on his shoulder. Head down, looking at his cell phone, he bumped into me as we both entered the security line.

“Hailstorm! Haven’t seen you since high school,” he’d said.

“I dropped that nickname back then. And for the record, you were the only one to use it,” I’d reminded him. I’d never figured out why he called me that. It’s not exactly flattering and up until that day, I’d never done him any harm.

Warren gestured for me to enter the line in front of him. “Tough break about you and Liam.”

I cringed internally at the mention of my ex. The breakup a few years before had made sense, but it still hit me hard and Warren being Liam’s best friend, I suspected he’d heard the dude’s version of the story, which most likely included phrases like: “She’s too obsessed with her career.” “She’s guarded and closed off.” “She’s too stressed and busy for sex.” That last one in particular wasn’t a rumor I loved circulating.

“High school relationships rarely last,” I said, giving the same excuse I’d repeated to myself while I recovered from the toughest disappointment I’d had to face since my mother’s death.

Desperate to change the subject, I nodded toward his duffel bag. “Headed to preseason?”

Warren shook his head. “Try-outs for the Rangers. I went free agent this year.”

“You gave up the security of a contract? That’s brave,” I said with genuine admiration. I wasn’t too knowledgeable about the world of pro sports, but going out on his own—backing himself—was actually a sexy trait. Not that I’d ever looked at my boyfriend’s best friend in that way, but anyone with eyes could appreciate Warren’s six-foot-three muscular frame and dimples for days. His easygoing, carefree demeanor combined with his stardom was a lethal combination for those women inclined toward athletes...which I absolutely was not.

“Isn’t your company motto all about taking risks, backing yourself?” he asked as we moved along the security line.

“You follow me on social media?” He didn’t strike me as the scroller type.

“I’ve caught a post or two,” he said flirtingly.

I didn’t take the flirting personally. Warren was charming, charismatic, and as emotionally unavailable as he was gorgeous. I couldn’t remember him ever having a serious girlfriend. Even “casual dating” was too permanent a description of his relationships. Football was his only obsession.

The line moved again and we shuffled forward. A kid, playing with a stuffed animal bumped me and I fell forward. Warren caught my hands against his and our lifelines connected.

Let the record show that I was not at fault for glimpsing into his future or the disastrous aftermath, but what I saw in that brief clip rocked me to my core.

Warren, dressed in his football gear, training with the Rangers. A few great plays...then a linebacker collided with him, leaving him seriously injured. Medics rushed out to the field and everyone looked devastated.

Then, he was lying in a hospital bed, hooked to monitors, fighting for his life.

I gasped as I stepped back from him. We’d reached the front of the security line. I had mere seconds to talk him out of these tryouts. “Are you sure this is the team you really want to play for?”

“It’s my dream team, so yeah, pretty sure.”

“Right, but what about home team loyalty and all that?”

“I go where the rings are,” he said.

A guard motioned us to keep moving and I took my time putting my stuff into the bins on the conveyor belt. He motioned for me to hurry up, but I ignored him. Time was ticking.

Warren filled his bin and waited behind me with blissful ignorance. I tried to appear calm, but inside I was losing my shit. I couldn’t let him get on that plane.

“I just think you should think about what you really want,” I said. “Maybe when I get back from my conference in New York, we could meet...”

The flirty smile was back. “For drinks? Sure. For life coaching—pass. I’m good.”

I needed to level with him. “Look, if you keep playing football you’re going to get hurt.”

“Part of the job.” He said it like several concussions in a career were expected and some sort of rite of passage. He wasn’t getting it.

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