Page 23 of Rushing Into Love

“Everything?” She smiled, eyebrows raised.

“I don’t think we have enough time for that,” I joked, rubbing my neck.

“Okay, just tell me the meaty stuff then.” She steepled her hands, tapping her index fingers together, and leaned in close.

I cut my eyes at her. “Why does this feel like a counseling session?”

“Sorry.” She shook her head and smiled. “Occupational hazard. It’s hard to shut it off.”

“Yeah, I know the feeling,” I said. “Football was like that for me.”

She rested her elbows on the table. “How so?”

“When you’re competitive in something, it’s hard to just flip a switch,” I said. “I played football for so long and it was always my outlet, where I would channel everything and lay it all down. Then I got injured and—like that—it was done. Gone. Over.” I snapped my fingers and looked away, out the window at the quiet street.

Bree sat perfectly still, waiting me out.

After a few seconds, I turned back to her. “But you have to move on, I suppose. That’s life, right?” I shrugged, more nonchalant than I actually was.

“That must have been really tough,” she said in a quiet, understanding voice.

“It was. But I got through it.” I shot her a wan smile to prove I was okay. “I went to PT school, moved back here, resumed civilian life.”

“It seems to suit you.”

“Thanks. I do the best I can.”

Our food came then, breaking the tension that had come with the talk of my football career. Milly set the plates down, asked us if we needed anything else, then scooted off to fetch a fresh pot of coffee for an adjacent table.

We tucked into the food, eating in companionable silence for a few moments.

“This is delicious,” she murmured between bites of pancake. “Solid pick.” She smiled at me and my heart rate picked up.

“I’m glad you like it. It’s a real Peachtree Grove landmark. Totally worth moving back for,” I joked.

“How long have you been back?” She looked at me over her fork.

“About five years. I moved home when Charlie was only a baby.” I paused, working hard to shut the memory of Shayna shaking Charlie out of my mind. “He’s almost six now. It’s true what they say about time flying.”

“Yeah, I know. I can’t believe Alex is almost six, too. I still remember when I went to see her in the hospital right after she was born. Crazy.”

“You and your sister are close, then?” I asked, figuring it was my chance to delve a little deeper.

“Yes. We’ve always been close. My dad left when I was eight, Brooklyn was ten.” Bree took a breath, then forged ahead. “My mom didn’t handle it well and my sister really took charge. Eventually my mom got it together, but it was dicey there for a while.” She dropped her gaze, tracing an invisible pattern on the tabletop.

“That must have been tough,” I said in a gentle voice. She looked so sad, I instinctively grabbed for her hand, interlocking my fingers with hers.

She raised her head, surprised, but didn’t pull away. Winding her fingers in mine, she nodded. “Yeah, it wasn’t ideal.”

“I hope Charlie doesn’t look back and think I blew it.” I pressed my lips together.

Bree’s eyes met mine. “I’m sure he won’t.” She hesitated a moment, then asked, “Does he ever see his mom?”

I shifted in the booth, crossing and uncrossing my feet under the table.

“Sorry, you don’t have to answer that.” She quickly backpedaled.

“It’s fine. No, he really doesn’t. When Shayna and I split, I got full custody. She was into some pretty bad stuff—drugs, mainly—and the judge ruled in my favor. The divorce wasn’t amicable,” I said, remembering the shit storm Shayna created when she realized I was done in the NFL.

---