Page 22 of Tight End

June: I know.

June:Shit.

June: Shoot.

June: I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry, it was inappropriate. Probably should go, but I’ll see you tomorrow.

Me: Good night, June.

June: Night.

NINE

Ryan

How much stalkingis too much stalking? Asking for a friend.

Definitely nothing to do with me parked across the street from Hot 4 Yoga—where I have been since eight forty-five this morning—and staring through the second-story windows, hoping to catch another glimpse of Oliver or June. She said they’d be done around ten, but I couldn’t sit in my apartment staring at my walls any longer.

Could I have taken the time to respond to the mess of messages waiting for me on my phone? Sure. But the only people I want to talk to this morning are inside this building.

So I ignore everyone else and I wait.

And I wait some more.

And then I glance at the time on my phone.

I managed to kill two minutes.

Only thirteen more before the class ends. Not a problem. I can do this. I’m a professional athlete, and discipline is my middle name. I’m cool, calm, collected. That’s me. Cool as a fucking cucumber.

You know, a cucumber on a hot and sweltering summer day.

I shift the bouquet of flowers, a bright blend of sunflowers and pink and peach roses I picked up for June, and I double-check my gifts for Oliver.

Twelve minutes left.

With a sigh, I lean my head back against the headrest, my hands wringing around the steering wheel. I take a deep breath and then several more. My heart is racing, beating faster with every passing second, every second that’s taking its sweet-ass time.

I’m going to meet my son this morning. Officially. He’s going to know I’m his dad and not some random man who shows up at his apartment to color. ’Cause that would be weird, right? Unless there are random men showing up to—nope. Not going there this morning. This morning I’m meeting my son, and I refuse to put myself in a shitty mood.

Now if only the clock could get moving.

Twelve minutes left. Fuck me. Still twelve minutes? What in the flying fuck is happening with time right now? Why isn’t it moving?

Fuck discipline. Fuck being a cucumber.

I want nothing more than to bust in there and ... well, I don’t really have a plan beyond that. If I weren’t dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, I could lurk in the back and pretend to be here for the class. Maybe no one would notice I don’t have a mat. Or that I have no idea what I’m doing.

Who am I kidding? I’d stand out like a sore thumb, and it would only be a matter of time before someone would recognize me.

The class would go off the rails, and there’s a chance Junewouldn’t be very happy to see me. Yeah ... so that’s a terrible idea.

Fuck. Eleven minutes left. This is the longest morning of my life.

I unlock my phone, intending to pull up the pictures of Oliver when a message pops up from Jacob Martin, my personal assistant, one I share with a few of the guys on the team.

Jacob: Wait till you see all the stuff I found for your son’s room. I even found one of those lights that projects dinosaurs around the room.

---