Page 7 of Taking Chances

Not that I ever needed it. But there’s comfort in knowing exactly what you’re in for and what everybody involved expects.

It may seem crude, but it’s more consensual than 90% of typical relationships.

While I’m stuck in my thoughts, Rina and Connor return from the dance floor.

“So, what are you going to do now that you’re here in Seattle?” Rina asks me. Connor is head over heels for her, that much is visible. We don’t talk a lot, I’m not much of a talker, but we always had each other’s backs while we played together. We were similar, actually, though I guess he’s a changed man now.

“I bought a vacated garage that I plan to renovate and open my own shop.”

“Cool, man, let us know when you open. I’d love for you to take a look at my car,” Matt says.

“It’s a bike shop.”

“You ride?” Matt asks.

“Yeah, I do. I own a Ducati 916.”

“Shit, that’s neat,” Matt responds while Natalie shoots a confused glance his way.

He doesn’t seem like the type to ride a motorcycle, so I get her surprise. Still, they’re a cool bunch. All different in their own way but acting kind of like a loving family.

Not that I would know what a loving family looks like. Hell, I haven’t even told my parents I moved here.

We’ve been no contact ever since my grandpa died five years ago. The last time I saw them was during his funeral, acting like a picture-perfect family. As always.

Problems are solved between us, not by sharing them with others, my mom would say, but nothing was ever really solved.

You couldn’t tell by their behavior that we haven’t spoken in years. No, they probably keep their friends up to date with my life, sharing what they read in the sports media, pretending everything’s right with us.

A fucking joke.

It’s probably one of the reasons why I upended my life and moved across the country as soon as I was out of the eyes and ears of the reporters. My parents have no idea where I am now, and I plan for it to stay that way.

The drive home is peaceful, filling my lungs with crisp night air. Nothing clears my head quite like riding my bike, pure horsepower rumbling between my legs.

My apartment sits on top of my newly bought garage on the outskirts of Seattle. It’s decent size, though in a serious need of renovation. It’ll keep me busy for a while, which is probably a good thing considering I’m used to having my days filled with endless amounts of practice, conditioning, and games.

And it’s not like I’m afraid of getting my hands dirty. Everything I know about bikes, my grandpa thought me. We used to tinker together for hours, him teaching me the name and purpose of every single part of it to help me forget whatever was going on at my house. He also taught me everything I know about home improvement, which is good since my father’s idea of masculinity is finding the treasure at the bottom of a bottle. Night after night.

I drop my keys on the sorry excuse for a dining table and drape my jacket over the one and only chair I own. Other than a few kitchen appliances and counters, it’s the only furniture in the room. In the living room, there’s something that probably used to be a couch, and in the bedroom, a mattress sits lonely, right on the floor.

The mattress is the only thing I bought so far, because sleeping on a disgusting, old mattress was a line I wasn’t ready to cross.

I could hire contractors to make the whole place look TV worthy in probably weeks, but where’s the fun in that?

Truthfully speaking, I’d take this over a staged house any day of the week. Flawless, pristine places make my skin crawl and stomach clench with the need to mess it up. Or break things.

Still, this place is in desperate need of some TLC. So, starting Monday, it’s time to make it my new home.

5

ANNE

Once again, I wake up to a thumping head. My alcohol intake over the last two days is probably concerning, but with the emotional rollercoaster I’ve been on, I’d say I’m handling it pretty well.

Today, though, is a real test to my sanity. A brunch at my sister’s where I’m supposed to inform her I lost the one thing she respected about me—Bryce.

I pull up my hair in a low, feminine bun and put on foundation in hopes of looking presentable, but there’s no way to hide the dark circles beneath my eyes.

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