Page 87 of Catching Feelings

You know the man I mentioned a few weeks ago? Well, I’m seeing him now and things are going really well. It doesn’t feel right continuing our online relationship, so out of respect for him, I’m not going to contact you again. I just wanted to let you know that it’s not because you said or did anything wrong.

It’s the exact opposite. Like you, he gives me hope. Makes me feel seen.

Thank you, Adam. I hope you find someone who makes you as happy as I am now.

Take care.

Elizabeth

“Fucking Christ.” I chuck my phone then chase after it as it slides across the kitchen floor. Fumbling at the buttons, I call Rowan.

The line rings and rings and rings.

“Fuck.” I hang up and dial again. The third time, I leave a message. “Rowan. Baby. Please pick up. We need to talk. Don’t walk away from me. I—” Shit. I can’t tell her I love her for the first time on a voicemail and not when she hates my guts. “Please, Rowan. Call me back.”

I send her a dozen texts, all saying the same thing. Begging her to talk to me. Asking her to let me explain. Telling her how sorry I am. Reminding her how much I care about her.

I call one more time before jumping in the shower and it goes right to voicemail. It’s not surprising she shut off her phone. I’m a fucking asshole who lied to her for months and am now blowing up her phone.

Coach will have my ass if I miss practice, so race through my shower, throw on a pair of sweats and a hoodie, and rush out to my car. I try calling Rowan a few more times on my drive to the stadium. All go straight to voicemail.

I’ve never been late to practice before, but I’ve never been early either. Somehow, I manage to sneak into the team meeting just as Coach starts his spiel.

“Lemme guess...” Brock shakes his head with a laugh. “Some leggy blonde woke you up with your dick in her mouth and you didn’t have the heart to tell her you had to get to work.”

“Fuck off.”

Brock furrows his brows in confusion. “Dude. You alright?”

Shit. I’ve never snapped at my teammates before. Like, ever. I’m notorious for not giving a shit about anything enough to ever be upset. Part of my M.O.

“Not a morning person, remember?”

The guys know I love my sleep. Better to play my mood off on the sun not being fully up yet than to say anything about Rowan. Shit, I don’t even think her best friends know about us. If they did, Walker and Nash would have already been up my ass about not hurting her.

Fucking too late for that.

I do my best to stay focused on the meeting, then put my all into conditioning, not leaving any time for idle talk. Which doesn’t do much for covering my shit mood. I’m the king of wasting time, joking around, getting the team off task.

If I don’t want to be the center of attention, I need to, well, get back to being the center of attention.

I fall back as Dec sets his feet and gets ready to throw me a pass. I fuck up the play and run ten yards farther than I should have but twist it around on him.

“Losing your magic touch, baby Dec.” I throw the ball back to him. The spiral is a little shaky, but not too shabby.

“Wasn’t the play, Buck. Those magic hands gettin’ too old for the game?”

“Not from what your mother said last night.” I wiggle my fingers and flash my smile, hoping he can’t see the strain behind it. I fall back again, ready to catch whatever he throws at me.

If only it was that easy to catch Rowan.

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