Page 25 of Second Quarter Comeback
Jacob’s voice snaps me back to reality. “So, there you have it, your new neighbor. Now, as your agent, I ask you to behave, Crawford. I don’t need another one of you needing a PR emergency clean up.”
I stare out at the city lights, the question lingering in the air like a challenge. What the fuck am I going to do? Then I remember she mentioned a Benedict coming tomorrow. That I should be nice to him.
Meaning she’s with someone, and if she’s with someone maybe it’d be best if I just stay in my lane. Be happy for her, right? I don’t ask for her number or any other detail. It’s not that I’m giving up, it’s that twenty-one-year-old me fucked up my future and I have to live with my mistakes for the rest of my life.
“I’ll . . . stay in my lane. Don’t worry about it,” I assure him before ending the call.
Chapter Fourteen
Killion
When Facing a Downward Dog Disaster
My alarm jolts me awake at six sharp, as it does every morning. I stretch, my muscles tight from yesterday’s workout, and shuffle downstairs toward the kitchen. Coffee first. Always coffee first.
The espresso machine gleams underthe soft light of the kitchen. I press the button for a latte with a double shot and watch as the rich, dark liquid streams into my mug before the frothed milk. The aroma is enough to shake off the last remnants of sleep.
With the first sip warming me from the inside out, I step onto the balcony, ready to soak in the morning skyline and clear my head before another grueling day. Today during training we’ll be watching the Washington Warlocks. Then tonight we’ll be heading to Seattle so we can acclimate for our game.
Maybe it’s a good thing that I won’t be in town until Friday. Camille can welcome Benedict and I can . . . what am I supposed to do? Maybe I should rent another place while she’s so close. I don’t think I can act like she means nothing to me. She’s still someone and the least I ask is for her to let me get some kind of closure. Is that too much to ask?
As I’m lost in my thoughts about what I’m going to do with her—or about her, because, let’s face it, I’m hopeless—my entire world narrows the second I see her.
This is my life now: Camille, everywhere I turn. Like she’s got a sixth sense for ruining my peace of mind. Back when she wasn’t around, I could at least pretend she was a dream. A far-off, impossible dream I let slip through my fingers years ago. Now? Now, the universe has decided to shove her in my face as a constant reminder that I royally screwed up the game of a lifetime. Thanks, karma. Message received.
And there she is. Right there. On her side of the balcony. Practicing yoga, of all things. Her mat is dead-center, perfectly aligned, because of course it is. She’s all symmetry and serenity, while I’m over here gripping the railing like a man clinging to sanity.
She’s mid-pose, stretched and arched in ways no human should be able to bend. It’s impossible not to notice. Believe me, I’m trying, but of course, I’m failing spectacularly.
And then there are the yoga pants. Those yoga pants. You know the ones—the kind that defy the laws of physics and cling to every curve like they were designed by a team of hopeless romantics with a flair for tormenting poor fools like me. As if that weren’t enough, her fitted tank dips just enough to reveal a sliver of golden skin, catching the early morning light like it’s been choreographed.
Seriously, it’s like the universe hates me. Or maybe it’s just showing off. Either way, I’m one downward dog away from losing what little dignity I have left. I could just jump to the other side and beg her to take me back. To let me in, to let me fuck her at least one last time. Okay, that’s not very romantic, but my body . . . my body has the urge to touch her, to fuse with her at least one more time.
My eyes trace the line of her back as she folds forward, her hands stretching toward the ground, her hips tilting just right. It’s hypnotic, unfairly so. Heatflares low in my stomach—a slow burn I haven’t felt in years. Not like this. Not from just looking.
Before my brain can overrule my body, I’m gripping the edge of the railing tighter, my knuckles white as I take what I hope is a casual sip of coffee. Of course it doesn’t help. The coffee’s as hot as my blood, and it scalds the roof of my mouth.
She shifts into another pose, smooth as silk, her movements so fluid it’s like she’s putting on a private performance. I know she isn’t—it’s not for me—but tell that to my traitorous brain. Her ponytail sways, red loose strands framing her face as she exhales deeply, serene and focused.
That is, until she glances over her shoulder.
Our eyes meet. Hers are green and intense, maybe even furious. They narrow like she’s just caught me stealing her streaming password. Instantly, the peaceful vibe she had going evaporates, and she straightens, turning to face me with all the intensity of a teacher catching a kid with a cheat sheet.
“You’re supposed to stay in your lane, Crawford,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest.
Her tone is calm, but there’s a razor-sharp edge beneath it, sharp enough to slice my ego clean in half.
“My lane?” I echo, setting my mug down on the railing with a practiced casualness that doesn’t fool either of us. My body, on the other hand, is one electrical pulse away from short-circuiting.
“Yes,” she says, her gaze locked on mine, unyielding. “Your lane. Away from this side of the balcony. And just so we’re clear, that doesn’t include gawking at me while I’m trying to stretch.”
Have I been demoted from balcony neighbor to creepy yoga lurker? That’s fucking pathetic.
I shrug, feigning indifference even though my pulse is hammering like I just ran sprints. “Hard not to notice someone doing Warrior Pose before the sun’s fully up.”
“It’s six,” she snaps, her tone clipped.
“Too early, don’t you think?” I reply, letting a smirk tug at my lips.
