Page 64 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
Olivia: Sorry about that, but I’m sure you can meet someone nice.
Lucian: Everyone wants me for what I represent.
Olivia: And you said I’m the jaded one.
Lucian: You don’t even like to have friends.
Olivia: Didn’t I tell you about my family? I always choose the wrong friend, the wrong guy . . . I’m not saying I don’t have friends. I’m just very selective.
Lucian: You should put those walls down. Let someone be there for you.
Olivia: Why do I get the feeling you’re talking about yourself?
Lucian: I’m good. I have my family. Aren’t you paying attention?
Olivia: Deflecting . . . interesting.
Lucian: Goodnight, Liv. Hope you have a good rest of your weekend.
Chapter Nineteen
Lucian
How to Lose a Dog Sitter in Ten Texts
I should’ve seen it coming.
I should have known the moment my phone rang at an ungodly hour—just as I was stretching out in my hotel bed,savoring my last morning in Aspen before heading to the first day of boot camp—that this day was about to go to absolute shit.
And sure enough, when I swipe to answer, there’s panic on the other end of the line.
Not from a coach.
Not from Jacob, who’s still mad at me for “ruining” my public image with home renovation thirst traps.
No.
It’s from my dog sitter.
“I can’t do it,” Riley blurts, her voice breaking. “I thought I could, but I—Lucian, I can’t.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “What do you mean, you can’t?”
“I mean, I’m giving you my two weeks’ notice, except those two weeks are actually two minutes.”
“Riley—”
“I gotta go. I’m so sorry. But she—she’s intense. I’m not cut out for this,” she rushes out. “Like, the entire summer I’ve been chill. My anxiety? Gone. And yesterday? I broke out in hives. Hives, Lucian. Your dog is killing me, and I can’t afford to die this young.”
And then she hangs up.
I stare at my phone like it just betrayed me.
What the actual fuck just happened?
One second, I had a reliable dog sitter. The next? Riley’s bolting like Sarah is Cujo and not a seventy-pound ball of hyperactive love.
I scrub a hand down my face, already bracing for disaster. Sarah is alone. Alone. Probably looking at the door, waiting for a walk, or worse—plotting her escape. Now my entire preseason schedule is about to go up in flames because I have exactly zero minutes in my day to deal with this shit.
