Page 67 of The Story of Us
She could tell he was close, his rhythm changing, his breath growing ragged. She moved her hands to the nape of his neck and scratched at his scalp.
Her name fell from his lips in a tortured groan. It was like he needed something more, but Eloise didn’t know what unless … Tugging on his silky strands, she made sure he was looking at her. She couldn’t explain it, but suddenly she knew what she wanted to sayandwhat Nate wanted to hear.
“I’d let you do anything you wanted to me. I’d give you everything you needed.”
With a final thrust and a soft groan, Nate leant forward and pressed his mouth to her neck, nipping at her lightly. Not enough to leave a mark but enough that it reignited the flame in her chest. He fell back, and his lopsided grin spread lazily over his face. Pride added to her post-orgasmic flush because she’d done that.
No. They’d done it together.
“And you were worried you’d disappoint me,” he whispered. “Made me come in my damn pants like a teenager. We’re going to have a lot of fun together, Tiger. I guarantee it.”
22
For the first time ever, Nate was late to sports training. He’d been holed up in his hut—or the ‘Nate Space’ as Eloise had dubbed it—all day, banging away at his keyboard, pouring more of his heart onto the pages. Then he’d stopped by Eloise’s art class to lead everyone through a quick meditation and a few introductory Tai Chi moves while trying not to stare at Eloise. Unable to miss any opportunity to spend time with Eloise, he’d stayed for the whole session sketching mindlessly as he avoided Bianca’s questions about his personal life. It had been a relief when she said she’d skip the training session because of the rain. He’d waited until Bianca had left to say goodbye to Eloise, which had involved making out against the closed door of her office, her hands clutching his running jacket so hard it was still wrinkled.
Sheets of rain fell steadily; the rhythmictap tap tapagainst the roof of his Pajero was the only sound as he slowed to a stop in the empty car park.
“We don’t have to train if you don’t want to,” he said to Callum, who was sitting in the passenger seat. He didn’t care about training in the wet—so many coaches had told him skin was waterproof over the years. Nate rolled his shoulders, twisting his neck as a yawn escaped.
“Dad still wants me to,” Callum said, pushing open his door.
A text from Teddy bowing out distracted Nate, and his feet plunged into a muddy puddle that covered the tops of his runners. Within two seconds, he was saturated; big, fat drops of freezing water seeping through his running pants and trainers.
“Then let’s start with a few laps of the oval as a warm-up.”
They took off at an easy clip, feet squelching in their shoes as they found their strides. Callum was quiet to start, rebuffing Nate’s attempt to draw him into conversation. Honestly, it suited him just fine. With each step, his muscle memory took over, the movements meditative …relaxing.
Nate could do this all day.
After their standard warm-up of five laps, Nate started to slow, trying to figure out what they should do next. Tackling was out unless they wanted to go home looking like swamp monsters. “Got any preferences? You can pick tonight.”
Callum took off his soaked baseball cap and winged it towards the stands as they looped past them. “Can we just run?”
Nate volleyed a tentative shot at the shy teenager. “Sometimes you’ve just got to move, right?”
“Yep.”
The rain picked up, and the drops were like little spears hitting his face. After another ten laps, he was about to suggest they call it a night when Callum spoke again.
“Why don’t you play for the Wattle Junction footy team?”
The answer rolled off Nate’s tongue easily because it was one he’d been asked ever since he’d moved home. “Because it wouldn’t serve me the way I would want it to. I spent so long being defined by what I could do on a sporting field, and that’s not me anymore. There would be comparisons about what my skills are like now and how I’ve forgotten how to play AFL after so long in the NFL. How I’m older and slower. That stuff’s never fun to hear, but people don’t realise the hardest person I compete against is myself. I’m my own worst critic, and I don’t want to live my life like that anymore. I just want to be me. Do the things that make me happy. It took me a long time to understand that happy looks different for everyone, and that’s okay.”
A quick glance confirmed Callum was mulling his words over.
“Does writing make you happier than footy?”
If Nate had a dollar for every time he’d been asked that. “For me, it’s about balance. I do my best with movement and creativity. It’s natural for people to want to pigeonhole you into one thing, but that’s never worked for me. Even when I played, I wrote. I’ve always done both. Now I just do the movement part differently, and I get to be at home with my friends and family, even if they don’t understand why I retired so young.”
“Dad doesn’t get it either. He’s all about the stupid footy draft, even though it’s still years away. How my stats match up against his.”
At Nate’s confused expression, Callum explained. “He was supposed to have this amazing professional career, but my mum died. He quit to take care of me, give us a more stable life.”
Several puzzle pieces clicked together in Nate’s mind.
“He says it’s the best opportunity for a good life for me, but he doesn’t even know me. All he sees is the future he never got to have. You should’ve heard how excited he was about this magazine thing. He’s going to send copies to all the clubs. Make sure they know I’m”—Callum pulled a face—“a rising talent.”
Nate slowed his pace, and Callum matched his stride. “Have you tried talking to your dad?”
