Page 53 of Unwritten Rules
At the end of the day, my father’s warning to the team about staying away from me still stands, and no one in their right mind would go against their head coach. Sinnett’s career hangs in the balance; it rides on him sticking to the rules and keeping his head in the game.
“I’m not going to sit back and allow some low-life to hurt women like that. He’s lucky I need to think about my career, otherwise, I don’t think I would’ve held back as much as I did.” His eyes pierce the side of my face, and I fight the urge to meet them. “I would never let someone hurt you, strawberry.”
My stomach flip flops at the meaning behind his words.
God, what is this man doing to me? I can’t get a grip on my damn heart, much less my mind. I’m in a confused state where I know I need to keep him at arm’s length, but also want to get closer to him so I can unravel what goes on in that complicated mind of his.
“Well, thank you,” I murmur.
Silence settles over us, the seconds ticking by slowly. We’ve been walking for not even five minutes, and knowing what I do about Sinnett, I’m not sure he would be down for much small-talk. With an urge to fill the silence and distract my mind from thinking about the man beside me, I reach into my handbag and retrieve the corded earphones, tangled in a haphazard ball.
I push one of the buds into my right ear and offer the left one to Sinnett. “Do you want to listen to some music with me? It’ll make the long walk go quicker.”
Sinnett eyes the bud before looking at me. His jaw clenches, chest heaving as if fighting the urge to say something. But ultimately, he doesn’t. He silently accepts the bud and slips it into his ear before shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans again.
My heart thunders in my chest as I scroll through my music catalogue. When Sinnett drove me home after the game on Thursday, I learned that while he listens to music, he doesn’t necessarily connect with it. So, on a mission to make his hard exterior feelsomethingfrom lyrics, I tap on one of my favourite songs. The Calling’s “Wherever You Will Go” sounds through the earphones, the opening notes settling the tension in my bones. I nod along to the beat.
Sinnett stays silent as we walk, the song carrying our footsteps in the direction of my house. As each second ticks by, I relax a little more in Sinnett’s presence. Hell, he even nods along to the song. It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask him if he’s heard it before, but not wanting to ruin the moment, I let the song trickle into the opening notes of “3AM” by Matchbox Twenty.
My shoulder brushes against Sinnett’s tattooed arm, the contact sending a jolt of electricity down my spine. The designs are hidden in the shadows of the night, but the wolf head sticks out to me even in the darkness, the lines detailed and deliberate. My fingers itch to trace the curves of the body, but knowing that would be a bad idea, I flex them in the pocket of the jacket and keep my eyes trained ahead.
“I like this one,” Sinnett comments when we’re five minutes from my house.
Trying to not sound surprised by his admission, I keep my voice even as I ask, “You do?”
He nods. “It’s catchy.”
“And the lyrics?”
“They’re okay.” He shrugs. “Nothing to write home about.”
I fight the urge to groan. “Sinnett, come on. The lyrics are beautiful. And so heartfelt.”
Again, Sinnett shrugs. “I guess so. But I still don’t feel a connection to it.”
“Well, maybe that’s because you need to find a personal experience of your own that closely relates to the lyrics.”
He hums in response as the closing notes simmer out. “How do I know the right experience to use?”
“You don’t,” I answer, scrolling through songs to pick another one. “You just… feel it. Embrace it. If that makes sense?”
Before Sinnett can respond, my finger skims over a song I had no intention of choosing. My cheeks flame when I register the title of the song, and my current situation with a man I have an intimate history with.
“Oh, shit, sorry,” I rush out as I try to find a different song to replace Ed Sheeran’s “Kiss Me”. “I wasn’t supposed to pick that one?—”
“Let it play,” Sinnett interjects, eyes lowering to meet mine. “I haven’t heard this one before.”
“Y-yeah, but?—”
“Tate, please.” He chuckles, ignoring the panic seeping into my features. “Just relax.”
God, I wish that were possible.
With hot cheeks and my sense of pride seeping away, I slip my phone into my pocket and allow myself to listen to the lyrics despite my racing heart thumping in my chest. Sinnett’s arm brushes mine again. He wasn’t kidding when he said the walk would keep him warm—I can feel the heat of his skin through the leather.
Sinnett pulls out his phone, scrolling and walking in silence. I try to catch a glimpse of what he’s doing, because I’m a snoopy person at heart, but every time I look away from my feet, the thought of stumbling and ripping the ear bud out of his ear is too embarrassing, so I leave him to his scrolling.
Turning onto my street, with my father’s house in sight, Sinnett slips his phone back into his pocket. I find myself wishing the walk had been longer. Listening to music withSinnett brings a wave of calmness I have needed since arriving in Sydney. It reminds me of being home in Barrenridge and hanging out with Noah and Nathan. Music has always been a comfort of mine. Mum used to play P!nk every Saturday morning when she would clean the house, and I would end up dancing with her in the kitchen instead of doing chores. It was something that brought us closer, our shared love for the same genre and songs binding us tight. Now, when I hear the opening notes to “Who Knew”, I have to fight the urge not to cry because it was one of Mum’s favourite songs.
