Page 5 of A Play For The Heart
Maren’s eyes widen, looking at me like I’ve grown another head. “Of course, I know about whale-watching tours. What species do you want to see? Humpbacks? Orcas? Gray Whales?”
I stare at her, slightly afraid of the can of worms I may have opened with that question. Someone once told me not to ask a scientist about their research if you’re not prepared to listen to a TED Talk about an incredibly niche topic. It's advice I should probably adhere to.
“Henry, my best friend, said he would take me on one before it gets too cold. There aren’t whales in the Midwest and I’ve always wanted to see one. Bucket list item.”
“Oh, well there’s this one company that’s environmentally friendly and super ethical. I can send you the info.” She pulls out her phone to send me the link, then pauses, eyes narrowing on me. “Wait… you’re from the Midwest?”
“Yes…?”
“I’m from Michigan!” she basically screams inside the small restaurant, the reaction startling a couple a few tables away. “What state are you from? Where did you go to school?”
“I’m originally from Indiana and went to the University of Notre Dame.”
“Damn, you must be a genius then.” I blush at the compliment, and she quickly changes the topic. I’m beginning to get conversational whiplash, but it’s so nice to talk to someone who isn’t my family that I can’t contain the grin on my face.
When Henry and Declan decided to become famous, talented football players, they left me behind in Indiana to hang out with my parents for six months. Conversation consisted of topics like ‘when I'm going to give them grandchildren’ and ‘deals they found at Costco’. Needless to say, listening to Maren talk about the ocean is a much-appreciated change of pace.
“If you like whales,” she rambles on, “then you would love the tidal pools! We totally have to go. There are so many fascinating little creatures at low tide.”
As she continues to wax poetic about the different species that inhabit tidal pools around Seattle, some of the apprehension I had earlier begins to dissipate. So far, Maren seems great and not the type of person to collect creepy dolls, which is a relief, because sleeping in an apartment full of dolls is my worst nightmare. The smooth start with Maren gives me hope that adjusting won’t be as difficult as I imagined. As I continue to shovel down my pad Thai, I begin to wonder if Seattle has any other surprises up its sleeve.
Maybe this move won’t be so bad after all.
CHAPTER 3
“I want you, but I know I’m only one of your friends”
What Can I Do—Renee Rapp
Henry
Istrideoffthepractice field, helmet dangling in my hand as I drag my ass back to the locker room. It should be illegal to run that much at practice during the season. Maybe the wide receiver coach dropped his protein shake this morning. That would explain his sudden desire to torture me and every other guy in my position group.
Droplets of sweat trickle down my face as I daydream about gluing myself to my couch cushions for the rest of the night. Images of plush blankets and squishy throw pillows propel me forward, giving me a renewed sense of energy after a brutal practice. Walking through the door into the offensive locker room, I’m assaulted by the pungent scent of two dozen other sweaty football players. Maneuvering through the crowded room toward my locker, Deon Adams, our quarterback, shoots me his signature smile.
“Good practice today, rookie,” he says as I walk past him.
I nod in acknowledgment. I have to keep playing it cool, even though his compliment has me popping imaginary confetti in my mind. Tossing my helmet down, my eyes snag on my name tag. Not a day goes by when I'm not stunned to see my last name next to the Seattle Maverick’s logo above the door. Amazing that my childhood dream has become my reality. With a groan, I sit down and begin to methodically take off my practice gear. As I peel off my sweat-drenched shirt, someone pokes my ribcage. I turn to my left, and grinning at me like a fool is Jack Walters. If you spotted Jack on the street, you would assume he was in some sort of biker gang. Sitting at six-foot-five, a light three hundred pounds, and covered in tattoos, Jack makes my six-foot-three frame look tiny. Any reasonable person would be afraid of him, that is until he opens his mouth. The man is sunshine incarnate. I’m not sure I’ve ever met someone more optimistic than Jack.
“Didn’t your friend just arrive?” Jack asks, drying the water from his messy brown hair with a towel.
Excitement blooms in my chest at the mention of my best friend and the most wonderful, most beautiful person in the entire world. Sawyer Jones and I now live in the same city. No more Facetime calls cut short because of the time difference and her geriatric bedtime. No one under the age of seventy-five goes to bed at 9:30 PM, except Sawyer. Now I get to see her in person and I couldn't contain my joy even if I tried. It's been a long six months alone, but my suffering has come to an end.
“Yeah, Sawyer landed yesterday afternoon.”
I nearly squealed when Sawyer told me she got a job at a non-profit in Seattle. Knowing Sawyer and I live in the same city again gives me a head rush akin to letting a kid run free in a candy store. Pure, unbridled happiness. When I’m around Sawyer, I can relax. She's my own personal hit of Xanax. Even with my excitement for her move, a lump still gets caught in my throat every time I think about her. The cause of that lump is standing a mere ten feet away from me on the other side of the room.
Declan Monroe.
My former teammate at Notre Dame, my current teammate on the Seattle Mavericks, and worst of all, Sawyer's current boyfriend. In my eyes, Declan Monroe is a grade-A asshole. Proud owner of the cockiest personality of anyone I’ve ever met, and the looks to back up that mentality. With his black hair and piercing blue eyes, he’s every woman’s dream man and objectively very attractive—I’m willing to admit it—even if I get a migraine every time he speaks.
My glaring must have triggered some internal alarm in Declan, and I continue to stare at him as he saunters toward Jack and me. “Have you spoken to Sawyer?” Declan asks, too curiously.
I begin to haphazardly throw things into my gym bag, attempting to leave as quickly as possible. The less time I have to speak to Declan, the better. Sawyer told me frowning is bad for wrinkles and I plan on staying good-looking for as long as possible.
“Yeah, I texted her last night when she landed,” I mutter, hoping to avoid whatever conversation he’s attempting to start.
I haven’t always disliked Declan. I mean, sure, he can be annoying and cocky, but overall, I’ve tolerated his presence at worst and occasionally enjoyed hanging out with him at best. That is until he asked Sawyer out six months ago. From that moment on, Declan and I have not been on good terms. If I had a dart board, a picture of his face would sit on it, front and center. While he’s never said it outright, I’m confident he knew I had feelings for Sawyer when he asked her out. Hell, the whole University of Notre Dame probably knew I was head over heels for Sawyer, except Sawyer.
