Page 53 of Striking Heat
Ileave the diner and head home. I hate how he didn’t answer my questions. It’s like one minute he wants to make sure I know all these things about him, and then the next he’s walling back up, saying he’s asking me questions for an article. Did I read into things? Or was that night at his place just a one-night stand? And why did I think it was more?
That’s where I’m screwing myself over. I keep thinking it meant more to him than it did. And maybe it didn’t. I’ve screwed men before just to scratch an itch. Maybe that’s all he’s doing. Why am I trying to make it more than it was and getting mad that it’s not?
Maybe he’s trying to spare me? Or just doing his job? He does have the interview to conduct. And Cromwell will be expecting a good piece. Danny has to deliver that, and I have to make it easier for him to do so.
I’m a job. I need to remember that.
It’s all that’s been running through my mind since I left him sitting there. He said he would get the check after I made an excuse about needing to get home, having work or something todo. What the heck was I thinking? Why did I just leave him like that? It was dumb.
And it has me back at my apartment lacing up my cleats and beating the hell out of the rebounder. I brought it with me from college. My dad made it for me back in high school. It was one of the nice things he did for me.
We didn’t have an easy relationship, and he didn’t quite understand me. He knew that I loved the game, but he wasn’t sure why I felt that I could be something. Back in his day, when you played a sport, you just finished up your high school career and headed into the workforce or went to college. He never knew anyone who played a sport in college, and he certainly didn’t enjoy that I wanted to. But back before we fought about that—back before he thought my life would be a waste because I was just out there kicking a damn ball—he built me this rebounder. It comes with me wherever I go. In college, my coach let me keep it at the field house.
Now it resides in my fenced-in backyard. I love that it’s fenced, because the other girls don’t come back here to bother me while I work out some aggression. That’s what I’m doing tonight, standing out here in the yard, wearing my cleats and smacking a soccer ball against the rebounder.
Sure, it’s supposed to help ensure I get a better first touch, but I’ve used this one in particular for therapy more times than I can count. It was there when my first boyfriend broke up with me. When my grandmother died. When we lost the state championship back in high school. After long fights with my dad, I would come outside and hit the rebounder as hard as I could.
The ball hits the wood and makes a hard smacking sound. I look around and see that the sun hasn’t even begun to set yet. It’s around dinnertime, I think. No one should be sleeping, so I’m not bothering anyone. Some of the girls have either taken the weekend to see family or friends or are hanging out together. I do have a few texts from Cassie asking if I want to watch a movie orsomething later. I told her maybe. I felt like being alone tonight after my long-ass day with Danny. Those are the words I used.
I wanted to let her know that I needed some space tonight, so I said it like that. She gets it, though, and won’t come looking for me. I’m grateful for her. She understands that at times I need my space, and she doesn’t hover, which is good. My mother hovered constantly, not because she cared but because she wanted to make sure I was saying and doing the right thing at all times. She wanted to point out where my mistakes were. And in her mind, there were plenty.
Smack.I hit it again and receive it on my foot. I take a second and dribble it to the end of my small yard and come back to hit it again. I repeat the process several times, enjoying the repetition and the peacefulness that being out here by myself brings. It’s just me and the ball. Me and the rebounder. Coach would want me to be resting, but I want to be hitting back. Hitting back at my stupid self for the way I acted today and hitting back at the critics. I wanted to do that the day the article came out. But I didn’t. Instead, I had to go to the training center. Practice and then get thrown into this mess.
Smack.
Another hit to the rebounder, and I’m starting to settle down a bit. I’m not sure what’s going on. This whole thing with Danny, the article, and the way the city is feeling about us. Yeah, we got one win, but the fans aren’t seeing that as enough to make it seem like we belong here.
I wonder what he’s doing tonight. Is he finding another way to blow off steam? Does that mean swimming laps at his pool? Or did he find someone else to climb into this bed or have a pizza picnic with? Is that a move of his, or did I give him the idea? No, he seems like the type who would be more of a been-there, done-that kind of a guy.
I take a few more smacks at the rebounder and then sit down on the edge of it. My signature is on the edge on top. My dad hadfinished it up and told me to sign it. I thought it was because he wanted my signature just in case I became famous someday. I asked and he said it, so I had the chance to give an autograph.
He didn’t believe in me then, and I don’t think he does now either. Even when we play the Portland Thorns, my parents won’t come to see me. They can’t be bothered. Their first excuse is that it’s an expense. I reminded them that I could get them free tickets, but they didn’t want them. Nor did they want me to send them some money for gas or any other expenses. I’m just a daughter who wants some support from her family, but I don’t have that. I wasn’t going to have that. They were convinced that this was going to go belly up. And what do you know they might be right. Unless Danny can write an article that suddenly somehow makes the city love us. Or me. Which I doubt. Because I don’t let him ask me questions or spend a lot of time with me.
It makes me mad, so I’m back up on my feet again, pounding the crap out of the ball.Smack, smack, smack.It hits again and again. I receive it time after time. It’s the therapy I thought I needed, but it’s not working. It's not the therapy I want tonight.
I think I want Danny.
I think I want that pizza picnic night with him. I shouldn’t have pissed him off. I shouldn’t have made excuses. Hell, on the way home, it was so easy to tell Cassie that I wanted a ‘me’ night. That would have been all I would have had to do.
“Fuck it.”
I grab the ball and head into the house. It’s time to shower and get myself ready for a night out. A night with him.
Once I’m in the shower, I wash my hair. I spend some extra time making sure my skin is smooth and shaved in all the right places. My hair is dried and curled. I chose a pair of navy leggings and a white oversized tee. I’m pretty sure I don’t have to get all dolled up for him. He might like it, and some night I might. But tonight, I’m going over there comfy. Just in case all he wants to do is relax, have a pizza picnic, and ask me more questions.
But it’s time to find out.
Once I’m sure I’m ready and look cute but casual, I head out the door and climb into my car to go and see him. No walking. He lives far enough away that it doesn’t make sense, but I kinda wish I could because he teased me that I’m a city girl.
I’m good at remembering places, and I suck at remembering faces. But I remember the way he took me to his place and how I got back to the bar. I laugh at myself because I have to start at the bar and make my way there. But I remember enough to get myself to his house.
I pull into the driveway and kill the engine. I can’t tell if he’s home or not. He doesn’t seem like the type to go out a lot. I get out of the car, palms sweating. I’ve never done this before. Men have always come to me, but this time, something about this man has me going to him. It’s not completely crazy, I tell myself. And there’s a good chance that he’ll be happy to see me.
Right?
Chapter Twenty-Two
~DANNY~
