“Hey, Mrs. Castor,” I greet the owner of the pub in town. Wincing, I manage to slide my ass onto a barstool. While my bruises have faded, my ribs are taking longer to mend. I’ve been home for nearly six weeks and I’m ready to start training.
Mrs. Castor gives me a sympathetic expression. “Nachos?”
“Please. Can you add extra guac?”
“Coming right up, Raia.” She calls out to the cook and slides a Diet Coke with a lemon wedge attached to the rim across the bar. “It’s good to see you back in town.”
I force a smile and dip my head in thanks. Mrs. Castor is flagged down by a patron at a table and I exhale in relief. Wrapping a hand around my Diet Coke glass, I pull it into my chest and take a long pull from the straw.
It’s not that I don’t like being home, it’s that I don’t belong anymore. To be honest, I’m not sure I ever did. Not with Avery Callaway, Coyotes Football QB and hometown hero, as my big brother.
I’ve lived in his shadow from the moment I was born. Even soccer—my passion and ticket out of here—didn’t put me on equal footing with Avery. At least, not in Knoxville where football is life. My athletic prowess still pales in comparison to his, as does my intelligence, wit, and looks.
I’ve always been second best and being back home, banged up and living at my parents’ house, makes the dull ache in my chest throb. The tiny fissures of hurt that I’ve masked over the years deepen.
“I heard you were back,” a woman says next to me.
When I turn toward the voice, I nearly slide off the barstool. “Mila!”
Mila Lewis, my brother’s first real girlfriend, beams. Seeing her, some of my personal pity party fades. If anyone got the short end of the stick because of my brother, it was Mila. After years of dating, he cheated on her in a scandal that rocked our community and publicly humiliated her. Even though I was at boarding school, I heard about how Mila lost her job with the Coyotes and turned inward, shutting everyone out as she processed Avery’s betrayal on top of her parents’ deaths earlier that year.
But now, she looks happier than I’ve ever seen her. Energetic, beautiful, and confident.
Mila smiles, her blue eyes sparkling. She wraps me in a gentle hug. “It’s good to see you, Rai.”
“You too, Mimi.” I hug her back, using her familiar nickname. “You look…amazing. Glowy.”
She laughs and holds up her left hand where a diamond rock sparkles from her ring finger.
“Oh my God!” I squeal, grabbing her hand and pulling it closer so I can fawn over her good fortune. “Damn, this is huge!”
Mila chuckles.
“Your man’s got good taste,” I tell her seriously, dropping her hand.
“He really does,” she agrees, taking the barstool beside mine.
“I’m happy for you, Mimi. Avery never would have bought you a ring that big.”
We both crack up at my dig.
“For what it’s worth,” I continue, serious now, “I didn’t speak to him for months after everything went down.”
Mila waves a hand dismissively. “It’s all water under the bridge now, Raia,” she says, referring to their breakup. “Avery and I have made peace with things and I’m happy, happier than I’ve ever been, with Devon.” She beams. “We’re planning to move to California to be closer to his family. I adore them.”
“Good for you,” I say, meaning it. Even though a pang cuts through my chest because…I thought I was happy, happier than ever, with Brooks.
“How are you? I mean, despite the obvious.” She points to the left side of my body where my arm curls protectively around my ribs.
I sigh heavily. “Brooks broke up with me,” I admit. It should be weird for me to confide in Mila, but given the history between us—she curled my hair for my middle school dance, bought me my first mascara wand, and let me tag along to the movies with her and Avery even when he ignored me—it’s not. I trust her; I always have.
“Damn, Rai.” Mila looks sympathetic. “I’m sorry. And I know this won’t resonate now, but do you think it’s for the best?”
I snort and take another sip of my soda. “You mean, do I think Brooks is my Avery and I was just settling?”
She winces at my honesty but doesn’t refute my words.
I shake my head. “I don’t know. I’m too hurt to think about it logically. And angry. He said we had gotten complacent but I… Mila, I wanted to marry him.”
She nods in understanding as my voice cracks.
“Here you go, love.” Mrs. Castor sets an entrée-sized portion of nachos in front of me.
“Thank you,” I say, pushing the dish closer to Mila. “Have some,” I tell her. “I’m about to eat my feelings.”
She swipes a nacho and pops it into her mouth. “You planning to stick around?”
“I don’t know,” I admit. “I don’t…fit in here.”
“Raia, this is your home.”
I shake my head. “It never felt that way.”
Mila places a hand on mine. “I know it was hard for you, growing up with Avery at the center of attention. But you’ve been gone a long time. You’ve blazed your own trail.”
“And now I’m back, with busted ribs and a revoked contract to play in Spain,” I share.
Mila winces. “Shit, Rai.”
“There’s always next season.” The words come out monotone because I’ve said them so many times. People have said them to me, too. I don’t think any of us believe them.
Will I play professionally in Europe? Will I get another shot?
“There is.” Mila’s tone holds an edge, and I glance at her. She smiles. “I’ll help you rehab.”
“Seriously?” Mila is one of the best physical therapists in the city. She’s now a trainer for the Tennessee Thunderbolts NHL team. That’s where she met her fiancé, hot shot player, Devon Hardt.
“Absolutely. Come by my office on Thursday and I’ll do an assessment. We’ll create a workout plan for you. I’ll talk to management and Devon. Maybe I can get you a pass to work out at the Bolts gym.”
“Thank you, Mimi. Truly, I appreciate it. I have a therapist who can see me in September, but I’m ready to start now. Plus, he doesn’t have your experience in sports injuries.”
“I’m happy to help.”
“Thanks. And no worries about the gym. Now that training camp is finished and preseason has started, Avery hooked me up to use the Coyotes facilities.”
“See…” Mila nudges her shoulder against mine. “Sometimes it helps to have a celebrated quarterback for a brother.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “He’s not that bad.” While Avery and I aren’t close, we aren’t at each other’s throats anymore either. Since I went to boarding school, I’ve had a stable, although distant, relationship with my family members, save for Anna.
Mila eats another nacho. “I better get going,” she says, slipping off the barstool. She waves to Mrs. Castor who passes her a brown paper bag with a takeout order. “I’ll see you Thursday?”
“I’ll be there. It was great to see you, Mila.”
“You too. You got this, Raia. I know it feels hopeless in this moment, but you are nothing if not badass.”
I give her a side hug. “Thank you.”
“See you soon.” Mila settles her bill and heads out of the pub.
I watch her go before turning back to my nachos.
“She’s one special woman,” Mrs. Castor remarks. “Your brother never deserved her.”
At that, I sputter a laugh and nod. “You’re right, Mrs. Castor.”
Mila evaluates me on Thursday and draws up a plan to help me ease back into training. On Friday morning, I hit the Coyotes facilities to begin my rehab.
While a few of the players say what’s up or give me a nod in greeting, most of the faces are new. The team has solidified in the past few seasons, and I haven’t been here to watch them come together.
There’s the rookie, West Crawford, that recently signed. Two new players starting on the defensive line. Save for my brother, Cohen, Gage Gutierrez, and Jag Baglione, I don’t personally know most of the roster.
Popping in my AirPods, I warm up and begin to work through the series of exercises Mila outlined for me.
I’m more than halfway through my workout when my ribs start to protest. Sweat beads along my hairline and slides down my face, dripping off my chin, snaking down my neck, and wetting the front of my tank top.
My arms tremble as I rack the dumbbells after my last set. Hunching forward, I drop my hands to my knees and drag in a lungful of air.
When I stand, I cross my hands behind my head and my eyes snag on a familiar face in the mirror.
Cohen.
His eyes narrow when he sees me. He’s talking to a teammate but wraps up the conversation and strides in my direction.
“Hey,” he says as he approaches.
He’s wearing a pair of shorts and a cut off T-shirt. His curly, light brown hair is hidden under a baseball cap and he’s sporting several days of stubble that shouldn’t look so damn attractive.
I remember Cohen from when he had a baby face. The man staring me down with concern flaring in his green eyes is nothing like the boy I remember. Now, he’s all man.
I frown. Was I really so distraught over Brooks that I didn’t appreciate Cohen’s hotness when he stopped by my house a few weeks ago? How did I not notice…this?
“Rai.”
I shake my head, and try to clear my thoughts, try to ignore my surprise over checking Cohen out. “Hi,” I manage, bending over to pick up my water bottle. I grab a towel and sling it around my neck.
“You rehabbing here?” he asks the obvious.
“Yep. Avery cleared it.”
Cohen nods, his hands resting on his hips. “You’re pushing pretty hard. It’s only been a few weeks.”
“Nearly six weeks since my injury. I gotta get it back,” I retort.
He nods but his lips thin. “You need a spotter?”
I grin and shake my head. “Nah, I’m straight, Cohen.”
“Okay. Well, if you need anything…”
“I’ll ask someone,” I agree.
Grabbing my towel, I pull it from around my neck and snap it against his hip.
A few guys working out nearby chuckle and Cohen shakes his head.
“You’re still a pain in the ass,” he tells me.
I laugh and tap my butt cheek. “Kiss my ass,” I toss back, sauntering toward a leg machine.
But I feel Cohen’s eyes linger on my back and for some reason, it causes me to stand straighter.
I’m aware of his presence, of his attention, in a way I never was before.
It’s irksome and annoying.
And yet, I like knowing his eyes are on me.