LESSONS IN LOSING IT is a full length,
friends-to-lovers standalone romance that releases on June 2, 2017.
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Just friends…
That’s all soccer star Fred Ohr wants to be with
Rachel Collins, the American student he meets at party in his adopted hometown
of Madrid. He’s looking for the real deal—someone who’ll stick around
Spain for more than a semester—so he resolves to keep her at arm’s length.
Even if she is sexy as hell. Smart. And as crazy about
sports as he is.
But friends don’t kiss. They
don’t do sleepovers. And they definitely don’t get rug burn from
having the best sex ever on the living room carpet.
Fred and Rachel’s connection is instant.
Intense. He loves to cook breakfast for her. She loves it
when he cooks wearing nothing but his glasses.
Only Rachel’s got a dream internship waiting for
her back in the states. And Fred is lining up a contract worth millions
to stay in Madrid. They’re playing with fire to keep seeing each other like
this. But how can they resist when the sex is so great—really,
really freaking great—and the fun they have together is even better?
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
Jessica Peterson began reading romance to escape
the decidedly unromantic awkwardness of her teenage years. Having found solace
in the likes of Mr. Darcy, Jamie Fraser (OMG love the gingers!), and Edward
Cullen, it wasn’t long before she began creating tall, dark and handsome heroes
of her own.
She lives in Charlotte, North Carolina with her
husband, Mr. Peterson, and her smelly Goldendoodle Martha Bean.
Jessica is also running a Rafflecopter giveaway, so feel free to enter!
As an added bonus, here's a sneak peak of the first two chapters! Enjoy!
Chapter
1
Fred
Madrid, Spain
December
It’s just after midnight, and the
celebration is in full swing. Our squad captain’s swanky flat is bursting
with people and noise and cigar smoke. The floor throbs in time to a
catchy pop song; girls dance on a nearby table. One of them keeps looking
at me.
Well. Checking me out, really.
Her eyes devour me from my legs up to my chest, but they stop there.
She doesn’t bother to look any higher than my neck.
I slip out of the hall and make a beeline
for the (relative) safety of the kitchen. The euphoria of tonight’s win
over our rival, Barcelona, is beginning to fade, and my hip is sore as fuck
from the hit I took late in the match.
Being ogled like just another footballer
piece of meat is not doing wonders for my very real desire to get the hell out
of here and read Harry Potter in bed. I bloody love that little
wizard and his mates.
I use the bottle opener on my key ring to
pop the top off one of the beers I brought with me. I take a long, hard
sip, wondering if it’s too early to pull a Houdini.
I felt great on the pitch tonight. I
helped the squad cinch a huge victory—Spaniards can’t keep their pants on when
it comes to the Madrid-Barcelona football rivalry. I was on cloud nine,
like I usually am when I’m playing footy.
But now? Now I’m tired and sore as
hell, and after a half dozen post-match interviews, my capacity for small talk
is nonexistent.
As a solid introvert, I like to recuperate,
alone, after the craziness of a match day. Football is really the only
thing that energizes me—it’s the only thing I’ve ever excelled at—so I’ve
practically lived and breathed the sport since I was fifteen.
It’s not a bad gig. Not in the
slightest. I may feel a bit out of place at these parties. But I
love my job, and I’m fucking good at it. I get paid an obscene amount of
money. Not that football’s ever been about the money for me, but it’s
definitely a nice perk.
Needless to say, I’m content with my lot.
Even if I do hate these parties and the girls that come to them.
Sometimes I wonder if I’m ever going to
find the sort of girl I’m looking for—the sort who’s genuinely interested in me
and not my money or my body or my career. I’m looking for a girl who
wants the same things I do.
A girl who wants to get serious, maybe have
a family someday. Not anytime soon, of course, but I don’t see the point
in being with someone if our relationship doesn’t have forever potential.
I head to living room, which just so
happens to be one room closer to the nearest exit. I’ve been at this
party for a couple of hours already; I’ve paid my dues. Time to go home.
I hang out in the corner of the room and
quickly drain the rest of my beer. I’m digging my keys out of my pocket
when Rhys Maddox, one of my few friends on the squad and our resident
golden-haired heartthrob, claps me on the shoulder. He nods at a group of
girls, all of them pretty and smiling, across the room. “Ready to go say
hello? Laura’s friends are lovely girls.”
Laura is Rhys’s American girlfriend.
She’s funny, she’s nice, and she’s really great for Rhys (even though he
may not know it yet). Basically she’s one of my favorite people on Earth.
I’ve seen these girls before; they’re her
American friends she’s studying abroad with in Madrid. I told Rhys earlier
tonight that I’d introduce myself. Now I’m really regretting that
decision. Hermoine and Ron are calling my name, and my hip is killing me.
Shit.
“They’re pretty,” I say, feigning anxiety
when really I’m just impatient to get the fuck out of here already.
“Really pretty. Forget it. I changed my mind. I can’t
go talk to them, not right now.”
I’m about to turn for the door, but Rhys
tightens his grip on my shoulder, turning me back toward the girls.
“Listen, mate,” he says. “If you
can’t talk to girls after winning our most epic match yet, there’s something
seriously wrong with you. C’mon.”
With a sigh, I let Rhys steer me toward the
girls. I just have to play nice for two minutes. Two minutes of
torture. But at least after that I can go home.
“Hi,” Laura says, smiling at us.
Rhys smiles back, a big, dorky thing I’ve
never seen on him before. “Feeling all right?”
“Yes.” She turns to me. “Fred!
I’m so glad you came over. The girls have been dying to meet you.
This is my friend Vivian, and this”—she loops arms with a very pretty,
dark-haired girl—“is Rachel, she really loves, uh, sports…”
Meeting my eyes, Rachel smiles and holds
out her hand. I’m struck by the friendliness of her smile. It’s a
high-wattage, Julia-Roberts-style smile, but it’s somehow sincere, too.
Intimate.
So bloody different from the come-hither
grin that girl dancing on the table gave me earlier.
“Hi, Fred,” she says. Her American
accent dips a little, curls at the edges; I don’t recognize it. Southern,
maybe? “Nice to meet you. You looked really great out there
tonight.”
I take her hand. She gives mine a
firm, warm squeeze. My eyes flick down her body, back up again.
She’s petite—I practically tower over her—and hot as hell. I didn’t
know I was a boob guy until this very second. Hers are…gah, they are
perfect.
Rachel drops my hand. I blink,
mentally chastising myself for ogling her like a piece of meat. I
don’t like being looked at that way, and I doubt Rachel does, either.
Get it together. I need to get
it together. But something about this girl—her boobs? her smile?—is
making it difficult to do that.
“Thanks,” I say. “I, um, hope you enjoyed yourself.”
“We froze our asses off, but it was worth
it,” she says. “The energy in that stadium is ridiculous! It was so
loud my ears are still ringing a little. Is it that loud on the field—the
pitch, I mean?”
“Oh, God, yes,” I say. “So loud you
feel it in your chest. To say our fans are passionate is an
understatement. Other squads say it’s the toughest place to play when
you’re on the road.”
“I noticed you were limping a little after
that hit you took in the second half. If you don’t mind me asking, how do
you rehab an injury like that? Ice? Ibuprofen? Probably lots
of rest, too, right?”
Her eyes, dark and intelligent, are on the
hip in question. So Rachel really paid attention to the match. I
like her curiosity.
I also like her confidence. I’ve
known her all of sixty seconds, but she’s got this lovely, down-to-earth energy
that sets her apart.
She’s obviously gorgeous, too. Those
eyes—Jesus, they make my pulse jump.
“Yes—a combination of all three, actually.
How’d you know that? Do you play football?”
“Tennis, mostly, but I played a little bit
of everything in high school—basketball, volleyball, soccer—sorry, football.
I’m kind of a sports nut.” She grins, tucking her long, inky brown
hair behind one ear. “I bet you’ll have one hell of a bruise tomorrow.”
I nod, trying not to stare at her.
Not only is she beautiful and confident, she’s also as obsessed with
sports as I am. I’ve got to be dreaming. This girl is way too good
to be true.
“Yeah,” I manage, “this one’s going to be
bad. Been wanting to get home all night so I can have a good cry about
it.”
I pretend to wipe away a rogue tear, throw
in a sniffle. She laughs.
The sound floods my ribcage with warmth.
It’s not forced, her laugh, or fake. I’d know; I’m an expert at coaxing
belly laughs from my niece Lilli (pro tip: the peek-a-boo game goes a long way
with a nine month old).
“Oh, come on, you rolled around the field
in apparent agony for, like, five minutes after that play. Surely there
were tears then? Fake tears, at the very least?”
Americans love to poke fun at our, er,
theatrical response to getting injured on the pitch. This is nothing new.
But the good natured way Rachel is teasing me about it—that is.
I have no idea what the fuck is going on,
but I suddenly want to stay at this party more than I want to dive back into The
Prisoner of Azkaban.
I’m suddenly having more fun with a real
live person than I would with fictional ones. She’s just so friendly and
so gorgeous. Clearly smart, too.
I mean, this is usually the point in the
conversation when I’d excuse myself, pleading one of three vague but believable
excuses—I’m fucking exhausted, I’ve got to go to [insert football-related
activity here], or so sorry, but my mum and/or sister is calling me. My
life is predictable enough that one of the three is true at any given time.
But right now, I actually want to stick
around. See what else Rachel has to say about…well, everything.
“I save my fake tears for weekday matches,
thank you very much,” I reply.
“Oh?” She crosses her arms. I try—and
fail—not to notice that this makes her breasts look even bigger. Get.it.together.
“And why is that?”
“The thing about fake tears is that they
really take a lot out of you,” I say. I notice that sometime in the past
few minutes, Rhys and Laura disappeared. Rachel’s other friends are gone,
too. Can’t say I’m not glad to have her all to myself. “I would
know, as I’m an expert. I’ve got to prepare for days ahead of time.”
She cocks a brow. “Prepare?
How?”
“Watch Titanic on repeat and
practice in the mirror, obviously.”
“Obviously,” she says, chewing on her
bottom lip as her face lights up with a smile. I really, really wish
she’d stop chewing on her bottom lip, because it’s driving me crazy. It’s
making me think about how much I’d like to take that lip between my own teeth.
“So you’re German?”
“I am.”
“Where are you from?”
I grin harder, hoping it will distract her
from the tent I’ve started to pitch in my pants. Fuck.
“Germany.”
“I know,” she teases back. “Where in
Germany?”
“The south. A town called Weilheim in
Oberbyern. It’s in Bavaria. Best beer in the world there. I
actually brought some bottles with me—want to grab one?” I ask, nodding my head
toward the kitchen.
Rachel looks at me. She appears as
startled by the invitation as I am. I’m never this cool or forward with
girls. With people. Ever.
“Yeah,” she says after a beat. “Yeah,
I’d like that. Everyone here is drinking this fancy champagne—someone
said it was the most expensive in the world?—but I’m more of a beer girl myself.”
“Yeah, that’s our captain, Olivier Seydoux,
for you. Only the best of the best for that bloke.” I glance back
at her as we head for the kitchen. “So you really like beer, huh?”
“I do. My dad’s from Milwaukee, and
my grandmother worked at one of the big breweries there. Needless to say,
my beer education started at a young age. My high school friends thought
it was so cool that my dad would let me have a beer with him when we watched
college football—American football—on Saturdays.” She rolls her eyes.
“I was so badass back then.”
I reach inside the cabinet where I hid my
stash and grab the last two beers. “You’re not badass anymore?”
“Meh,” Rachel says with a shrug. She
watches as I grab the key ring from my pocket and use the opener to pop the
tops off the bottles. Her eyes linger on my hands. “Do you always
carry a bottle opener with you?”
I spear her with a look. “You don’t?”
“I don’t. But!” She rummages
around in her purse, and pulls out a pair of these little foam sleeve things.
“I do always have a couple of coozies on me.”
“Coozies? What the hell are those?”
“Watch and be amazed.” She slips the
first foam sleeve onto one beer—it’s printed with white letters that read
BATCAVE SPRING FORMAL 2016, MERYTON U—and then the second, emblazoned with a
donkey’s ass and nothing else, on the other.
“You see,” she says, handing me the one
with the donkey ass, “it keeps the beer cold. Although we’re not drinking
it cold, so I guess it would just keep the beer from getting too warm from our
hands?” She scrunches her nose. “I don’t know. I guess it
makes sense coozies wouldn’t be a thing in Europe.”
The scrunched nose—seriously, could Rachel
be any more adorable?
“At the very least, they keep you from
getting your bottle mixed up with someone else’s, yeah?” I offer.
She laughs, crossing one leg over the
other. Her body tilts toward mine, just a little, and suddenly the
temperature in the room goes up a notch. I haven’t been attracted to
someone like this in what feels like forever. The impulse to erase the
small space between our bodies is fucking hard as hell to resist.
“Yeah,” she says. “I’ll take it,
mostly because I got to show off my coozie collection.” She holds out her
beer. “Cheers, Fred. Congratulations on your win. And on your
amazing theatrical performance.”
“Thanks. I worked quite hard to get
it just right tonight,” I say, and now I’m laughing, too. Genuinely laughing.
I give her a little bow, my fingers brushing hers as our bottles tap on
my way up. A ribbon of heat unfurls inside my hand, moving up my arm.
God, I want to touch this girl. I
want to put my hands on her and kiss her hard and make her laugh.
We hold our bottles like that for a beat
too long. My gaze latches onto Rachel’s and doesn’t let go. She’s
feeling it, too—this energy, this attraction between us.
“You’re staring,” she says with a smile.
“Can’t help it,” I say. “Sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?”
“Because I hate when people look at me
like…like I’m a piece of meat, I guess.”
“I don’t feel like a piece of meat right
now.”
“No? Good. What do you feel
like?”
“Like…I don’t know.” She gives a
little shrug. “Like I’m having fun with a really tall, really cute dude
at an otherwise lame party.”
I grin. “It is quite lame, isn’t it?
And here I believed I was the only one who thought that.”
“Of course it’s lame. I mean,
it’s amazing, but also lame. It all seems kinda fake, I guess—the
schmoozing, the fancy champagne.” Rachel shrugs again. “I’m having
more fun with you than I would be mingling with everyone else, that’s for
sure.”
This girl—it’s like she’s reading my bloody
mind.
Which she can’t actually do, thank God, or
she’d know I am currently fantasizing about having her in my flat, naked, her
eyes closed as my fingers between her legs, her mouth open, her pussy pulsing.
She’d pant, make these little breathless noises.
The head of my dick presses against the fly
of my jeans. I close my eyes, take a deep breath.
“You okay there, killer?” Rachel asks.
“Yes,” I grunt.
She laughs. “That’s the least
convincing ‘yes’ I’ve ever heard.”
I open my eyes and look at her.
Jesus, she’s pretty. Lit up.
It’s weird, but something about her laugh
reminds me of home. There’s always laughter in my parents’ house; my ribs
ache for days after I spend a holiday at home with my siblings and their
significant others and my parents. I miss that.
We sip our beers. Rachel smacks her
lips and lets out a sigh of satisfaction. “That’s delicious.”
“You like it?” I meet her eyes. The
irises are so dark they almost fade into the pupils. Almost, but not
quite.
“I love it. It’s different—tastes
like a wheat beer, which is probably my favorite.”
“I’m glad. These Bavarian beers can
be a bit of an acquired taste.” I take another sip. “So, the sports
thing—are you planning to play tennis professionally? Maybe go into
sports management or something like that?”
“I’d really like to go into sports
medicine, actually,” she says, setting her beer on the counter. “Maybe
physical therapy or something like that. As a matter of fact, I had a
phone interview for an internship at the Meryton University athletic department
right before the match.”
“That’s brilliant,” I say, and I mean it.
I never doubted her sincere interest in sports, but I adore just how much
she obviously loves them. “How did it go?”
She shrugs again. “I’m trying not to
get my hopes up. But it’d be really awesome if I got that internship.
My ultimate goal would be to work for a sports franchise—a team like yours—but
working at the athletic department is a great way to get my foot in the door.”
“You know,” I say, my heart skipping a
beat, “if you want a tour of our team’s training facility, all you have to do
is ask.”
“Yeah, right, I’ll just ask for a tour of
the training facility that belongs to the world’s most valuable sports
franchise. The facility that’s more closely guarded than the Pentagon.
No big deal,” she says.
“Rachel, it’s really not a big deal.”
She meets my eyes when I use her name. “If you want a tour, I can
make it happen. Easy. I’ll ask the club medical staff to show you
the ropes. Might give you a better sense of what you’re looking for?
The club just built a new medical facility that is bonkers, and we’ve got
a couple doctors on staff, plus fitness coaches, physios, even a sports
psychologist. A bit of everything, really.”
She blinks a couple of times. Looks
away. Looks back up at me, her hair falling into her face.
“Seriously? You’d do that?”
“Of course. You’re in Madrid, for
Christ’s sake, so you might as well do it while you’re here.”
“Wow,” she says, pulling her hair back.
“I don’t know what to say. Thank you. This is huge for a lot
of reasons—I’m heading back to the states in, like, less than a month, and if I
hadn’t talked to you tonight…just. Wow. I’m the luckiest freaking
person on the planet. Thank you.”
I grin. “Not sure if you saw how
great I looked on the pitch tonight—”
“Now you’re just bragging,” she says,
rolling her eyes.
“I am. But the squad really, really
likes me at the moment, and they’ll do pretty much anything to keep me happy.
I’d love an excuse to exercise some of that muscle, especially on behalf
of a mate’s friend. The tour would be asking a small favor, nothing
more.”
“Small favor? Fred, I can’t tell you
how many sports medicine internships I’ve secretly applied to without ever
hearing a peep back.”
“Secretly?” Now I’m intrigued.
Rachel waves me away. Her eyes
change. They’re sad, I think. Sad or hurt. “Long story.”
“How does Wednesday sound? I’ll
arrange everything, and I can send my driver round to pick you up.”
She blinks. “You have a driver?”
“I do. I usually drive myself around,
but it’s always nice to have someone on call.”
“Uh. Wow. Sorry, sorry, I know
I keep saying wow, but this whole thing is just—I mean. Wow!
I’m speechless. Wednesday works for me.”
I smile. So does she. Bloody
hell, that smile. “Great,” I say.
“Great,” she says.
I try to tamp down on the pulse of warmth
low in my belly, between my legs. I want to touch this girl, take her
home, but I can’t.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I haven’t
fooled around with girls casually before. I’m not a monk. But every
time I’d get physical with a girl without any intention of seeing her again,
I’d just end up feeling empty. Lonelier than before. Used, even as
I felt like I was using her.
I’m done with that shit. I’ve been
done with it for a while now. Rachel may not have said outright she
doesn’t want to get serious with a guy, but she’s moving thousands of miles
away in a month’s time. There’s no way she’s looking for forever with
someone in Spain.
I am. Which may explain why I’m
twenty-two years old and still haven’t swiped my v-card. Yeah, I’m not
proud of it, but I suppose I’m an old-fashioned sort of bloke. I want to
fall in love before I have sex; fall for someone who will stick around for the
long haul. It just feels right, I suppose.
At this point, I’ve waited a long time to
lose my virginity—so why not lose it to someone special? Someone who
really means something to me? I think sex is sacred. It’s important
I get it right.
So…yeah. As attracted as am I to
Rachel, I’m not interested in a casual hook-up with her.
With a sigh, I tug a hand through my hair.
I’ve been here before. I’ve been attracted to girls who clearly
weren’t my forever, and I managed to keep it in my pants then. I can do
it again. The attraction fades. It always does.
But damn if that smile of hers doesn’t make
me feel fucking awake and alive and, yeah, more than a little turned on.
Chapter
2
Rachel
Wednesday
I’m so excited for my tour of Fred’s
training facility I can hardly pay attention in my one and only class of the
day. But I have some work to do—exams are coming up—and the driver isn’t
picking me up until later this afternoon. So after class I run a few
errands, then head for the Reina SofÃa Museum. I’m writing a paper on
this gorgeous Herman Anglada Camarasa painting that hangs there.
I peep the painting for a bit before
sitting down to write in the museum café. It takes me way longer than it should
to get going on the paper. Now I’m not only thinking about my tour, but
I’m thinking about the cute, charming guy who made it happen—Fred Ohr, soccer
star and all around stud.
Athletes are my type, and not just because
I’m an Exercise and Health Sciences major. Fred is a big guy, with thick
shoulders that taper into a slender but still well muscled torso (I may or may
not have Googled shirtless pictures of him when I got home from the party).
I felt like a pixie next to him.
I liked it. Him. I liked him a
lot. His sense of humor. His generosity. The way his
blue-green eyes got all squinty when he smiled.
I noticed him even before we were
introduced. He was standing off to the side, alone, nursing a beer.
I wouldn’t say he looked sad or anything. I mean, the guy was
getting plenty of attention from girls at that party. But I
definitely picked up on some loneliness there. I’ve felt lost at parties,
too—the old cliché of being in a room full of people but feeling lonelier than
ever—so I could sympathize.
I’d like to think he felt a little less
lonely after our chat. I sure as hell did. I actually haven’t
stopped thinking about how much fun I had, talking to him.
How goddamn hot he was.
My memory of how Fred looked is crystal
clear. He’s handsome, but in a way that’s totally different from the rest
of the guys on his team. Guys like Rhys Maddox, who, with their
smoldering gazes and cheekbones and ridiculous Euro haircuts, could easily be
underwear models.
Fred is less classically good-looking, more
square and masculine. His blond hair is cropped close to his head, and he
had it combed in a hipster schoolboy swoop to one side. He’s got a hockey
player nose: a little too big for his face, a little crooked, too, like he’s
broken it a couple times in epic fistfights with the losers who threw him into
the boards. He was dressed in jeans and a blue sweater he wore over a
white button up. Simple, nothing fussy, but still sexy. I remember
how freaking handsome he looked.
I liked that he was different. The
other footballers were too much for me. Too pretty, almost.
I’m so distracted by the memory of his
smile and the zing of warmth it sent through me that eventually I give up on my
paper and check my email instead.
My heart skips a beat when I see a note in
my inbox from the athletic director at Meryton.
The internship I’ve applied to—the one in
sports medicine I really want—there’s news.
My fingers shake as I guide the mouse
across the screen. I open the email, my eyes moving over the words faster
than my brain can process them.
You’ve made it to the final round of
candidates…you will receive a call for one final phone interview…please provide
proof you are able to find housing in the Durham area this summer…
“Holy
shit!” I say, loud enough to make the old Spanish dude beside me look up from
his newspaper.
I sheepishly offer him my apologies, then
reread the email. Oh my God oh my God oh my God I totally wasn’t
expecting this to happen. The internship is prestigious and highly
competitive. I didn’t think I’d even make it past the résumé stage, much
less the final round.
Wow. Now that this sports medicine
thing might really happen, I recognize how badly I want the internship.
The thought of getting it and working at the athletic department all
summer long makes me so excited I can hardly sit still. I want this.
I really, really want this to work out.
Sports medicine combines two of my favorite
things: sports (obviously) and science. Mom wants me to channel my
interest in science into a career being a superwoman surgeon like her, but over
the years, I’ve seen how her job absolutely consumes her life. How stressed
and overwhelmed she always is.
I’d like a career that offers at least a little
more balance. I want to work to live, as cheesy as that overused byline
is, and not the other way around; I want there to be enough room in my life for
things like travel. Books. Kids—lots of kids—and fun. I’ve
talked to several people—doctors, physical therapists, trainers—and from what I
can tell, I have a much better chance of finding that balance in sports
medicine than I do in cardiothoracic surgery (mom’s specialty).
But I know how disappointed mom will be if
I don’t go the surgeon route. And if there’s one thing I really hate,
it’s letting her and dad down. They’ve just been so good to me.
They’ve worked so hard to make my dream of going to Meryton University
come true.
Probably why I haven’t told them I’m
applying to sports medicine internships. Just the thought of having that
call with mom that makes my stomach hurt.
I blink when an IM pops up at the bottom of
my screen.
It’s mom. Of course. My heart
falls. I don’t know why I’m surprised; she’s always had an eerie sixth
sense of when to appear so she can burst my bubble.
I left you a voicemail this morning,
she types. I’ve been waiting for you to call back—I heard from the
head of the anesthesiology team. Said he may be able to get you in for some
shadowing this summer.
I
stare at the screen. I’ve shadowed doctors in mom’s hospital before, and
I pretty much hated it every time. I can’t imagine having to do that
again instead of working at the athletic department.
I also can’t imagine telling mom I’m
passing up anesthesiology for sports medicine.
Ugh.
Something must be up with my phone—I
didn’t get any voicemails today. Weird. I reply.
Maybe you should get it checked out?
It would be a catastrophe if you missed a call about an internship
opportunity.
I
roll my eyes. Of course mom would use the word catastrophe.
Like my phone dropping a call is on scale with a category five hurricane.
I’ll see what I can do, I type.
You need to make a decision soon. Have
you applied to the research group I told you about? They are doing some
great work with stents. This summer is huge for you. That’s when I
interned at the CDC, remember? And I met Dr. Zhu, who got me into Yale.
Yes, I remember. You tell me that
story every time we talk. Couldn’t forget it if I tried.
You don’t need to get so snippy, you
know, she says. I’m only trying to help. You have to do
something with yourself this summer, and it’d better be amazing. I’m not
paying forty grand a year for Meryton for you to end up working at a gym. You
can do so much better than that.
I’m working my ass off trying to figure
it out, trust me, I reply.
But even as I type the words, a well-worn
feeling—something like panic—makes me short of breath. Two minutes ago, I
was pretty sure about what I wanted. I wanted to get my dream sports
medicine internship. I was so excited about checking out the training
facility of the best soccer team in the world.
Now I’m not so sure. I’m not excited.
I’m stressed.
A familiar set of memories moves through my
head like the slides on a projector. Mom’s grinding frustration over not
getting the promotion she wanted turning into a howl of joy the day I got into
Meryton (her top pick for me); how the stress she wore like this giant, heavy
overcoat every day would disappear if I came home with all As on my report card;
how I distracted her from another fight with dad by telling her I’d take up
violin, even though I so wasn’t into music or instruments or the creepy
lady who taught orchestra. She, however, was thrilled, mostly because
she’d read somewhere that playing music helps increase your standardized test
scores.
My mother is not the happiest person in the
world. I recognize that. But when I can make her happy—when I can
make her proud—it’s the best feeling ever.
I want to see mom happy more often. I
mean, duh, I love my mom. She’s my mom. But her bouts of
happiness never seem to last, which leaves me scrambling for another
accomplishment, another achievement to wave in front of her. I keep
thinking that maybe this will be the thing that tips the balance.
This semester’s GPA or this exam score or this internship will be the
thing that finally keeps her happy.
Doing this internship at the Meryton
athletic department is definitely not that thing. As great as it feels to
make mom smile, I can only imagine how awful it’s going to be if I piss her
off, or, worse, disappoint her.
I mean, maybe I should be more worried
about ending up at a gym, the work-life balance I’m looking for be
damned—although, honestly, what’s wrong with working at a gym?
Maybe I should be shadowing
anesthesiologists; it’d look great on my med school application. Maybe I
am wasting mom’s hard earned money by not working harder. I’m really,
really lucky that I don’t have to worry about paying for college, and I
definitely don’t want to be the kid that freeloads off her parents’ generosity.
I’ve just been really busy getting ready
for exams, I type. I’ll get going on my summer plans once they’re
over.
All easy As, she replies. At
least this semester won’t be a total waste for you—those grades will help your
GPA, and medical schools will love that.
Right, I say. That’s
exactly why I came to Spain. To boost my GPA.
That’s my girl, mom types, clearly
not picking up on my sarcasm. I can’t wait for you to come home.
We can work on the essays for your applications together. I already
have some good ideas for the Yale essay—you know the one about rising to meet a
challenge? I figure you can talk about the research you did at the
oncology center.
I
fall back into my seat with a heavy sigh. When I think about pursuing
mom’s route, I feel this surge of satisfaction at how thrilled and proud she’ll
be of me if I do get into Yale. But at the same time, my gut ties itself in
knots. It knows it’s not the path for me. It tells me in no
uncertain terms that I’m not going to be happy.
Mom will be, though. Maybe her
happiness will be big enough and bright enough to keep me happy, too. I
don’t know.
I do know that if I have to talk to
mom for another second, I am going to fling myself down the nearest elevator
shaft.
Gotta run, I type. Call you
later.
Good luck studying. Can’t wait to see those
grades!
I slam my laptop shut. Shut my eyes,
too, against the sudden sting behind my lids. I swallow, hard, and take a
deep breath.
Today is a really great day. I’m not
going to let mom ruin it for me. How often do I get to rub elbows with
some of the best physical therapy professionals on the planet? I’ll worry
about my summer plans—and my future—later.
I decided when I arrived in Spain that this
would be my semester of YOLO. And so far, I’ve done a pretty great job of
living in the moment.
This tour will be no exception. I’m
going to enjoy the hell out of it. After that—who knows? Maybe I’ll
get lucky and enjoy the hell out of Fred, too.
***
My heart is pounding as the driver—Fred
sent a guy in a ridiculous giant black Mercedes to pick me up from school—glides
through security at the gate to the football club’s training facility. I
wasn’t kidding when I said the place is guarded like the Pentagon; there are
fences and cameras everywhere; there’s a guardhouse, even a couple security
officers patrolling the perimeter. I knew Fred’s team was a big deal in
Spain, but it’s hitting me just how huge this whole operation is.
And how famous. A couple minutes ago,
we turned off the highway and took an unmarked, one lane road that wound
through a mile or two of arid countryside before the giant training facility
came into view like a spaceship that landed in the middle of nowhere. My
driver explained that the facility “must remain hidden” so that fans and the
media, and even rival football clubs, can’t get a glimpse of the players as
they train. It’s like their tactics are a closely guarded national secret
or something.
I shiver. This is wild—the fact that
I’m here.
Wild, and really exciting.
The driver makes his way through an orderly
parking lot packed with brand new Range Rovers and sports cars with blacked out
windows. I wonder which one is Fred’s. I don’t know him, not well,
but I get the feeling he wouldn’t drive anything quite so flashy. Just
doesn’t feel like Fred—he’s more understated than that.
Finally the driver pulls up to the medical
facility, all glass and gleaming angles, and hurries to open my door.
Thanking him, I make my way to the
entrance. I catch a glimpse of one of several practice pitches just off
to the side of the building. It’s a cold day, a little before three
o’clock; the sky is clear but already darkening, the blue tinged with purple.
A couple guys are out on the field, running some pretty brutal looking
drills. I can faintly make out shouts, a bark of laughter. I look
for Fred’s tall, well-muscled figure, but I don’t see him.
My heart falls. He didn’t say if he’d
be here or not today, but I secretly hoped he would be.
I hope he’s here. I really do.
He still has my coozie, for one thing, and for another, I’d like to thank
him—with dinner, maybe? a drink?—for putting this whole thing together.
He doesn’t know me, and he didn’t have to help me out. But he did,
and I want to show my appreciation.
I’d also like to make out with him, pretty
badly. It could be totally one-sided, but the attraction I felt between
us practically sizzled. I’m getting tingles just thinking about it.
I head inside the training facility, and
I’m immediately greeted by a cute woman, forty, maybe forty-five, in a snazzy
Madrid tracksuit. Her name is Valentina, and she is the first team
physiotherapist—meaning she works with the best players on the team to prevent
and rehabilitate injuries.
Valentina doesn’t speak great English, so I
get to practice my Spanish as she gives me a tour. She’s warm, friendly,
and very funny; she answers all my idiot questions patiently. I have a
lot of them. Like, a lot. Probably because I’m so enthralled
by everything I see and everything she says I can hardly stand it.
We start in the training facility’s main
building, a gargantuan complex that is as big as a mall. Maybe even
bigger. It’s sick. Not only is there an Olympic-sized pool;
there are actual treadmills and stationary bikes in the water. We pass
through an enormous gym, an indoor running track, two weight rooms, massage
therapy rooms, saunas and steam rooms, and a mod, chic-looking cafeteria.
Everything is new and clean and state of the art.
My head is on a swivel.
Players greet Valentina as they pass us.
She asks one guy about his knee; she promises to help another with his
hamstrings. She turns to me, eyes lit up, and for the next twenty minutes
tells me all about hamstrings and how to rehabilitate them and how to keep from
hurting them and how they work. Her delight is infectious; as her smile
grows, so does mine, even though I don’t understand half of what she’s saying.
How different she is from my grim-faced
mother, who wears the weight of the world on her shoulders as she charges down
the halls of her hospital.
We head into one of a dozen physiotherapy
treatment rooms, where Valentina introduces me to Dr. Jimenez, the club doctor,
and Sebastián, the player whose ankle Dr. Jimenez repaired after Seb took a
nasty spill a few months back. They let me watch as Dr. Jimenez checks
everything out; after, Valentina and Seb put together a list of exercises and
stretches, cracking dirty jokes in Spanish as they go.
After that, Valentina and I pore over her
schedule in her office—she’s filling me in on what her typical day looks like.
It seems she’s got a pretty great work-life balance; she seems to have
time for both work and play. She says with two kids and a husband who
also works that it’s not easy, and some days are absolute hell. But for
the most part, she enjoys her time at the facility and at home. Her job
is interesting and challenging. She knows she is part of something
bigger, something important.
I don’t know Valentina well, but I can just
tell she’s a happy person. It radiates from her. She is patient and
kind. She lights up when she talks about her kids, her work, her husband.
This—finding this kind of life—this is what
I want. My own version of this kind of contentment. Of balance.
If I could just find the courage to go
after it, instead of towing the line and doing what mom wants me to do.
I’m asking Valentina about her
post-graduate path when a familiar voice sounds at the door.
“Enjoying yourselves, ladies?”
I start, my pulse leaping as I look up.
Fred.
He
fills the doorway, leaning a hip against the jamb. He’s still in his
practice clothes—black compression tights underneath shorts, a sweatshirt, gloves,
cleats covered in grass—sweaty and huge and smiling.
It’s like a bullet straight to the chest.
I grab onto the edge of Valentina’s desk, hoping my legs don’t buckle as
I meet his eyes. I can smell him from here. Soap, something simple
but clean, cut with an edge of sandalwood.
Heaven help me.
I am attracted to Fred. Very, very
attracted.
“Hello, Fred,” Valentina says in heavily
accented English before switching to Spanish. I am having fun showing
Rachel around. I can tell she likes it here.
“Hey,” I manage.
“You came,” he says, his eyes getting all
squinty with pleasure.
“This place—it’s pretty incredible, Fred,”
I say. “Thank you. Seriously. I can’t thank you enough.”
“My pleasure.” I love his weird
little accent, his words flavored with a bit of German, a bit of British, too.
He glances at Valentina. “Are you
done with Rachel yet? I don’t want to rush you…”
“She is very much yours now, yes?”
Valentina says with a knowing grin. She kisses my cheeks.
Come back anytime, Rachel, she says
in Spanish. If you’re interested, we have a formal internship program
you can apply to for the spring. It is very competitive, but also a
fantastic opportunity. You are always welcome here. Mostly because
I’ve never seen Fred smile like that.
Color creeps into Fred’s face as he laughs.
Man he’s cute. Hot. Huge. He is all those things, and
it is all I can do not to stare.
He tilts his head. “Come on, then,
Rachel. There’s something I’d like to show you.”
Want to find out what happens next?
(Hint: it may or may not be a super sexy trip to Salamanca that ends with an
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