Chapter 19

: Andi

W hen my phone lights up showing Hannah LaRosa is calling, my first instinct is to throw the phone out the window. There’s nothing she can say to reverse the disaster that last night was.

Especially not after a picture surfaced on Instagram, followed by multiple videos with that picture showing the four of us outside Prima. In reality, Brandon and I were snapping at each other.

Have I mentioned I hate that man?

But in the picture, all you see is his body, bent toward mine, his nose inches from my ear.

If I didn’t know better, I’d think it was an intimate moment, not him telling me I smelled desperate.

More fuel to the bonfire that was my career.

I leave in two days for Birmingham and then have the meeting with Nathan two days after that. Unless I can come up with something good, there’s no reason why I’d be with two players from the Boston Buzzards on what looked like a double date.

“Yes, I saw. I know it’s bad.” I don’t even bother saying hello. “But that oaf won’t even sit down for a civilized conversation, so what can I do?”

“He wants you to come down to his place to talk. He doesn’t want to be out in public.”

“I’m supposed to work today. I travel this week, so I have to get five days of work done in two. Plus, I still need to get a run in. I’m trying to wait until it cools down a little.”

Hannah laughs. “That’s something I do not miss about playing soccer. If I want to work out, I do. For the record, I never want to.”

“There are definitely days I want to skip it, but God forbid I can’t keep up. It took me this long to get in the door. I don’t need to give them an excuse to kick me out.” I pause a moment. “Another excuse, that is. Though I’m a little pissed at the straws they’re currently grasping at.”

Hannah says, “It’s hard to fight for your place in a world that sees you as lesser simply because you’re female. I know. I applied for an awful lot of sportscaster jobs. They couldn’t come right out and tell me they wouldn’t hire me because I’m a woman. They did feel free to use my weight—sorry, my image —as an excuse. I can’t wrap my mind around how we live in a society that doesn’t think women have a place in sports.”

“Yeah, I know. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, but it’s what’s going on. I’m probably going to reach out to my union. I haven’t done anything wrong, but they are making me feel like I have.”

“I’ve never had a union, but that might be a good place to start.”

I don’t really do much with my union, other than pay dues. Maybe it’s time to put those dues to good use. “Still, I need to do some damage control on my end. You know, cover my ass a little. If I can do that first, then I’ll reach out to the union.” I think about my upcoming meeting in Atlanta. I don’t have a lot of time to lose. If Brandon wants to talk, maybe I should listen. “Fine. I’ll drive down. Text me his address.”

I work without stopping for lunch, trying to crank out as many cases as I can. I have strict rubrics and guidelines to follow about what I can approve and what I have to deny. I try to be as absolutely lenient as I can, especially when the request has followed all the requirements for submission.

You’d be surprised how many people submit a claim that doesn’t have the basic information required. Those are automatic denials or requests for further information. I have about twelve of those today. Normally that would frustrate me, but today it just makes me look super productive.

I don’t need to give my other job an excuse to fire me too.

I’m wearing short running shorts and a tank top. I don’t feel like changing, so I don’t. I don’t think the paparazzi are staking me out, but if they were, they’d be hard pressed to spin my attire and appearance as date-worthy. I’m definitely not trying to impress Brandon Nix. The only thing that separates my appearance from my normal gym look is that my hair is down. I washed it this morning, and for some reason, I actually blow-dried it rather than slicking it back into its normal ponytail or braid. I don’t usually put any effort into my hair. I’m not sure what possessed me to do it today.

But damn if it didn’t actually come out pretty. Maybe I should do this more often?

I plug Brandon’s address into my phone. Geez, now I realize why he was complaining about driving to the restaurant in Charlestown last night. It’s a hike and a half, and there’s no easy way to get to his house. I’m stuck in rush-hour traffic with the masses leaving the city and heading to their homes in the suburbs. I could never do this kind of commute.

I live just outside the northwestern city limits in Everett. It’s close enough to be able to get to the airport for my flights out, but I can still have a car for when I need to drive. Plus, it’s cheaper than living in Boston proper. Brandon lives all the way down in Walpole.

On the drive down I-93, I try to picture what Brandon’s house will look like. He’s got a flashy car. A Porsche something. I’m sure his house has lots of shiny, white marble floors. It’s definitely going to be on the gaudy side, that’s for certain.

I bet he has statues of nude women.

I am so not prepared for what I see when I pull into the driveway at the address my phone has directed me to. It’s a midcentury cedar wood A-frame. It’s smaller than I imagined. Hell, it’s nothing like I would have possibly pictured Brandon Nix calling home. There’s a large brick chimney that goes up the center of the building. I would not call it aesthetically pleasing. I’m so disoriented by the appearance of the house that I forget to be apprehensive.

I walk to the front door and knock. Brandon pulls the door open. He appears to be fresh off a workout, complete with a legit 1980s terrycloth sweatband holding his locks off his forehead. He looks stupid. I focus on that, rather than the fact that he’s wearing gym shorts, a sheen of sweat, and nothing else. Yup, that’s one mighty stupid-looking sweatband.

I may not like him, but I have eyes. And a pulse. And a sex drive.

Also, I think I thought he’d be covered in tattoos. I don’t see any on his arms ... or chest ... or back.

Interesting.

“Andrew,” he greets. And that’s all it takes. His voice is akin to a bucket of ice-cold water dumped over my head. Time to focus on something else.

I look over his shoulder to see what his house looks like. This place is so unexpected. There’s oak everywhere. Doors, trim, cabinets, beams. What’s not wood is glass. Just from where I’m standing in the living room, I count at least three sliding glass doors. There’s a large room to the side that is a home gym, and off of that is a glass-enclosed three-season room.

The reason for the glass soon becomes clear. The house is on a lake, nestled in a grove of tall pine trees. I saw another house driving in that seems pretty similar—like they were on a lot that was subdivided or something—but from inside the house, all you see is the water.

It’s gorgeous.

The view, not the house. The house looks like something my grandmother decorated.

“This is not how I pictured you living.” I don’t know why I say it. It seems like a very Brandon thing to say. “This view is amazing though.” I walk up to one of the glass doors to get a better look.

Brandon stands next to me, also gazing at the water. “I couldn’t resist. I didn’t know I wanted something by water, but the minute I saw it, I knew I needed it.”

I nod, nothing else to say. I would feel the same way. It’s July, so the days are long. Sunset is a few hours away, and several kayakers are taking advantage out on the water. It must be nice to live a life of leisure that affords you time to kayak after work.

“You hit a nerve last night. You all did. It’s why I acted the way I did,” he says, his voice low.

I turn, startled by his admission. Also a little startled because I’d gotten so lost in my reverie about the lake, I forgot he was standing next to me. “Your behavior was about what I expected. I didn’t see anything unusual.”

His brow tightens into a frown. “Whatever. I’m going to take a quick shower. I’ll be right back.”

He disappears upstairs and moments later I hear water running. Alrighty. I mean, generally, you don’t invite someone over and then leave them to shower. Then I remember Brandon was the one who held up our flight. He’s got time management issues. Another reason for me not to like him, as if I needed any more.

Now what do I do? This is so weird. This house is so not Brandon. I wander around the ground floor of the house and find myself in the gym. It’s the only room not ensconced in oak. Even the bathroom is oak central. Oak floors, oak beams, and two rows of louvered oak shutters on the floor-to-ceiling windows. An oak vanity. A large oak piece of furniture that looks like a throne mated with a coat rack.

I definitely have to ask him about that.

The home gym is a welcome reprieve. It’s the one room that doesn’t make me feel like I was dropped in an alternate universe—or decade. Not knowing what else to do with myself, I hop on the treadmill. It’s positioned perfectly so you can watch the lake.

Hell, if this were my view, I wouldn’t mind running.

I pull my earbuds out of my pocket and slip them in, cuing up my favorite running playlist. Quickly my pace is set and I’m in the zone.

Maybe a little too in the zone.

Maybe so in the zone that I forget that there’s another person in this house. A person who sneaks up behind me with the stealth of a ninja—or my music is just that loud over my pounding feet and heart—and scares the crap out of me.

Turning my head to look at him, my rhythm breaks and my foot hovers in the air a fraction of a second too long before making contact with the ground. When it does, it doesn’t grab purchase on the belt and immediately sweeps under me. In a split second, my feet whizz off the treadmill, and I’m totally horizontal in the air.

But only for a moment, because I haven’t yet mastered the skill of levitation. Before I can blink, I’m smacking down onto the treadmill, my arms useless in breaking my fall. My head bounces once ... then twice.

Son of a bitch.

I see stars.

It’s not like I’ve never wiped out running before. No runner can say that. But in front of Brandon Nix ...

If my entire body wasn’t screaming in pain, I’d probably be mortified. Now it’s all I can do not to burst into tears. Instead, I let my body slide off the treadmill into a heap on the floor.

I focus all my energy on that. Andi Nichols doesn’t cry, not even when she’s given herself a head injury in front of her arch nemesis.