Friday evening seemed an eon away. Somehow Jamie made it through the day without much struggle, but then he’d been taking care of the arrangements for his date with Rachel tomorrow night. Now, though, he was at a loss for what to do with himself.
He’d already donethat—several times today—but it hadn’t really taken the edge off like it normally would. Probably because it was Rachel he needed—her touch, her mouth, her body stretched out under his.
Now wasn’t the time to think about that, especially in front of the guys. He glanced at them from where he slouched in a chair. Erik was distracted, sprawled out on the couch, readingBig Magic, so he wouldn’t notice anything. But Didier, who was fiddling with his mobile on the other couch, noticed everything—particularly Jamie’s discomfort, as it were.
He sighed, though it sounded more like a growl to his ears. Seeing Didier’s football in the corner of the room, he got up, rolled it under his foot, and flipped it up to catch it on his knee.
“Mon vieux, you are like a caged tiger.”
“I have a lot on my mind.” Jamie bounced the ball on his knee, over and over, low and controlled. He knew it was a panacea for not feeling like he had control in his life. Whatever—it was helping him.
“Where’s Rachel tonight?” Erik asked.
“Working.” She had her presentation tomorrow and was focused on it. He understood—he used to be ultra-focused before a big game. He’d texted her a few times, but he hadn’t wanted to distract her. He knew how important this opportunity was to her. He supported that.
It didn’t mean that he wasn’t going mad with missing her. And the fact that he missed her so desperately was throwing him off. He’d never experienced anything like it.
He noticed the look Didier and Erik shared.
“We have a date tomorrow, so you can stop looking so concerned.” A bolt of jitters shot through him, and he almost bobbled the ball. He wasn’t used to it—losing control of the ballorfeeling nerves over a woman.
“You are taking her someplace nice, I hope,” Didier said.
“Do you think I’d take her to McDonald’s? I made a reservation at a nice restaurant.” He’d found a place with a Michelin star that looked casual even in its finery. He wanted to treat her the way she should be but still foster a relaxed evening.
Didier gazed at him steadily. “You are going to wear real clothes,n’est-ce que pas?”
He rolled his eyes. He didn’t need to tell his friend that he already had his suit picked up. “There’s nothing wrong with these clothes.”
The Frenchman made a disbelieving sound as he plucked at the blue shirt he wore. “There is no romance, no heart, in these clothes. And now that she knows who you are, you can stop pretending to be less,oui?”
“She likes you for yourself,” Erik added.
A couple self-help books and the kid was an expert. He shook his head.
His mobile rang.
Stopping the ball midair, he grabbed it off the table, disappointed when he saw that it wasn’t Rachel but Brad. He shook his head. Brad had tried to call him a number of times since Jamie had turned down the offer from Torino, but he’d been occupied. Knowing his agent wouldn’t stop until they talked, Jamie picked up the call. “Excuse me a second,” he told the guys as he stepped into the hall.
Brad spoke before Jamie could say hello. “I received the contract extension from Torino. You’re going to be very happy with the terms.”
“I told you I’m not going to take it.” He exhaled. It was annoying that Brad hadn’t listened to him but he wasn’t surprised. But restating his intention to retire felt good—grounded. It confirmed to himself that he’d made the right decision.
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Is this a ploy for more money?” his agent asked carefully. “Because their offer is very generous. You won’t get better than that.”
“Their offer was incredible,” he agreed, walking into the kitchen. “That’s not why I’m declining the extension.”
“Do you have a problem with one of your teammates?”
“Not at all.” His teammates would have been the only reason he’d have stayed. Erik was right—he liked helping them. Some of them were entitled pricks, but even they came to him when they needed a sounding board. He wasn’t the most veteran player, but his reputation for good advice preceded him.
“Then you don’t like Turin?” his agent asked, sounding baffled.
“It’s simple, Brad,” he replied patiently, taking a glass out of the cupboard. He turned the faucet on and filled it. “I just don’t want to play any longer.”
There was another drawn out silence.
Jamie sipped the water and began a mental countdown. Three, two, one—