If Only You (Bergman Brothers, #6)(52)

18





ZIGGY





Playlist: “Somewhere in Between,” Morningsiders





There’s a knock—at least, I think there’s a knock—on my door as I sit, curled up in my reading chair with an abandoned book in my lap. I frown at the door, waiting to see if I hear it again, but I don’t, so I go back to talking on the phone with Charlie, who was absent from practice today, out sick with a cold.

She and I haven’t connected since we got back from our away game last weekend and I had to hit the road—well, the air—with the National Team for a couple international friendlies. I just got back last night, then dragged my butt out of bed for Angel City practice this morning, but Charlie was out sick, so we’re getting caught up now.

“So,” she says. “You kicked butt during your international friendlies and got some great press coverage of it, which is incredible. Your news hits and social media stats are still trending upward, meaning more visibility and public image clout—that’s good, too. The speculation about you and the gremlin, however, is less than ideal, but unavoidable, I suppose.”

She’s talking about the latest social media buzz from photos of Sebastian and me after our most recent angry yoga morning. Before I left for my friendlies, Sebastian surprised me by initiating plans for another session early in the morning, before I caught my flight—roaring, cussing, sweating our way through a fast-paced flow set to blaring punk rock.

Surprisingly, I got so into yoga and then my massive breakfast (I was starving), that I didn’t think about the kisses too much. After our quick breakfast at the same spot as last time, we parted ways, both of us in a rush, without even a platonic hug goodbye. It doesn’t matter, though. As Sebastian predicted that first night at the diner, there’s been ongoing conjecture that he and I might be more than friends.

Knowing how much Charlie disapproves of Sebastian, I decide to sidestep that remark. “I can’t complain,” I tell her. “Rory”—my agent—“says I have some promising new sponsorship opportunities that she’s vetting, but best of all, I’m telling you, it was different when I was with the National Team, the whole time. Not just during the games, with how well I played, but traveling, practices—I even did an interview and only stumbled over my words a little. No one’s ever been unkind or unwelcoming to me on the team, of course, but this time I just felt…seen and respected in a way I never had before. It felt good.”

I hear the smile in Charlie’s voice. “That’s great, Zigs. You deserve it. I’m glad this is working how you wanted.”

“Thanks, friend, I—”

There it is again. Definitely another knock. I frown, because no one should be knocking on my apartment door. I haven’t invited anybody over.

If this is Viggo and Oliver trying to be cute after that break-and-enter they pulled last weekend, it’s not cute. It’s annoying. Is it such a crime to want a cozy Saturday night in, enjoying a chat with my best friend and the comforting predictability of rereading a favorite romance novel?

“Sorry, Char.” I ease up from my chair, crossing my apartment to the door. “Someone just knocked. Going to go see who it is.”

“Don’t just open the door. Check the peephole. You’re a celebrity now. Who knows who’s out there.”

I snort a laugh. “I’m not a celebrity.”

“Well, you definitely aren’t ‘an unknown redhead’ anymore, either.”

I stop short of the door, leaning against the wall. Whoever it is can wait a minute while I wrap up with my friend. “I’ll be careful. Promise.”

“Good. I’ll sign off and let you go. I need to take more antihistamines and sit in the shower again to deal with this sinus pressure. My head feels like a foot.”

I smile. Charlie’s full of funny sayings like that. “Good idea. Take care of yourself. I’m sorry you feel so crappy, Char.”

“Ah, that’s okay. This is what happens when Gigi and I babysit her niece. I always get some crud from her. But she’s cute, so it’s worth it.”

I smile, thinking of my niece and nephew, little Linnea and baby Theo, who have definitely shared a couple bugs with me, after evenings of babysitting, snuggles, and cuddles. “Take it easy, and get some rest,” I tell her.

“Will do. Good luck tomorrow. Sorry I’ll be leaving you high and dry in the midfield.”

“Well, I’ll let it go this once, but after tomorrow, no more abandoning me. I’ll miss you out there. Talk after the game, okay?”

“’Kay.” She sneezes loudly, and, by the sounds of a clunk followed by her far-off voice, drops the phone. “Bye, Zigs!”

The call disconnects, and I pocket my phone, then step up to the door, peering through the peephole. Good thing I’m not holding my phone anymore, because I’d drop it, too.

Sebastian Gauthier is on the other side of my door. Leaning against the opposite wall, he looks like he could be sleeping—head back, eyes shut, hands in his pockets.

He was quiet those couple of days after our big night, minimally communicative when scheduling angry yoga. And then he dropped off again after Wednesday evening, when I texted him the link to a really positive write-up about him. It featured photos of Sebastian with the attending kids and his teammates at the roller rink fundraiser, as well as of the two of us smiling at each other over breakfast after rage yoga, saying it seems he’s finally turned over a new leaf—a huge PR win.