Wild for You (Hot Jocks #6)(4)

“I’m sure that’s not true. Why would you think that?” I asked, my voice slow and careful. I’ve learned to strip all emotion from my words when he’s like this. If I’m hurt, then he’s defensive. If I’m angry, then he’s self-righteous. If I’m sad, then he’s distant. It’s a balancing act that I’ve never entirely mastered.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jason turned back to me, shaking his head and glaring at me like I was an imbecile. “Don’t ask stupid questions.”

Don’t ask stupid questions.

Fred winces beneath my touch, and I pull back, reentering reality.

“Uh, could you go a little lighter?” he asks kindly.

“Of course, Fred, I’m sorry. You’ve got some serious tension back here.”

“It’s sitting at that dang desk all day . . .”

After Fred leaves, it’s already lunchtime. I see Georgia, the other female massage therapist at this hotel spa, waving at me from behind the glass windows of the hallway. We have lunch plans to walk down to the neighboring strip mall and eat at a Mexican-American fusion restaurant—a personal favorite of mine.

But my thoughts aren’t on burrito bowls or potato-chip nachos . . . they’re trapped on an endless repeat of last night’s events. When Jason gets like that in public . . . well, I’m embarrassed and helpless, and nothing I say or do is ever the right thing.

Good thing Grant was there.

Since I moved to Seattle with Jason, I haven’t spent too much time with the team, and certainly not with their huge, beast of a team captain, Grant, so he had no reason to check up on me or intervene at all. But he did, and I’ll always be grateful. And then driving me home afterward . . . I should really send him flowers or something.

What do you send a wall of dense, sinewy muscle as a thank-you? A gym membership? Protein-packed chocolates?

After Georgia and I have placed our orders, we sit down across from each other at our favorite window booth. She frowns at me, her chin propped on two fists as she leans on the table with her elbows.

“Are you okay? You seem super quiet today.”

I sigh. “I’m exhausted. The banquet was last night and—”

“Oh my God, right! How was that? I’m sorry, you were just about to tell me. I’ll shut up. Go, go, speak.” Georgia cringes and waves me on with one hand while using the other to pick up her fountain drink and take a long, occupying sip. We joke a lot about her inability to keep her motormouth from running, but it’s nice to see her trying to control it. Emphasis on trying.

“It’s okay.” I giggle, finding myself in a much better mood. Bless this woman.

By the time our orders arrive at the table, I’ve filled Georgia in on the basics. Jason was in a shit mood all day, and he couldn’t shake it off for the event. He got too drunk, made a complete ass of himself, and one of his teammates had to intervene. I got a ride home and spent most of the night waiting up, sick with worry, waiting for Jason to stumble back in, which he only did at four in the morning. When I got up this morning to get ready for work, he’d already left for practice.

“Jesus Christ!” Georgia blurts, unable to control herself. “I don’t understand why he’s like this. He’s got a contract with one of the best teams in the league, he’s making good money, and he’s got an awesome girlfriend. What’s his problem?”

I smirk at her compliment. “He’s really hard on himself, so when he gets down like that, it’s difficult for him to snap out of it. It usually escalates, especially when there’s drinking involved,” I say, parroting a mixture of what I’ve read online and my own justifications for staying with him.

Georgia reads my mind, because her next question echoes the very thoughts I couldn’t shake last night, not long after Grant brought me home.

“Ana, babe. Do you really see a future with this guy? I’m sorry to ask, I just . . . I’m worried about you. I’m not convinced he’s good for you.” The little space between her eyebrows is creased with anxiety. “After hearing about last night, it’s obvious.”

I bite back my impulse to say something defensive, like, Why else would I be with him? Don’t you think I have the emotional wherewithal to think about that?

But that’s the difference between Jason and me. I can control myself and see things as they really are. Georgia is concerned, as she should be. She’s my friend. She’s just looking out for me.

“I don’t know anymore,” I hear myself say, heaving out a slow breath. It’s the first time I’ve ever admitted it out loud, and a chill of trepidation trickles down my spine. “Sometimes, I think about leaving and moving back home to be close to my dad. I could start over . . .”

When I pause, Georgia fills in the gaps like she always does.

“You’d rather run away than break up with him? I’m not a therapist, or at least a brain therapist,” she says with a little smirk. “But I think that’s a pretty big red flag.”

I swallow, unsure of where this conversation is going. Is Georgia trying to tell me to break up with Jason? Is that what I want?

“Well,” I say with a sigh, “as tired as I am of his tantrums, I’ve made my bed and I’m going to lie in it. At least until I decide what to do.”