Lessons In Losing It (Study Abroad Book 4)

by Jessica Peterson

  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.

  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 mum’s house; my ribs ache for days after I spend a holiday at home with my sister and cousins and mum. 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 go into sports medicine?”

  “I hope to,” 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. “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 female sports team, but interning at the athletic department is a great way to get my foot in the door. The women’s basketball team at Meryton is ranked first in the nation, and our soccer and field hockey programs are also pretty stellar.”

  “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, even as my pulse slows, just a bit, at the knowledge she’s leaving Spain so soon. Of course I’m hitting it off with a girl I can’t fucking have. “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 really like this girl. She’s different in the best way. I want to 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. It felt disrespectful on both ends.

  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 the fact I’m still a virgin, 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. I want to respect the woman I have sex with, and I want her to respect me, too.

  At this point, I’ve waited a long time to lose my virginity. 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, as lovely as she is, 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 Sofía Museum. I’m writing a paper on a gorgeous Herman Anglada Camarasa painting that hangs in a gallery 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 becaus
e 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 unabashed love of Harry Potter. His laugh. 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. Plus, I really liked the fact that he didn’t seem interested in the flash and glamour his teammates so readily showed off.

  I’d like to think Fred felt a little less lonely after our chat. I sure as hell did. I 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. I loved how imperfect his nose was. 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. Too fake and perfect. Weirdly enough, they reminded me of mom and her unapproachable, impeccably put together, all around douchey plastic surgeon colleagues with their perfect fake teeth and fake faces and yes, fake noses, too. Fred, with his crooked nose and adoration of Quidditch, is the complete opposite of that. By owning his dorkiness, by just unapologetically being himself, he made his flashy teammates—and mom’s colleagues—look like insecure idiots in comparison.

  I’m so distracted by the memory of his enthusiasm for beer 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. The internship is prestigious and highly competitive. I’ve been waging a secret war for the past three years to get it. Ever since I left home for college—ever since I escaped mom’s ever-vigilant gaze—I’ve worked my ass off to put together the perfect sports medicine résumé: tons of biology, chemistry, and physiology classes, hours spent bugging the physical therapists that treat the women’s teams, nights spent pouring over anatomy textbooks.

  The sports program at Meryton is a big deal. In fact, it’s one of the reasons I decided to go there. As a Division I school, we’re home to one of the best basketball programs in the country—last year, the men and women brought home national titles. Our soccer and tennis teams also slay it on the regular, and our women’s golf team is currently ranked number one in the nation. It’s a sports lover’s paradise, and it’d be a dream come true to intern there.

  I’ve applied to dozens of other sports medicine internships, but this one is at the top of my list. Not only is the program amazing; they award scholarships for graduate school to interns who put in a solid performance, too. That’d be huge for me. Plus, I’ll be able to network with all the coaches, administrators, athletes, and physiologists in the hopes of landing a full-time position when I’m done with grad school. They make a habit of hiring former interns, which would be awesome.

  Never mind the incredible education I’m sure to get while interning at Meryton. We have amazing sports programs, which means we have amazing staff, too. I’ll be shadowing, and learning from, some of the best physical therapists and doctors in the world. Plus I’ll get to travel with some of the teams, which would be awesome.

  I fall back from my computer. 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 plastic surgeon like her, but over the years, I’ve seen how her job absolutely consumes her life. How stressed she always is. How stuck up and self important she can be, along with the other surgeons in her practice.

  I’d like a career that offers less…I don’t know, superficiality, and more balance. I want to work to live, as cheesy as that overused byline is, and not the other way around; I want 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 plastic surgery.

  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 anything about my undercover mission to pursue sports medicine. 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 convince me to stay on track.

  I left you a voicemail this morning, she types. I’ve been waiting for you to call back—I heard from Dr. Roby, 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.

  That’s a lie; lately I’ve been avoiding Mom’s calls. I need a break from her constant barrage of questions and suggestions and thinly veiled threats. Talking to her is exhausting.

  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 new rhinoplasty techniques. This summer is huge for you. That’s when I interned at the Beverly Hills practice, remember? And I me
t 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 sixty 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.