Lessons in Letting Go (Study Abroad Book 3)

by Jessica Peterson

  “Hola, Laura,” he says.

  I grin. I don’t know why, but I’m grinning. “That’s Miss Bennet to you, Mister Maddox.”

  “Oh. Right. You’re the teacher here, aren’t you? Well.” He looks back down at the kids. Do you think Miss Bennet might let us play some football together this afternoon? I need to practice before the match on Saturday, he says in easy, smooth Spanish.

  Then the kids are suddenly surrounding me, bouncing on their toes as they beg me to let them play with Rhys Maddox, football superstar and supposed war hero.

  “Hmmm,” I say, tapping a finger against my chin as I pretend to think about it.

  Please please please, the kids say, frantic to be set loose.

  Rhys opens the gate and steps inside the playground.

  How about this, he says in Spanish, and squats beside the kids so he’s at eye level with them. If you promise Miss Bennet that you will behave and do everything she tells you to for the rest of the week, I think she just might let you play football with me.

  Yes! the kids shout.

  Do you promise? he says.

  Yes! Yes, we promise! Now can we play?

  He meets my eyes.

  “Well, Miss Bennet?” he says. “Can we?”

  I tug my bottom lip between my teeth as I look down at him. It’s like he’s a whole new Rhys, stripped down to the bare essentials: laughing blue eyes, tons of charm, affable patience. Where did you come from? I wonder. Where have you been hiding all this time?

  “Yes,” I say. “Oh. Wait, I meant to say sí. Sí, por supuesto!” Yes, of course!

  The kids take off running toward the muddy patch of dead grass at the far end of the playground. Rhys stands and hangs back for a minute, propping the ball between his hip and forearm.

  “So, like, when did you become a child whisperer?” I say.

  “‘Child whisperer’—that sounds a little murdery, doesn’t it?” he says, and we both laugh. He shrugs. “I don’t know. I grew up on a playground like this. There were always lots of little kids around. Lots of babies.”

  I cross my arms. “The fancy pants footballer—he grew up on a playground like this?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “I did. But mine wasn’t nearly as nice. Maggie actually broke her arm on the slide—it was really rusted, and when she went to use it, it fell. So did she.”

  “Oh. Oh, I’m really sorry.” I blink. He’s actually talking about his past—his family.

  He’s never done this before. Not with me, anyway.

  He isn’t giving me much—just a hint, really—but even so, it makes my heart twist. It makes me feel soft toward him in a way I don’t think I have before.

  “C’mon, love,” he says, nodding at the makeshift field. “Let’s go play some footy.”

  “Yeah, about that. You know I was more of a mathlete growing up, right? Like. The opposite of a world-class athlete like you.”

  Rhys smirks. “You’re still scarred from that one week at soccer camp, aren’t you?”

  “Hell yes I am,” I reply. “I was eight. Soccer was the cool sport that year, so I begged my mom to let me go. I cried through the whole thing.”

  “Laura.” Rhys looks at me. “We’re playing with a bunch of kids. I think you’ll be all right.”

  “You don’t know how hard I cried.”

  He grins. “Fine. But you’re missing out.”

  Rhys drops the ball to the ground and dribbles his way onto the field. Even though he’s barely jogging, his feet move around the ball with knowledgeable ease and confident control. I’ve always loved watching him play, but this—seeing him up close and personal, surrounded by kids that are no taller than his waist—takes it to a whole new level.

  He shows the kids how to dribble the ball, how to pass it. He makes them squeal with delight when he bounces the ball on his head like a seal; they go nuts when he traps the ball between his feet and flicks it behind his back and over his head, catching it with the front of his foot.

  He tells the girls they can play as fast and as well as the boys. He tells the boys they’d better watch out for the girls because they’re going to be really, really good.

  Who knew Fancy Pants was: 1) a feminist, and 2) so amazing with kids?

  I mean. I’m dying a little in the best possible way.

  I watch him laugh with my students, I watch him be patient and kind; I smile so hard my face hurts. My heart dips inside my chest, just like it did last night.

  The other teachers, having heard the commotion, come outside with their classes to watch us play with unabashed interest. A few of the kids join in.

  I want to join in. Rhys is genuinely having fun out there. So are the kids. It’s infectious, the giggling, the happiness.

  Before I know what I’m doing, I’m jogging out onto the makeshift field. A couple of wide-eyed teachers try to stop me to ask what’s going on, but I wave them off, breathlessly telling them I’ll explain later. One of the little boys, Miguel, screams with pleasure when she sees me.

  “Well look who it is,” Rhys says, grinning. “Our star mathlete.”

  “Go easy on me, would you?”

  “Absolutely not,” he says.

  He whooshes past me with the ball, and I just stand there with my hands on my hips and watch him dribble down the field and score in the pretend goal. His feet move so fast I can hardly make them out in the fading twilight. He’s fast, and he’s confident, running circles around everyone who gets in his way.

  He’s such a stud athlete. Jesus H. Christ, I don’t even know what to do with myself.

  “Showoff!” I call after him.

  He just shrugs, that grin still curling at his lips.

  Rhys lifts up his hoodie to wipe his face, revealing the chiseled edge of a hip and abs you could scrub laundry on. I catch a glimpse of a happy trail, a line of dark blond hair arrowing down taut muscle toward his groin. I’d very much like to follow that trail down his jeans.

  I swallow, hard, and turn to help little Pedro tie his shoes.

  We start to scrimmage, boys against girls. Somehow I end up defending Rhys, and I actually do a pretty sweet job of it at first. I taunt him, he taunts me back, inadvertently plastering myself against his body, my back to his front. I move against him and he moves against me, our arms and legs tangling. Laughter seizes my belly as we slap each other away.

  “I’m going to kick your you-know-what,” I say, deflecting Rhys’s attempted pass.

  He swoops to the side, and I swoop after him. “I would let you do anything you wanted to my you-know-what.”

  “Ugh. Perv.”

  “You like it.”

  “You wish.”

  “I do.” He grins at me. Oh, that grin.

  Rhys takes advantage of my momentary distraction and plows past me. He passes the ball to Miguel, and Miguel takes off running, a huge smile on his face.

  Along with the rest of the girls, I chase Miguel and Rhys down the length of the field, breathless with laughter.

  That’s it! Rhys says to Miguel. That’s it, you’re almost there!

  His arms shoot over his head when Miguel kicks the ball toward the playground, as far from the imaginary goal as possible.

  “Goooooooaaaallll!” Rhys cries out, jumping in the air. The boys go wild.

  I, in the meantime, can’t stop the forward momentum of my body; I’m about to crash head on into Rhys when he catches me by the waist and turns, playfully whirling me off the ground.

  “That,” I breathe, struggling against a fit of laughter, “was so not fair! Using your superior skills against us.”

  “What?” he asks innocently. He dangles me above the ground. “Is it my you-know-what? Was it distracting you?”

  I wiggle against his grasp, but he holds me tight against him. This dressed-down Rhys—he’s so touchy-feely; I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like it, if it didn’t feel good; my whole body is one big goose bump.

  By now we’re both laughing. I manage to reach around and sla
p the you-know-what in question. I would bite it if I could. We’re sweaty and we’re breathless and we’re having fun.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind I know I should stop. This is more than a friendly bit of trash talking; this is flirting. I don’t want to flirt with Rhys, not here, not now. But this laughter between us—it just keeps happening this week. It feels natural, and easy in a way it never has before.

  I wish it wasn’t so easy with him. I’m supposed to be putting all my focus on my classes and my bucket list right now. I’m running out of time—less than three weeks! I have less than three weeks left in Spain!—and I shouldn’t be wasting it flirting with a guy who can’t give me what I’m looking for.

  Then again…Rhys did come to Santa Caterina today. I know he had to blow off something important to be here; I know he probably didn’t want to come at all. But here he is, playing soccer with my kids, flirting with me, laughing and being silly like he couldn’t care less what the world thinks. And he actually talked about his family.

  Maybe he isn’t just trying anymore.

  Maybe he’s actually changing. I’d be lying if I said that didn’t thrill me.

  Rhys sets me down, the two of us gasping to catch our breath. For a minute we linger close to one another, our bodies still touching. It’s so hard to step away; the attraction between us is magnetic, a struggle to resist. My non-sexual feelings are supposed to move in the opposite direction, away from Rhys. But they’re sliding toward him, the things I feel as potent and as tingly as ever. I’m fighting them, I am, but looking into Rhys’s eyes, wet with laughter, I know it’s a losing battle.

  Chapter 21

  Rhys

  It’s dark by the time the last little lad and his mum leave Santa Caterina. Once word spread that I’d come to visit, parents and teachers and students appeared in droves. I must’ve signed hundreds of autographs, and taken even more pictures; my eyes sting from the bright white flashes of camera phones. My knee’s begun to ache. Considering the day I’ve had, I should be exhausted.

  I’m not, though. I actually feel the opposite—exhilarated. It could be leftover adrenaline from practice this morning. But I think the joy I felt laughing and playing with a field full of six year olds—and a very, very cute twenty year old—is the more likely culprit.

  Not to sound like a dick, but when I agreed to meet Laura here after the match on Sunday night, I didn’t have high expectations. I thought it’d be boring, frankly, and an unpleasant reminder of my past to boot. I thought I’d be counting the minutes until I could have Laura to myself. But I’m shocked at how fun this afternoon was. It seemed to go by in the blink of an eye. I guess that’s what happens when you’re fully in the moment. When you’re present and acting like an idiot and not giving a damn who sees you. My ribs hurt from laughing so much.

  “Thank you again for coming to help us today.” Nuria, Santa Caterina’s program director, wraps both her hands around my own. “It is very much appreciated. These children, they do not have very much, and it is so good for them to have a special surprise like this.”

  “Thank you for having me,” I say, and I mean it.

  “I hope you’ll consider coming to our fundraiser,” Nuria continues, giving my hand a squeeze. “We’re hosting an auction to raise money for our makeshift library—it’s currently in a closet by the bathrooms. The children love their books, and we don’t have nearly enough of them. It’s on the nineteenth of December.” Her eyes move to Laura. Nuria smiles. “Laura has been a big help putting it together for us. It’s going to be spectacular, largely because of all the work she’s done. We are very proud to have her on the staff.”

  I glance at Laura. She’s looking at her feet, blushing.

  I dig a hand through my hair, giving it a solid tug. Laura’s clearly put a good bit of effort into this auction, but I didn’t even know it was happening. What else don’t I know about her? What else did I miss out on while I was busy being the self-absorbed tosser I am?

  Christ, I’m a tit. I feel horrible.

  I’ve got to make it up to Laura.

  “I’ll be there,” I blurt, turning to Nuria. “I’m happy to donate money, and anything from the team you’d like—autographs, equipment, whatever you think will raise the most money.”

  “Rhys,” Laura says, a grin toying with the edges of her mouth. “You don’t have to do that.”

  I meet her eyes. “I want to.”

  “Thank you,” she says. “Really, Rhys. That’s very generous of you.”

  “My pleasure,” I say.

  But the real pleasure was hanging out with Laura all afternoon, poking fun at her, helping her and the girls set up some goals and pull out a decisive victory against me and the boys.

  The real pleasure was getting to know her. I want to know more. I want to know everything.

  ***

  We walk from the school to my car in silence. Energy crackles between us, my body very much aware of hers. We both move to talk at once.

  “Rhys—”

  “Laura—”

  I grin. “Sorry. You first.”

  “It’s all right.” She slows her pace, digs her hands into her pockets. “Thanks again for today. That was really awesome of you to come—I had no idea you were interested in this sort of thing. You’re so great with the kids.”

  “You’re really great with them, too,” I reply. “I know it’s also got to feel great to be doing something you really want to do—crossing off another item on your bucket list.”

  “It does,” she says. She turns her head to the side, coyly, and meets my eyes. “Thanks for doing it with me. You’re a lot of fun all the sudden.”

  I take a step toward her. “This is a lot of fun all the sudden. Us. You and me.”

  “It is.” Laura bites the corner of her mouth. “I didn’t think it would be. I didn’t think it’d be so fun, I mean. Were we really so boring before?”

  “I was,” I say.

  She grins, scoffs. Her breath is a white cloud against the darkness. “Yeah, you were.”

  My heart turns over in my chest at the sound of her laugh.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask. “About the auction. It sounds like you’ve spent a lot of time on it.”

  Laura shrugs, a small, almost imperceptible thing. “Same reason I didn’t tell you about my major. I just didn’t think you were interested.”

  “I am,” I say, more urgently than I intend to. “I’m interested in everything you do. I’m sorry I didn’t ask sooner.”

  She looks at me, her eyes gleaming in the light of a nearby street lamp. “I’m really, really glad you’re coming to the auction, Rhys. It means a lot to me.”

  I offer her a grin. We’ve started to slow our stride. “It’s the least I can do.”

  The thought of leaving her now, of her leaving me to spend the night alone in my flat with only my Instagram for company, fills me with inexplicable dread. I need to catch up on some sleep, and I probably should call my sponsor again and do a bit more groveling for moving the shoot. There are a million other things I should be doing, and none of them include hanging out with Laura.

  But I just can’t help myself.

  “Let’s go for a walk in the city,” I say. “All the Christmas lights will be up—it’s quite lovely.”

  “A walk? Really?” Laura pulls her hand out of her pocket and checks her watch. “It’s almost your bedtime.”

  “Fuck my bedtime,” I say. “Let’s go.”

  ***

  We walk for hours.

  I only meant to take Laura for a quick stroll through a square or two to see the incredible displays of Christmas lights that decorate Madrid this time of year. My knee’s still bothering me, and I have to get up early for training tomorrow, like always.

  But Laura and I keep talking, and we keep laughing, the minutes slipping by as we walk one block, then another, the city unfolding in all its festive glory around us. We start at Retiro, Madrid’s largest park, and make our way th
rough my neighborhood, Salamanca, stopping to admire the intricate holiday window displays at the posh shops that line Calle Serrano.

  “So, like, I don’t mean to be rude,” Laura says. “But why the about face? With the kids, I mean. Last time you came to Santa Caterina, you definitely didn’t want to hang out. Now you’re, like, everyone’s best soccer friend forever.”

  I bury my hands in my pockets. “I wish I had a better excuse. But the playground, and the kids…it all cuts close to home, you know?”

  “Actually,” Laura says, flashing me a look, “I don’t know. You never talk about home. Not to me, anyway.”

  I look away. My heart has started to pound. “I don’t talk about it to anyone, really.”

  Laura scoffs, smiling. “Thanks for making me feel special, Rhys.”

  “It’s not that,” I say. “I guess I just don’t like going there. It makes me feel—I don’t know how it makes me feel. Except not great. I don’t like talking about my family.”

  “I’ve noticed.” She must see the discomfort in my expression, because she adds, “but you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to.”

  I look at her. My every instinct tells me to change the subject, maybe crack a joke. This is a can of worms I do not want to open.

  But how can I expect Laura to open up to me—how can I expect her to let me in—when I refuse to return the favor? My family is such a huge part of my life, whether I like it or not. I love them. But I am ashamed of them, too. I’m ashamed of where, and who, I come from.

  And then I’m ashamed I’m ashamed. My family is a sob story, yeah, but it’s not a total sob story. There’s still some good parts. Good stories. Good sides to everyone. Well, maybe dad doesn’t have a good side, but everyone else does. For the most part, I’m lucky to have them. It’s just a lot of work, giving them what I want them to have. Trying to save them.

  A familiar weariness comes over me. It’s a heavy burden to carry, and I’ve been carrying it alone for a long time.

  Maybe it’s time I let someone help.