GRIND

by MEGAN MATTHEWS

  The noodles stick together as I twirl my utensil through them, but I manage to get a decent number with some sauce on my fork for a first bite. Ryland watches me expectantly from his side of the island and I smile at him raising the fork to my lips. I keep my lips upturned through my first few chews until he’s satisfied and lowers his eyes. Once I'm off the hook, I swallow down the salt-laden horror in one big gulp and try not to gag. Did he dump a salt shaker in there? How much does a person need to ingest before they die? Will this meal kill me? Should I risk it for him?

  I stick my fork back in the dish, but I no longer see the sweet celebratory dinner he cooked. In its place a blood pressure monitor beeps back at me and I calculate how much I’ll need to eat in order to keep up appearances. Surely not seconds. Well, at least my last doctor’s visit put me over my deductible for the year. Any subsequent ER trips will be covered.

  Ryland’s smile stretches on for miles in this goofy grin full of pride over his meal. He raises his fork in slow motion, but there’s no way for me to politely stop him. Maybe he won’t notice. I hold out hope through his first chew as I beam back at him, but by the time his mouth moves up and down a fourth time he’s lost the radiant expression.

  Mid chew he turns and spits the bite into a napkin. “This is horrible. You can’t eat this.”

  “It’s not so bad.” I bring the fork to my mouth again but can’t force myself to stick it in.

  He grimaces. “Put the fork down, Marissa. Were you going to lie to me and eat that?”

  “Well… you were so proud of yourself.” I laugh a few times, but once I get started can’t stop and almost lose my balance on the stool.

  For a moment I worry he doesn’t find the situation as funny as it is, but soon Ryland laughs along with me and we agree to try a new Chinese place down the street with guaranteed fast delivery.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I am a genius. Pure genius.

  When I offered up Ryland’s extensive soccer skills to Clare for the youth center, I wanted to help find him a hobby, a little motivation to get out of the house. Not once did I take in to account what this agreement could offer me. I didn’t set out for payback, but pay back it did. In the form of a shirtless and sweaty Ryland. It’s the best form of compensation possible.

  Twenty minutes into his hour-long session with the kids, he unzipped his fleece jacket and threw it on the ground beside the same folding chair I used last week. Being able to stare at him in the tight fitting shirt was enough to make me happy, but then ten minutes later he called a time out. On the side of the gym, he whipped his white t-shirt over his head exposing his chest and a set of wonderful ab muscles. Shiny grey basketball shorts and a pair of sneakers are the only clothing obstructing my view of his fine body. It makes me sit up straight and suck in my own small gut. I need to give this whole exercise bit a try.

  Clare and I haven’t taken our eyes off him, both of us taken by his athletic build… er, I mean how great he is with the kids. Did I mention the chest hair? Not normally a fan, Ryland’s changed my opinion. The small amount covering his upper chest makes me want to run my fingers through it, maybe pull a little.

  Ryland sprints down the indoor basketball court where a small soccer goal’s been placed on one end. He dodges around a slower kid and steals the ball from another player. I think his name was Paul. He’s tall like Ryland, but lanky. From the seven kids Clare had turn up this morning, Paul shows the most skill.

  “Don’t forget to watch your back, Peter.” Ryland kicks the ball into the net and turns around to pat Peter on the back.

  Okay, tall kid’s name is Peter not Paul. I must remember if he’ll be a regular participant. Honestly Clare introduced them so fast before they started to play I didn’t catch a single one, but Ryland appears to remember them all.

  For a man worried teenagers were scary, he’s done a remarkable job with them this morning. Besides remembering names, he’s worked with each one on an individual basis on the right way to kick, pass, and run without falling over the ball. And he's done it with much more patience than I could have.

  Ryland resets the drill, this time allowing a new player the chance at running the ball in for a goal. He doesn’t take off after him to steal it, but rather watches from the far end of the court.

  “Good job, Jacob.” He cups a hand over his mouth and yells when the kid passes and another makes the goal.

  “The turn out wasn’t bad for such short notice, but we’ll have more kids next time. There were at least five who were interested but already had commitments today." Clare turns, ready to restart our conversation. “Do you think he’ll want to do this again next Saturday?”

  “With as much fun as he’s having.” I wave a hand at Ryland as he runs down the court. “I can guarantee it. Maybe a weeknight too, if you have an open gym for him to use.” There’s no way Ryland won’t want to come back and do this again.

  She nods. “He’s really great with the kids.” Clare points to the middle of the room where Ryland passes the ball back and forth with a shorter girl in ripped jeans and a black sweatshirt. “They’re responding well. We’ve had volunteers who can’t make the connection, but your boyfriend stepped right in.”

  “Yeah, he is great. Isn’t he?” I sound dreamy even to my own ears, which makes me cringe. “I mean boyfriend?” I sputter. “No, Ryland’s a friend. My landlord actually.”

  Clare laughs and sticks her hands in the middle pocket of her grey hoodie with the youth center’s logo in the left corner. “Well now I don’t feel so bad ogling him for the past five minutes. Sorry, I assumed by how close you two were this morning you had more going on.”

  My face heats at the memory. Ryland might have carried me into the center piggyback style, but only because he didn’t want to wait for me to hobble in. He’s been excited for this since last night and woke me up at eight this morning even though we didn't need to be here until ten.

  “Eh… well…” My words trail off because I can’t explain what I have with Ryland. Technically it’s nothing, but I wouldn’t object to the more Clare’s suggested. Maybe. I shouldn't want more with him. Although as time passes between us I forget my reasons for not allowing myself to crush on him. I might be able to tell my brain I don’t like him, but by the way my heart perks up every time he’s near, it hasn't gotten the message.

  I stop fidgeting and peel my eyes from where Ryland leans over correcting foot placement on Paul… um Peter. “I have a brunch date tomorrow with a bunch of my girlfriends. You should come.”

  Clare grimaces and brushes a piece of her reddish hair from her face. “Oh, um I’ll be here for most of the day. Monday there’s a budget proposal meeting. I need to get my paperwork around. Thanks for the offer though.”

  My shoulders slump at her rejection. I’m serious about wanting Clare at a girl brunch. I even approved her with the Amanda, Aspen, and Simone. They’re open to expanding our circle based on my appraisal of Clare’s coolness.

  Ryland continues to yell directions at his players while attempting to steal the ball as he jogs past. A few of them have gotten better at their blocks in the short time we’ve been here. While I watch Ryland grin and laugh at different things happening in the gym, Clare talks about the various issues the budget faces this year.

  “Do you have a fundraiser planned?” I ask her when I can’t shut off my marketing brain. I went into the field because I like to solve problems…… and money. I don’t get to enjoy the fun areas of marketing at my current job, at least not until I have another ten years of experience.

  “You mean candy sales or something? The kids and their parents don’t have much money. I couldn’t ask them to sell anything."

  I tap my head as the idea forms more. “No, you need a bigger event. Something huge to bring in a lot of money in a short amount of time. Is there a list of previous donors?”

  “We get donations every year, but most of our budget comes from whatever the city allocates us.”

  My p
lans grow larger. “Are you allowed to plan your own fundraisers?”

  “Yeah, we’re encouraged, but with no other full-time staff it hasn’t been a priority in a few years.” Clare narrows one hazel eye at me in question.

  I know a few people with deep pockets, one of which also loves to donate money to worthy causes. Plus, I have an in with their girlfriends and when I tell Aspen and Simone we get to plan a party, they’ll be on board. I start calculating the fun themes we can use and how to make sure all Grant’s rich friends get invites. I need to get a pen and paper asap.

  Ryland blows a whistle and calls time on today’s practice right as I’m tenting my fingers, excited over my plans. Tomorrow’s brunch agenda took a new turn. Clare's fundraiser’s a better topic than trying to analyze how I feel about Ryland again.

  “Give me a few days, Clare. I’ll come up with a plan.”

  Seven kids of various ages, heights, and race form a circle around Ryland as he gives a good job pep talk. It’s hard to hear his exact words, but things like “Go out there and get it done” project far enough for us to hear. When their hands go into the middle and they shout, “Team,” it’s time to go and I stand.

  He says a few final words to Clare before we walk back to his Corvette together. I can’t wait to ride around in the blue little car when it’s warm and Ryland can be talked into putting the top down. If he’s still here by then, that is.

  “That was fun. Did you see how well Peter did?” Ryland stops on my side of the car and opens the door for me, but doesn’t move, blocking me from getting in.

  “Yeah, and you were awesome too. They loved you.”

  His head lowers toward me. His lips press against mine in a kiss that is so much more than a quick peck. “Thanks for setting this up. I needed it.”

  “Uh-huh.” I’m not speechless, but almost. Ryland steps away before I pull him back for more. My heart skips a beat as my brain screams you like him at me, and for the first time I truly admit I do. I like Ryland Bates. And for unexplainable reasons I’m okay with that.

  By halfway down the street, Ryland’s grin is still from ear to ear, matching my own, but I suspect for different reasons. He babbles nonstop about certain kids and their skills. His enthusiasm is infectious and I bob my head along with him lost back beside the car when our lips were planted together.

  The sun reflects off the windshield causing a slight glare but warming the insides of the vehicle, and I sigh softly. My whole day is brighter from Ryland’s excitement. I lower the visor and lean back in the seat while he drives us home. We ride together in silence for a few minutes, long enough my brain begins to work overtime processing my admission of seriously crushing on Ryland.

  I panic.

  We’ve been friends for the last two weeks. Sure, it’s been friends who kiss on occasion, but friends. Now I want him as more than a friend and I suddenly don’t know how to handle him. How do I keep things the same without keeping them the same? Do I want him as my boyfriend? Can someone be Ryland Bates’ girlfriend? What does being the girlfriend of a soccer star entail?

  I laugh a little manically at nothing in particular and he turns his head to peer at me. Waving a hand, I promise it’s nothing and stare out my side window. Fucking eh, my damn brain’s done it again. As soon as I admit I like a guy, I turn into a freaking mess. Damn it, I need to get a grip on this or I’ll start tripping on shit like Aspen. I can’t handle another sprained ankle.

  Okay, calm down, Marissa. It’s Ryland. He’s the same guy he was this morning. Just because I’ve admitted I want more with him doesn’t mean I need to go all weirdo on him. I can handle this.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I will not turn into a major dork with Ryland. I will keep my cool regardless of my feelings for the tall blue-eyed soccer forward. With a deep breath I walk to the front of Ryland’s condo door. My chant on repeat with each step.

  It’s been a few hours since we returned after his first session at the youth center, but I’ve spent most of my afternoon locked away in my apartment. With dinner looming I’ve decided to make the first move and invite myself over for what’s become our Saturday evening ritual of video games and food. It’s part of my act natural game plan.

  His door’s unlocked as it’s been since the first day I used his elevator, but I should still knock. A friend would knock, right? Of course I’ve never knocked before. If I start now, he might figure out something is off with my behavior. Shut up, Marissa. Don’t overthink shit again. I’m going in… no knocking.

  I crack his door and slide in through the opening. When I lift my head ready to do my obligatory call out of his name, I stop short.

  Ryland watches me from a spot in his kitchen, his back resting against the stainless steel refrigerator. With a phone to his ear, he tracks my walk to the island counter lifting an eyebrow in my direction when he realizes I’m without my crutch. My foot barely hurts when I put weight on it and I’m tired of being a pirate.

  I smirk at him and raise a shoulder with a shrug, but rather than laugh as I expected, Ryland’s face falls into a scowl.

  The hand not holding the phone squeezes into a fist and he lets it fall hitting the fridge behind him. “Yeah, I hear what you’re saying.”

  My steps halt and I cringe at his tone and aggressive behavior even though it’s not directed at me. Besides the first time I met him when he was pissed about the hallway boxes, I can’t remember ever seeing Ryland this angry.

  “Yes, sir. I’ll work on it,” he says through gritted teeth.

  A few more seconds pass before Ryland yanks the phone from his ear and hurls the small device in front of him. It connects with the counter on the kitchen island and skidders across the top, dropping off the other side to land screen first on the hardwood floor.

  “Well…” I pick up the phone and shake my head at the cracked screen. “What did the phone do to you?”

  His answering sigh fills the room as he slumps against the refrigerator door. “The phone connected my father’s call because after a fantastic morning I wanted to spend the last hour hearing how I’m a fuck up,” he says with thick sarcasm.

  He starts to pace in the area between the kitchen island and back counter with the sink and fridge. His reflection catches on each stainless steel appliance as he passes, so I track that rather than his coiled tight body letting him work out his feelings.

  “How does he always know? Every time I think I’ve made a decision, he calls with his advice,” he says with scorn, “and what I’m expected to do to fix things. To live his perfect idea of what my life should be.”

  He’s agitated and his words come in hasty sentences to the point I only catch his thoughts here and there, but I get the idea of what this phone call entailed.

  Stopping in front of the counter, he leans over it closing the space to where I’m perched on my stool. “What if I don’t want to do it anymore, Marissa?"

  “Listen to your dad? Why do you?” It’s not my place to question his family situation, but I’ve wondered more than once.

  His eyes glaze over as he looks to the ceiling. “I don’t know. Carl, my overbearing father, has been there my whole life. I’m not sure I know how to not do what he says. When you’re raised that his word is law, it’s hard to move away from, even at twenty-eight.”

  “What does he want you to do?” I ask even though I know the answer. Go back to playing soccer.

  “What everyone expects. Give a news conference where I give a bullshit apology and then get back to soccer where I occasionally get into trouble to keep the ratings up.”

  I lift an eyebrow to mimic his earlier expression of slight disbelief and tap a finger on the counter.

  “Don’t give me that look. It’s true. My agent and even a few sponsors loved it when I’d get into some kind of minor trouble. Brought up publicity. The more publicity you get, the higher your asking price as long as you maintain the right level.”

  “Let me guess, punching the goalie went over the righ
t level.”

  He laughs a little. “That and he’s the great nephew of the team’s rich general manager.”

  “So what kind of player do you want to be?” I ask.

  “I don’t know, maybe not a player at all.” He pauses, but his eyes widen and he leans back over the counter, his face inches from mine. "What would you do if I retired tomorrow and said fuck it to everyone?”

  I lean back a little iffy about the manic excitement in his eyes. “Um, tell you to find a legal place to kayak?”

  Ryland sighs and rubs the top of his head not disrupting any of his short hair. “Carl has a plan to get me back on a team before the end of the month because he’s worked too hard for me to throw it all away.”

  “The media portrays you differently from who I’ve seen you be.” I’m thinking of the articles about his drinking, fights, bad attitude, and women, but it’s best not to approach those topics head on.

  He looks up from the counter where he’d been drilling a hole with his eyes. “Marissa, you’ve been reading up on me.”

  “Yeah, yeah don’t let it go to your head. I wanted to see where Beckham lives now.”

  “I’ll admit I’m a different person in England. There are so many expectations to meet and besides my teammates, I had no one there except alcohol and women."

  With lips pressed together I narrow my eyes at him.

  Rather than be contrite he grins. “I’m just saying it’s easy to fall down the rabbit hole. You think I’m bored now, you have no idea. In England my only companion was a bottle of Jack. Here I spend most of my time with one of the guys, or this one tenant and her violent tendencies.”

  “Speaking of tenants, I heard one of yours plans to break another rule.”

  “Is that so?” he questions with sarcasm. “She needs to exercise caution. I’ve heard her landlord’s a real asshole.”

  “Eh, turns out she thinks he’s not as bad as people make him out to be.” I roll with it excited Ryland’s playing along with my banter.