As I sit here happily munching away, I wonder what kind of trouble she actually thinks I can get into up here. There’s practically nothing. In fact, after breakfast, I’ll probably go on a long run and then do what? Take up knitting? Maybe a little needlepoint.
I shouldn’t have jinxed myself. After the longest run humanly possible, and the hottest shower I could stand, I’m now sitting here watching the ocean waves hit the sand. Granted, it’s rather calming but I can’t do this until Kennedy can get me back on the pitch.
As soon as I see the car drive away down the long drive taking her to the airport, I pound the pavement—well, beach—running on the sand gives me a workout like none other and gives me hope that I can keep up my physique even with Elodie’s home cooking.
But now, here I sit, feet propped against the railing of the balcony in my room. Ass planted in a big wooden chair that looks like it could tell stories. Watching the fucking waves. Never one to sit still—this is a new experience for me.
I don’t like it.
I’ve done nothing but play footie since I can remember. Even the off-season is filled with training and advertisements and PR. My spare time is spent at the pub or with a bird. Never this sitting-in-silence-with-myself bullshit. I sigh. I’m sounding like a whiny brat.
My phone rings beside me, and I glance down. The one word that could strike fear into the blackest of hearts scrolls across the screen.
Father.
Jonathan Evans. Retired Premier League football star. The best defender ever turned coveted head coach.
Also, the bane of my existence.
It’s incredibly hard growing up and playing in the shadow of this man. His expectations and standards are second to none. I’ve never lived up to him—and I never will.
My thumb hovers over the screen, and I mentally debate whether or not I should even answer this call. If I don’t, I know he will just call back until I do. Better to just bite the bullet and get it over with. I slide to answer.
“Hello, Father,” I keep my voice even and calm.
“What the fuck are you doing, Ryan?” Okay, so apparently we are skipping niceties and are moving straight into ‘Ryan is a fucking idiot’ territory.
“Currently? I’m sitting on the balcony overlooking the ocean. It’s quite nice. You should come visit.”
“You’ve gone too far this time. You are such a goddamn disappointment. I didn’t raise you to be this big of a fuck-up.”
“Well, you didn’t raise me at all. The nanny did. But she’s dead now, so you can’t really blame her.” This is going well—like real well.
“You sniveling little shit,” his voice growls out. “You’ve soiled the Evans name for the last time. You don’t deserve it.” I pause for a moment as I’m not even quite sure how to respond to that. “Your mother spoiled you. That’s why you are such an ungrateful prat.”
Well, now he’s hit my soft spot. My mother, Maggie, died when I was four. I don’t have many memories of her, but the ones I do have are warm and comforting.
“Seeing as how she died when I was four, maybe you should blame the nanny. But yet again—she’s dead. So that won’t work for you. Maybe you should blame—wait for it, wait for it. You. Yes, let’s do that. Let’s blame you.” I can feel the waves of anger coming across the phone.
“This conversation is done. Stop ruining the Evans name or I will ruin you.”
The click on the other line alerts me to the fact that he has hung up on me. In typical Jonathan Evans style, he found me lacking in all of the ways. I’m never—and will never—be good enough for him. Regardless of my stats on the pitch.
It’s a crushing weight that comes over me. The constant feeling I’ve been living with since I was old enough to remember. This always-being-lacking and never living up to the insane expectations my father has laid out for me. I had to follow in his exact footsteps or it wasn’t good enough. First mark against me—I wasn’t a defender. It became very clear early on that my skills were found scoring goals. This wasn’t on his “plan.” I was to become the exact replica of him and anything else was unacceptable.
The longer I sit here, the angrier I get. I’ve done nothing but work my ass off for that team. I’m the leading scorer for the league, I participate in every charity event, every photo call—and I do it all with a smile. So who the fuck cares how I spend my time off the pitch? I’m a goddamn motherfucking delight.
My phone lights up again next to me. Not even looking at who it is, I pick up it and pull my arm back and throw it right into the ocean.
I don’t need to talk to anyone anyway.
Chapter Five
Elodie
Ryan has been in the house now for four days, and I’ve barely seen him. Sure, I’ve seen his shirtless form running on the beach at all hours of the day—always three times a day, but other than his grumpy self, coming down to grab his meals, we’ve had no contact. He’s sticking to his room and the balcony. Every morning I head up to give him fresh towels or change the sheets and the “do not disturb” hanger is on the knob and there is a neatly stacked pile of dishes in the hallway.
So far this morning, Deacon has come and gone and there’s no sign of Ryan. I’m not hearing any noises coming from above. If he comes downstairs for breakfast, he’s going to have to fend for himself. I’ll leave out the muffins and the pastries but everything else I’m storing in the fridge for later.
I walk over and go to turn off the warmer on the coffee machine when my phone vibrates in my back pocket.
Kennedy: Hey, you busy?
I quickly type out that I’m available and ask her what she needs. The phone then vibrates again, this time with an incoming call.
“I’d say good morning, but it’s afternoon over there, isn’t it?”
“UGH. Is he still alive?” Kennedy’s voice is tired and borderline angry.
“Well I haven’t seen him yet this morning, but from the pile of dishes in the hallway, I’m assuming he’s alive. Can’t promise anything though,” I jokingly say to her.
“His phone has been going straight to voicemail for days. I can’t get a hold of him and I’m legit about to fly back there and kick his sorry ass.”
“To be honest, Kenn, I haven’t seen much of him since that first day. He takes all of his meals back up to his room. I’ve seen him running on the beach, but those are the only times I see him.”
“I need a huge favor. I need you to do some kind of wellness check on him. Please tell me he’s alive and well. Then if he is—tell him I quit.” She pauses for a moment. “I don’t really quit but if he doesn’t pick up his fucking phone, I will. He can try me.”
“Things not going well over there?” I ask gently. I don’t want to pry into Ryan’s life, but I’m also dying of curiosity.
“Let’s just say it’s been a rollercoaster and I can’t get off.”
“I’ll run up and bring him some coffee and some breakfast, I’ll text you and let you know if he’s alive.”