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  The idea of giving that money to the studio now—to fix one more of the messes my mother so effortlessly creates—makes me insane. More than insane, really. I’m pretty sure I could fly to India under my own power—with nothing but my own rage to fuel me.

  The phone rings and rings—of course it does. It’s three-thirty in the afternoon there, my mother is probably sleeping. Or meditating. Or hanging out in downward dog position for fun. Or dancing. Or helping her dear, sainted guru spend one hundred and eighty-eight thousand dollars.

  I hang up and text her a message to call me IMMEDIATELY. Then I call back and leave a voice message that says the same thing. Then, for good measure, I call back a third time just to annoy the shit out of her, on the off chance that she’s actually carrying her phone.

  Turns out third time’s the charm because she picks up the phone with a breathless, “Hi, baby. How are you?”

  I tell myself to be calm, to be cool. That yelling at her never solves anything. And then I open my mouth and all but scream, “Why did you give all of the yoga studio’s money to your guru?”

  “Oh, Sage. You won’t believe the plans Guru Ram has. He already opens his temple to people from all over the world for free, but with this new influx of money he’ll be able to serve so many more people!”

  “What about the people we serve, Mom? How am I going to pay the studio’s bills this month? How am I going to pay our instructors?”

  “People pay dues—”

  “Not until the beginning of the month. We’ve got two salary cycles to get through before that happens.”

  “Oh, Sage, you’ll think of something. You always do.”

  “There’s nothing to think of in this situation, Mom. Either the money is there or it isn’t.”

  She hums softly. It’s a sound I remember from my childhood, one that always preceded a particularly awful bout of hippie-dippie bullshit. “The universe will provide, darling. It always does. Just look at the wonderful lives we’ve led. No matter how bad things seem, they always end up working out in the end. The universe fixes everything.”

  “No, Mom, the universe doesn’t fix anything. I do. I’m the one who fixes the messes you get into. Not the universe. Me.”

  “And look how lucky I am that the universe gave me you.”

  I shove a frustrated hand through my hair and grab on as I fight the urge to scream. Only the knowledge that it won’t do any good keeps me from losing it completely. Nothing ever does when my mother is in this mood.

  So instead of letting out the primal scream building deep inside of me, I clench my teeth together and count backward from one hundred until I can trust myself to speak. “When are you coming home, Mom? Maybe we can set up a couple yoga in the park classes with you for next weekend. Lani Kauffmann always draws a huge crowd.” And always nets us several thousand dollars.

  Despite her flightiness and insanity—or maybe because of them—my mom is something of a San Diego celebrity. Her reputation is what keeps the yoga studio so full, and it’s what helps us draw a crowd every time she hosts a class for the general public.

  “Oh, Sage, my darling flower. I can’t leave now. I’m on the edge of a breakthrough.”

  Of course she is. “Is that what Guru Ram told you?”

  “It is.” She sounds so excited I can practically see her bouncing up and down on her toes from here. “He says I’m very close to achieving a new spiritual plane.”

  “Did you tell him it doesn’t matter how many more spiritual planes you achieve, you’re still broke?”

  “Oh, don’t think like that. Guru Ram isn’t after my money.”

  “Of course he’s not after your money! You already gave it all to him.” I close my eyes, rub the bridge of my nose and wish for two Tylenol. Or death. At this point, I’m not exactly fussy. “Mom, I need you to come home.”

  “I can’t, honey. Not if I’m about to have a breakthrough.”

  “Yeah, well I’m about to have a breakdown, so…”

  She laughs, and I swear it’s like nails scraping down a chalkboard. “This is important, Sage.”

  Which, roughly translates into the fact that I’m not important. Then again, that’s not exactly a newsflash. “Mom, the studio is important, too. You’ve worked so hard for it and I’m trying to hold it together, but—”

  “Oh, Sage, you can handle it. You’re good at everything, especially when it comes to running a business. I’m sure you’re doing a much better job than I could ever do.”

  I was. But that was before she stole the business’s entire capital out from under me. “Mom—”

  “I have to go, darling. It’s time for kundalini.”

  “Wait, we still need to—” I start, but she’s already gone. Damn it.

  I toss my phone onto the nearest surface then sink to the floor and try to focus on breathing. Just breathing. I can feel the beginning of a panic attack coming on, but if I can just relax—just breathe—I can stave it off.

  I haven’t had one in nearly two years, since right before I graduated from college, but all it takes is one of my mom’s signature disasters and here I am, right back where I used to be. Damn it.

  My mind is racing as I try to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do here. I’m going to have to pay the employees, going to have to pay the bills. Which means I’m going to have to use the money I’ve spent so long saving to do it.

  But even that’s just a stopgap measure. We’ve got big bills coming up in the next couple of months—insurance, trainings, just to name a few. I can’t cover all of it. I could try applying for a short-term loan, but what am I supposed to tell the bank when they ask where the studio’s capital has gone? That my mom ran off to India and gave it to some guru who’s helping her to reach the next spiritual plane? I’ll be laughed out of the building.

  As I rest my head on my knees and continue with the breathing exercises my therapist taught me years ago, it occurs to me that for once, my mother is right. I was looking for something to get my mind off Shawn and what happened in the bar tonight, and for once, the universe delivered in a big, big way.

  Fuck. My. Life.

  Chapter 6

  Shawn

  “So, how’s your back doing?” Hunter asks as we work out in his new home gym. He’s first-string quarterback for the Lightning and one of my closest friends, but the look he’s giving me makes me want to smash my fist into his face.

  Then again, I’ve been having that feeling a lot lately. “Why the fuck does everyone keep asking me that?” I demand, adding another ten pounds to both sides of the bench press bar.

  “Maybe because you’ve currently got the disposition of a cornered cobra,” answers Tanner, left tackle and all-around pain in the ass. “And you only ever get that way when you’re in pain, sooooo…”

  “Sooooo?” I mock as I lay back down on the bench.

  “So we figure it’s your back,” Hunter finishes for him.

  “My back is fine,” I tell them, lifting the bar off the supports. As I do, the back in question twinges, but I ignore it. I’ve played pro football for a decade, and college ball before that. It’d be weird if my back didn’t twinge every once in a while. The fact that it never happened before my last trip to Acapulco is nobody’s business but mine.

  I lower the bar to my chest, then raise it again as Tanner spots me. Lower, then raise. After all, it’s not like it’s affecting my performance. I’m lifting as much as I ever have, and I can still run just fine. I’m no Clay Bruce, but I can more than hold my own on the field.

  “Dude, I’m the one throwing the ball to you. You think I can’t see when you hesitate?”

  Hunter’s fishing and we both know it. I never hesitate. Never have, never will—on or off the field. It’s one of Coach’s big problems with me, in fact.

  “Bite me,” I grind out as I do an
other rep.

  “As if,” Tanner snorts. “The way you get around, it’d be a miracle if I didn’t catch something.”

  “Nah, Tan, haven’t you heard?” Hunter says. “Shawn’s taking a break.”

  It’s my turn to snort. “I think you’ve got me mixed up with Clay. He’s the one on a female hiatus.”

  “He’s the one who told me you were taking a break. Told me some pretty little girl with big green eyes has got you all messed up.”

  “Hazel,” I say without thinking. Then, “Fuck!”

  “Whoooo! So it’s true!” Tanner crows.

  “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” I set the bar down with a clatter. “Clay’s an old woman, and you know it.”

  “So why couldn’t you close the deal?” Hunter asks. “She holding out for the quarterback or some shit?”

  “I think you mean the left tackle,” Tanner tells him. “The quarterback’s getting married in two weeks.”

  “That he is.” Hunter nods with obvious satisfaction.

  “She’s not a football fan.”

  “Not a football fan?” Tanner looks like he’s actually shocked that such a thing exists in the world. “She rejected you because you play football?”

  “What is she, a baseball fan?” Even Hunter sounds outraged on my behalf. “Trust me, you don’t need that shit.”

  “She’s not a baseball fan, either. At least I don’t think she is. And she didn’t reject me because I play ball. I don’t think she even knows who I am.”

  “She doesn’t know who you are? And she still turned you down?” Tanner laughs so hard he nearly falls over. “When’s the last time that happened to you, pretty boy?”

  Never. The last time a woman turned me down when I asked for her phone number is…never. Not that I’m about to admit that to these two. “Fuck off.”

  “Man, he really is pining! When’s the last time Shawn was this touchy over a woman?” Hunter asks.

  “Keep pushing, man, and I’m going to forget you’re my QB and take a shot at you right here.”

  “Nah, don’t do that,” Tanner tells me as he settles back to do his own bench press on the set next to mine. Which is about seventy-five pounds heavier than mine, not that I’m counting. “You know our boy’s a wimp. You punch too hard and you might break him.”

  “Just because I can’t bench-press an actual cow doesn’t mean I’m a wimp.” Hunter shoots me a look. “Besides, I’m not the one who’s broken here.”

  “I’m fine. Jesus.”

  “So you aren’t pining after some woman you met in a bar the other night?”

  “I don’t pine.” I swing up and off the bench, then curse again as my back does a whole hell of a lot more than twinge. Damn it.

  “Just like you don’t get hurt.” Hunter sets down the loaded bar he’s been using to do squats, and walks over to me. “What do the doctors say? How bad is it?”

  I don’t answer him.

  It’s his turn to curse. “You have been to an orthopedist, haven’t you? It’s been weeks since you went cliff diving in Mexico.”

  “Jesus. Does everyone know about that?”

  “Not everyone, no. But enough people to make it really uncomfortable for all of us if Coach comes asking around about what you’ve been up to. You know you’re not supposed to be doing that adrenaline junkie shit—it’s against your contract.”

  “I know it’s against my fucking contract,” I snap. “Which is bullshit. And you don’t have to worry about any uncomfortable questions. I’m good to go right now. By the time we head into practice in two weeks, I’ll be perfect. Doctor says so.”

  “You better be,” Hunter says, tossing me a half-frozen bottle of water. “Because every team in the league is going to be coming for us this year since we won the Super Bowl, and you need to be on your game.”

  “I’m always on my game.” I take a long sip of water then slam the bottle down on the nearest counter. “Speaking of which, you two buttercups up for a run?” I start shifting my weight back and forth from one foot to the other.

  “Trust the fucking wide receiver to make it all about speed,” Tanner grumbles.

  “Catch me if you can,” I fire over my shoulder as I take off out the door.

  Hunter’s house is right on the beach, so I make a beeline for the sand. As I do, Hunter’s eleven-year-old nephew, Brent, starts running beside me. “Hey, Shawn! How are you?” He’s fast for a kid, but no match for me, so I slow down a little to give him a chance to keep pace.

  “Doing good, man. How are you?” I reach out a hand for a fist bump as we hit the sand together.

  “I’m okay.” He sounds like he means it, which is a nice change. As is the mischievous light in his eyes. His mother died during the middle of last season and he’s had a lot of bad days since then. But Hunter and his fiancée, Emerson—who are his legal guardians—have him and his sister seeing a grief counselor once a week. Looks like it’s helping a little.

  “Oh yeah? What have you been doing in school?” I ask as we both hit our stride.

  He rolls his eyes. “Why do adults always have to ask about school? I do other things, you know.”

  “Oh, yeah? Like what?”

  Before he can answer, Hunter passes us with a loud whoop and a cocky grin. About thirty seconds after that, Tanner does the same.

  “Looks like we caught you,” he mocks as he trucks on by. And “trucks” is definitely an apt description, considering he’s six foot seven and a solid two ninety.

  I glance over at Brent to find him looking back at me, tongue stuck between his teeth in a show of fierce concentration. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” he asks before I can say anything.

  It startles a laugh out of me, but then I nod, quickly forcing a matching look of determination on my own face. “Let’s smoke those suckers.”

  “Exactly!” We do another fist bump for luck and then lay on the speed.

  I’m careful to let Brent set the pace so that I don’t outdistance him, but lucky for us the kid’s a born sprinter. He shoots forward like a missile, sheer will making up for the fact that his legs are half the length of his uncle’s.

  It takes us about forty seconds to catch up with them and another twenty to pass them. Knowing Brent can’t sprint for much longer, I pick a finish line that’s close by as I call out, “Last one to the lifeguard tower buys lunch.”

  Hunter and Tanner are closing in—I can hear their footsteps pounding on the sand right behind us. But there’s no way I’m going to let Frick and Frack back there beat Brent. No way in hell.

  Angling myself a little to the right, I run directly into their path, deliberately slowing down so they’ll have no choice but to do the same or run me over. And no matter how much they want to win, no way is either one of them going to risk injuring the Lightning’s best wide receiver on a lark.

  At the same time I block them, I yell, “Go, Brent, go!”

  He glances over his shoulder, sees the three of us breathing down his neck and lays on a final burst of speed. He crosses the make-believe finish line seconds before the rest of us do and from the smile on his face, you would think he’d just won a gold medal at the Olympics.

  Which makes all of us grin because the kid deserves whatever joy he can find in this world. Losing your mom to a painful disease at any age sucks. Losing her that way when you’re ten is a fucking nightmare. I should know.

  “So, what’s the winner get?” I ask Hunter.

  “Besides bragging rights?” he answers, brows raised.

  “Bragging rights are understood. But Brent just blew past three of the best players in the NFL. I figure that deserves some kind of reward.”

  “Ice cream!” Brent screams, jumping up and down. “Lots and lots of ice cream!”

  “I think lots and lots of i
ce cream can be arranged.” I glance over at the other two. “What do you guys think?”

  “I think that sounds like a plan.” Hunter grins.

  “Me, too.” It’s Tanner’s turn to fist bump Brent. “Stick with me, kid. I know how to build the best ice cream sundae in seven states.”

  Brent’s eyes go wide. “Is that true?” he asks me.

  “Absolutely. Tanner’s sundae-building expertise is the thing legends are made of. In fact, I think he’s being modest. It’s probably more like seventeen states.”

  “Build me a sundae! Please, Tanner. Pleeeeeeeeease!” Brent’s practically dancing with excitement.

  “How about he builds everyone a sundae when he’s the last one back to the house?” I suggest.

  “Last one?” Tanner squawks in mock outrage, but I’m already tossing Brent over my shoulder and taking off down the beach.

  We beat the other two back to the house by over a minute, a fact we don’t let the others forget as Tanner sets to work building the four of us “the best sundaes in seventeen states.” And if my back still feels like it’s on fire? It’s a small price to pay for the huge smile on Brent’s face.

  Chapter 7

  Forty-five minutes later we’re sprawled out in the media room when Hunter’s fiancée and niece make it home from their girls’ day. Game one of the NBA finals is playing on the TV, but I’m paying more attention to Brent than I am to the action on the court.

  The kid’s only eleven, but already he’s a hell of an artist. He’s sprawled out on the floor in front of me, working on a comic book with a football player hero that looks a lot like his uncle Hunter. Tanner and I are the trusty sidekicks and, from what I can see, the villain looks a hell of a lot like the quarterback from Dallas. Which…hell, yeah.

  Hunter’s niece, Lucy, stops to give both her uncle Hunter and me a kiss on the cheek before throwing herself on her favorite honorary uncle, Tanner. He laughs as she lands in his lap, then stands up and swings her around in a supercharged game of airplane that has her squealing in delight.