Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 81281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81281 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 406(@200wpm)___ 325(@250wpm)___ 271(@300wpm)
I lift a shoulder, as if I couldn’t care less about any of it. “You sure sound like a smarty-pants, but I don’t need your help,” I say dismissively.
And then I walk out.
Chapter 3
Livia
The chicken is sizzling on the grill pan and the vegetables are ready for a light sauté. My apartment smells like olive oil and garlic, a nod to my mom’s Italian heritage and a small reminder of dinnertime aromas while growing up. Of course, I could have gone to my parents’ for dinner tonight, given that they live twenty minutes west of my apartment, but it was too late by the time I left the performance facility.
I’ve only been back in my hometown of Portland for two weeks. Although I’d accepted Patrick’s offer to become the director of Human Performance over three months ago, he graciously let me have the time to wrap up my independent consulting service I’d built in Los Angeles the last four years. While I very much enjoyed using my skills in a consultancy model—across many types of sports—the lure of coming back home was too strong to ignore.
Also, Patrick Rowe is a hard man to say no to. Not only were the salary and benefits he offered me on the mind-boggling side, the passion with which he pushes this team forward intrigued me. He’d be an incredible study on peak mental performance, for sure.
I chose to live downtown because I love the energy and the apartment is still in the process of becoming mine. There are stacks of boxes I haven’t fully committed to unpacking shoved against the wall of the second bedroom, a bookshelf that’s half-organized—or half-abandoned, however you decide to view it—and I still have one suitcase full of business clothing, which I thankfully don’t have to wear anymore. Give me some comfy workout gear and I’m in heaven, and the volume of branded leggings, shorts, shirts and sweatshirts that the organization gave me fills the spare bedroom closet.
At least the kitchen works.
I love cooking so much this room has been sorted from day one. Some priorities are nonnegotiable.
The kitchen bleeds into the living room, and past the front window, I see the gorgeous tree-lined streets of Nob Hill. It’s the type of neighborhood that feels almost like a fairy tale with Victorian storefronts and warmly lit sconces, and it’s all so very far removed from the hustle and bustle of LA.
It feels so wonderful to be back home and to have a job that stirs excitement and wonder within me.
My phone buzzes on the counter.
Molly.
I answer it the way I always answer my best friend, which is to always say the first thing on my mind. “My day has officially been made.”
“You say that every time I call,” she replies drolly.
“It’s true every time,” I quip back.
“How was your first day?” she asks, and I can hear the faint but urgent noise of the emergency room in the background. She’s a trauma nurse and whenever I hear the muffled PA announcements or the urgent beeping of some monitor, I know she’s calling me on one of her breaks, tucked into a corner of the hospital when she needs five minutes for a breather.
“Good,” I say, and mean it. I flip the chicken in the pan and reach for the glass of Pinot I poured the minute I walked in the door and kicked off my shoes. “Really good, actually.”
“Tell me everything,” she says wistfully, because she thinks I landed my dream job and she’s all in on the fantasy of it.
“Molls… the facility is unbelievable. I’ll give you a tour sometime. But in all the professional sports organizations I’ve worked with in the past, I’ve never seen anything like this place. Patrick built it as if he’s got a point to prove.”
“Yeah.” She snorts. “That he has the most money.”
“No, it’s not like that.” I give her a rundown of the rehab wing, the workout facilities, and the over-the-top amenities for the players, including their own restaurant. “Sure, he wants to win, but he really wants to take care of his people.”
“Well, you are the one who has the best skills to evaluate and read people, so I’ll take your word for it.”
“He didn’t hire me to tick a box on some organizational wellness checklist. He’s all in.”
“And he’s hot,” she muses, even more wistfully.
I roll my eyes. “You know, that’s not a relevant professional consideration for me.”
And even as I say those words, an unbidden thought comes into my head.
Locke Donovan.
That man is drop-dead gorgeous, and I’d have to be dead not to notice. I try to refuse myself the brain space to reflect on how attractive he is.
Tall, broad, all-consuming. His dark blond hair is long, wavy, and unkempt, but in a way that looks hot. Strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, and pale blue eyes that are glacially cold. He has that type of disarming handsomeness that makes you forget to look both ways before crossing the street, and then BAM… flat as a pancake.