Page 39 of Tides Of Your Love (Riviera Shores #3)

Owen

“EXCITED?”

“Nervous,” I admitted, exhaling a long breath.

“Magnus is optimistic.”

And you’re pushing it , I almost said out loud. But that was his job— Neil Westely, my agent.

“We’ll see.” I ran a hand over my jaw. “Except for playing on the beach with some kids and then with ...” I stopped. Memories hit me like a wave, dragging me straight out of the local coffee shop and back to a small beach town thousands of miles away. “I haven’t trained in months.”

The fact that the team’s doctor hadn’t ruled me out yet—despite all the new scans and checkups—was a surprise in itself. When the call came soon after, asking me to join a team training to see “where we stand,” it felt like a whole different kind of shock.

The first person I wanted to call was Rio. But it was the middle of the night for her. Besides, I didn’t know how she’d take it. I hardly knew how I was taking it.

“You’ll be fine. I saw the scans, and Magnus doesn’t play favorites.” Neil downed the last sip of his espresso and pushed his chair back. I’ll be there for the last thirty minutes, we can talk then. Come on, we don’t want you to be late.”

I told him I preferred driving myself, in the car he’d kept in storage while I was in the U.S., but he insisted on chauffeuring me everywhere as if I might disappear on him.

From the coffee shop near my house in Hampstead, it was a short drive to Westbridge Stadium.

The last time I was here, I left in pain—excruciating pain. Ice. A shot. A rush to the hospital. Surgery. Then hobbling in on crutches for a meeting with management that ended with a wordy, contract-covered version of ‘don’t call us, we’ll call you’.

Now, the place that had once been my home looked strange and threatening. What if I didn’t last the entire session? Why not save myself the humiliation and walk away now?

Home. The word echoed, but it was nowhere near here.

I entered through the parking lot alone, duffel bag slung over my shoulder.

Inside the wide hall, painted in green and white—the club’s colors—and lined with trophies, a voice startled me from behind. “No way! Wheaton?”

I turned around to meet Dennis, our goalkeeper, the one who’d taken the Captain’s armband after I was forced to leave.

“In the flesh,” I replied, pulling him into a quick bro-hug.

“They told me that maybe ...” he trailed off. “How are you? How’s the knee?” He tilted his head down like he could diagnose it himself.

“We’ll see today. ”

“Everyone’s gonna be chuffed. Come on, mate!” He clapped a hand on my nape, steering me toward the changing room.

“Look who I brought,” he announced the moment we pushed the door open.

“Owen!” and “Wheaton!” and “Oy, mate!” rang from every direction. Hands thumped my back, arms pulled me into quick hugs. “We missed you, man!” Some grinned and joked, “Fucked off to California on false pretense, yeah? Can’t blame you, bruv.”

My nervousness was now mixed with the warmth of being welcomed back to where I once belonged.

“Seventy minutes is good!” My agent shot to his feet the moment I dropped onto the bench, breath still dragging in and out of my lungs.

“And stop rubbing that knee!” He swatted my hand away.

“That motherfucker over there is watching.” He angled his head toward a familiar face—a sports site columnist perched in the stands, eyes locked on me like a predator waiting for weakness.

“I don’t give a fuck what he says.” I kneaded my knee anyway, feeling the strain settle in. The muscles weren’t screaming, but they weren’t quiet either.

A shadow fell over us, dulling the gray London sunlight. “Not bad, Wheaton.” Coach Alden stood in front of me, arms crossed. “Didn’t think you’d last that long.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” I reached for my water bottle.

“You don’t want me to lie, do you?”

Neil offered his hand, and Alden gave it a quick shake before focusing back on me. “You kept up in the aerobic and anaerobic drills, your tactical work is as sharp as ever, and it looks like you didn’t neglect strength and conditioning in California. Lasting over an hour looks promising.”

“Disappointed?”

“On the contrary.”

My agent sat back down, looking satisfied. “That’s a good report to bring to management, Alden.”

Alden barely spared him a glance before turning back to me. “You don’t need babysitters, Wheaton. You’re doing fine on your own. Be here tomorrow. Same time. I want to see you in another session.”

I wiped a hand over my mouth, exhaling slowly as he walked off. My whole body hummed with exertion, but under the ache was something I hadn’t felt in a long time—my legs knew the work, my instincts were still sharp. Maybe I wasn’t back yet, but I wasn’t done either.

But first, they had to decide. I needed to know, one way or another.

“What do you think?” I asked my agent.

He smirked. “Sonofabitch won’t admit it yet, but he wants you.”

Before I could reply, two of my teammates stopped by, slapping my shoulder. “Good work, Wheaton. Good to have you back, Captain.”

“I’m not back yet,” I muttered. But as I stretched out my legs, feeling the old fire still burning, I realized—with more certainty than I’d had for months—that I could be.

My agent chuckled. “They know you’re better than any toddler they bring on to replace you. ”

I pulled my phone from my bag and checked the screen. Nothing. It was still nighttime in California. After the first few days that were a blur of jet lag and medical appointments, I was split between two time zones—living on London time but always aware of Rio’s time.

Nights were hard—falling asleep without her in my arms. Mornings were harder—waking up to an empty bed, realizing I’d only dreamed of her and her scent.

“Made it to training today,” I texted. “Still not completely broken. But my heart is missing. Do you have it?” I texted.

To Simon, I sent a drier version. “ They’re still testing me and will not negotiate before they decide what they can get out of it. Hope everyone’s okay.”

The headlines later that day tooted the same tune— “Wheaton’s Future Unclear.”

Tell me something I don’t know.

In the whirlwind of the past ten days, there was only one thing I knew for sure—I loved Rio.

Her reply to my text came in the late afternoon. “I’m looking.”

A moment later, my phone buzzed again. A selfie. Rio at the counter of the health shop, smiling.

“It’s there somewhere. Check the palm of your hand,” I texted.

I smoothed my thumb over the screen, tracing the curve of her sweet face. My chest ached. Though it was invisible, it was there in her hand—my heart. Raw. Completely hers.

Simon’s reply wasn’t far behind. “Everyone’s good. Be good yourself and keep me posted. All my girls send their love. ”

He probably didn’t mean to include Rio in that. But I did.

Training the next day went okay.

“Wheaton, join us for a pint tonight?” Dennis asked as we walked back to the changing room.

I hesitated.

“Come on, just a little get-together with some of the lads,” he said, nodding toward the guys ahead.

“Okay.” I rolled my shoulders, loosening the tension in my muscles.

John, our center-back, came up from behind and hooked an arm around both our necks, dragging us into a headlock. “Wheaton’s worried we’ll get him pissed. He’s a good boy now.”

“Piss off,” Dennis and I said at the same time, laughing and shoving him away.

We met at a club in Chelsea. The kind of place where the drinks were overpriced, the music was just loud enough to make proper conversation impossible, and half the crowd was there to be seen.

I hadn’t been in a place like that in months. This was no Shore Thing. Here, everything felt surface-level—too polished, too curated, too desperate to be important. Maybe I’d always known that, but now I saw it.

A round turned into two, then three. The team was in good spirits, ribbing me about my time in the States, calling me Hollywood , and joking that I’d come back soft. I gave it back just as good.

“Soft? Mate, I could take you on while tying my cleats. ”

“Don’t get me to take you on, Granddad.” John smirked, knocking back his beer.

“What this granddad can do in reverse, you haven’t figured out how to do in first gear,” Dennis shot back before I could reply, raising his pint. He was in his mid-thirties too, and like me, had no intention of rolling over for the younger lot just yet.

The banter carried on, laughter loud enough to cut through the pounding bass, the drinks went down fast, and for the first time since landing in London, I felt almost normal. Almost. As normal as could be when a piece of me was missing.

Then I felt a hand on my shoulder.

I turned.

Blonde, long legs, the kind of woman I’d met a hundred times before at places like this. She leaned in close, all confidence and too much perfume, ignoring the fact that I’d barely looked at her.

“Owen Wheaton,” she purred. “Knew you’d come back eventually.”

“You and every tabloid in England,” I muttered, taking a sip of my beer.

“Oh, don’t be like that.” She trailed a hand down my arm. “I’m just saying welcome home. Want to dance?”

I stepped back, shaking my head. “Nah, I’m good.”

“I’ll let you go if you say something in an American accent,” she teased, eyes playful. “It makes me weak in the knees.”

“Why don’t you go and rejoin your friends?” I said, dry as hell .

She pouted, but before she could try again, Dennis leaned in with a grin. “Oy, he’s spoken for. Off you go.”

The night went on, but my mood had shifted. The old version of me might have played along, flashed a grin for the cameras, let them run with whatever story they wanted. But that wasn’t me anymore. Maybe I’d never belonged in places like this. Or maybe I had—before Rio.

Didn’t matter, though. The next morning, my face was splashed across every bloody tabloid.

.

“WHEATON BACK TO PARTYING ON AND OFF THE FIELD.”

.

Of course.

I tossed my phone on the table and blew out an exasperated breath.

But my day wasn’t over yet. An hour after getting back from doing something I’d been planning since I left the U.S.—something that would keep a piece of her with me no matter where I was—the call came from management.

“Can you come in tomorrow? We’d like to talk about your future with the club.”

After I hung up, I stared at the darkened screen of my phone. My mind split—because what I hoped they’d say and what I feared they’d say were one and the same.