Page 21 of Try Hard

Eve

S ometime in my late twenties, I’d learned that conflicting schedules were not conducive to a good relationship.

Maybe, for some couples it could work, but, in my experience, it had always been the death knell.

And, while my work schedule had gotten a little more traditional since retiring from rugby, I was still an early riser, with the need for a morning workout.

Which probably went some of the way to explaining why, when I received a message from Ophelia at twenty past six in the morning, I was elated.

Similar schedules, early morning workouts.

Superb sign. And, maybe, it was a little bit to do with the fact that the message was accompanied by a photo.

One taken outside the pool, with her smiling and looking directly at the camera—directly at me.

It was forward for her, but I was ridiculously into it.

Perhaps she’d been spurred on by the fact that I’d texted her basically all night. At least, I did once I’d finished dinner with Dad and Soph—and gotten Soph to stop talking about how very hot Ophelia was.

Of course, the woman was gorgeous. She always had been.

But there was so much more to her, so much to discover under the surface that she kept hidden away—like that cheeky, teasing side that had lightly tugged my waistcoat just to have another second to say goodbye.

I wanted all of her. But I wasn’t foolish enough to think Ophelia didn’t get hordes of people wanting her simply because she looked so beautiful.

I wondered, not for the first time, whether that was part of why she kept people at a distance.

I hadn’t known her before secondary school, but, even with the amount of sports I played and how many comments I got that my figure wasn’t feminine enough, I knew exactly how the world’s reactions changed once you hit puberty.

Had that happened to Ophelia and shut her down?

Had she always been wary of people? Perhaps it was nothing so dramatic and she really just didn’t love being around lots of people.

I hoped it was the latter. But… her warmth when she started letting you in, the way she still was with Tanika and Kim, after all these years and with very different personalities, suggested she didn’t hate people the way I imagined some people read her doing.

I concentrated on her message, smiling to myself again that she’d initiated contact, mere hours after I’d bid her goodnight.

I glanced around, looking for a nice background, before positioning myself in front of a tree and taking a picture that made it clear I was in running gear. Snap , I sent back.

I could imagine the way she’d smile, the curve of her lips, the way her eyes lit up and crinkled.

Maybe it was a sign that I’d spent too much time looking at her if I had a crystal clear image of her smile in my head after only two days, but, in my defense, I’d watched her smile like that for years when we were teens too, and nothing about it had gotten any less beautiful with age.

Swimmers do it wetter, she sent back only moments later and the bottom of my stomach dropped straight out of my body.

Sure, I was trying to just think of her as a friend—and I was grateful for her friendship—but that had to be flirting.

I’d been flirted with more than enough times to know.

The fact that it was Ophelia jarred in my brain and insisted that she mustn’t be flirting, but…

how else was someone supposed to interpret that?

I lunged into some stretches, ostensibly because I’d interrupted my run to text her. Realistically, because I didn’t know how else to get the nervous, excited energy out of my body.

Trying to play it cool, and painfully aware it was so easy to misinterpret someone’s tone and meaning over text—even with those eyes staring at me from her photo—I took a steadying breath and messaged her back. That rather depends on the British weather, don’t you think?

She was fast on her reply again. Plunged into a pool in very little clothing versus out running in the rain, likely with a rain jacket of some sort? Pretty sure I’m still going to end up wetter.

She was killing me. And she had to know it. Ophelia was one of the smartest people I’d ever met. She was incisive and quick. She understood and observed things. And there was absolutely no way she couldn’t understand what she was doing to me.

Part of me loved it. Part of me soared with hope. All of me was dying. But what a way to go.

I suppose you’ve got me there , I sent back, still trying not to seem like she was wrecking my whole life in the very best way.

I don’t, actually, but it’s a public pool , she replied. Quickly followed by another message that was probably not a moment too soon to prevent me from changing course and running straight over to the pool. But, I should go now because I’m ready to swim. Have a great run.

How was anyone supposed to handle the one person they’d had a crush on for over twenty years—even in their absence—flirting with them?

Had she been changing as she messaged me? What did her swimwear look like? What did she look like when she swam? I was certain she’d leave me in the dust, but I wanted to see her in action so badly.

It was a good job I was already running to the gym or I’d have exploded from the sheer force building up inside of me.

Enjoy your swim , I replied before I could get too distracted, and then I ran hard, all the way to the gym.

◆◆◆

I was lying on my mum’s couch, halfway through typing a text to Ophelia, when my phone rang and, in surprise, I proceeded to drop it on my face.

“Hello,” I said, laughing as I answered the call.

Row paused. “You good?”

“Yeah. Dropped my phone on my face. You know, typical behaviour.”

She snorted. “Of course you did. Lying on the floor again?”

“Ah, character growth. I’m on the couch.”

“Well, well, well. Look at you.”

I opened my mouth to reply but then realised I couldn’t see her. “Why’d you call?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Am I not allowed to call my best friend and business partner?”

I stared at the ceiling, deadpan. “Not that. You video. Always. But you’re calling me.”

“Oh. Right.”

I waited and, the longer the silence went, started pushing myself up into sitting position. “Row?”

She cleared her throat. “Yes?”

I laughed. “What’s going on?”

“I have news and I don’t want you to look at me when I say it.”

I practically threw myself into a cross legged position, desperate to hear her news. “Hit me. Immediately.”

“So impatient,” she sighed.

“I know it’s going to be good if you’re avoiding looking at me.”

“How? It could be terrible and I can’t stand to look you in the eye.”

“Ha. No. If that were true, we wouldn’t even be having this conversation, but, more to the point, you’re fine with difficult news. Fierce eye contact right through the worst thing you’ve ever told another person.”

She deflated audibly. “Okay. Maybe we know each other too well.”

“Or just well enough. Now. Stop stalling and rip the Band-Aid off.”

“Plaster. You’re in the UK now.”

I grinned, shaking my head. “Stalling.”

“Ugh,” she growled. “Fine. I met someone.”

I half squealed, bouncing up and down before I realised my mum would hate me bouncing on her couch and, even though she and Terrance had gone out for dinner, she’d somehow still know when she got back. I promptly stopped bouncing. “Tell me everything.”

“Too soon.”

“Okay, tell me some thing.”

She made a sound like blowing raspberries as she thought, and I knew that was a good sign. She was going to give some details. Of course she was. She wouldn’t have called otherwise.

“Tiny details are fine,” I assured her. “Wait. Was it actually one of the reporters you met with?”

“God, no. I told you that whole thing was fine, if a little dry.”

“You did, but people are different when they’re off the clock.”

“Irrelevant,” she said, and I could imagine the way she waved a hand at the point. “No, we met virtually. We haven’t met in person yet.”

“But you like them?”

“Her.” She paused. “And yes. I suppose so. How cliché.” Only Rohanna could think being attracted to someone was cliché.

“Why?”

“Oh, because we’re probably a terrible match. And it’s a vendor I met through work. We got to talking, and you know how it goes. But really. How very predictable and ridiculous of me.”

Her emphasis on vendor intrigued me. I was already looking forward to revisiting that when she was ready to provide more information about her mystery woman. “You’re allowed to like who you like.”

“Oh, but she’s so… free. I don’t think responsibility is even a word in her vocabulary outside of work.”

“And it’s one of your favourites,” I said, amused. “You know what they say about opposites attracting and all that.”

She harrumphed, sounding thoroughly annoyed with herself. “Eve, I think I’d let her feed me beans on toast and be happy about it.”

My eyebrows shot up. “Sounds serious.”

“Sounds ridiculous,” she corrected, annoyed. “After a couple of conversations. Or… one conversation? Is it one if it’s basically continuous?”

I pressed my lips together. I’d never heard Row quite so frustrated or confused. She really must like the woman. I couldn’t wait to meet her. “It’s a good sign if it feels like the conversation is just ongoing and you keep picking it up again whenever you’ve finished dealing with life.”

“Hm. I can’t decide whether this was a great time for you to take a break, so I’ve got more to do, or whether I’m annoyed with you for eating into time I could be talking to her.”

Finally, I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I laughed. “Row! You’re, like, into her , into her.”

“God. I know. Murder me now.”

“Shan’t.”

She groaned and I was pretty sure I heard her collapsing down onto her own couch or bed or something equally soft. “Tell me you have news that will distract me.”

I smiled, my teeth biting down into my bottom lip. I was pretty sure I could fulfill that particular wish. “You might be happy to hear that I’m in a similar boat.”