Page 27 of Worth the Try (Atlanta Granite #1)

Ansel

I T TAKES HOURS before I’m calm enough to think rationally.

It’s only after I’ve put Rosie to bed that I manage to float out of my rage-induced haze and fully comprehend that Elodie’s been here the whole time.

Quietly watching me, helping with dinner, and then stepping into the kitchen without a word so I could take Rosie through her nighttime routine.

Shit.

I need to apologize. To maybe—maybe try explaining the situation. Letting her in that much more.

The thought makes my heartbeat hitch. Could I do it? Lay it all on the table?

What if it’s too much? What if me and Rosie aren’t worth it?

No. The answer clangs through me, clear as a bell. She wouldn’t think that. I can trust her. I do trust her. I hustle down the stairs, already sorting out the words to use. But when I round the banister, she’s gone.

For a moment, I consider calling her back over. Handing over this final piece of me and Rosie, and hoping like hell she wants to take it.

I blow out a breath. Maybe this is for the best. This— we— aren’t her problem.

I can handle it, the same way I’ve handled everything for Rosalie from the moment Lauren abandoned her on my doorstep.

I’ve built my entire life around my little girl, fought for the success and safety we have, and the thought of someone—of Lauren, especially—waltzing back in here and taking her from me?

No.

Absolutely the fuck not.

My hands shake as I pace the living room. No, this entire thing is volatile and terrible and nothing that Elodie needs to be concerned with. It’s my problem. I’ll deal with it.

I barely get any sleep, and when I do, it’s filled with nightmares about Rosie being dragged out of the house. When I feel a tiny hand on my cheek, I jerk upright.

Rosie’s grinning at me, her sweet face so innocent that it makes me physically hurt. “Hi, Daddy.”

I scrub a hand down my face and try to wake up. “Hi, Rosie girl.”

She tilts her head, curls falling into her face with the movement. “I’m hungry. Elle Belle said I should come wake you up while she makes me breakfast.”

Bleary-eyed, I look at the clock. “Guess I overslept, huh?”

Rosie nods seriously.

I need to pull it together. I widen my eyes and snarl, “Doesn’t mean I can’t still tickle you to pieces!” Then I snatch her giggling body up and into my arms. But I don’t tickle her. I just hold her.

Rosie’s finished breakfast by the time I make it downstairs, but Elodie is in the kitchen.

“Good morning.”

She turns, and the sight of her takes my breath away. Sunlight frames her face as she smiles tentatively at me. “Rough night?”

I’m a fool . I should have told her everything last night. My shoulders slump. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.” She waves my apology away with a smile that I know isn’t genuine. “You don’t owe me anything.”

The cavalier way she says it punches my chest in. As if Nice Elodie is here, and not the woman who I’ve started feeling things for that I probably shouldn’t. I cross the room and pull her hands into mine. “It’s not okay. I need to explain?—”

My phone rings, reminding me that I’m going to be late.

Elodie squeezes my hands before releasing them and shooing me away. “Answer it. Go. We’ll talk later.”

When I pull the phone out of my pocket, I see my lawyer’s name on the screen. I exhale in frustration and bite back a curse. “I need to take this. I’m?—”

“Go,” she insists, that fake smile still plastered on her face.

I don’t want to. I want to pull her into my arms and bury my nose in her neck. Tell her everything. But now’s not the time. “Tonight,” I promise her.

When the smile doesn’t leave, I sigh and nod, picking up my kit and snagging the keys off the entryway table. “Jennifer.” My voice is clipped as I pull the front door shut, making certain to lock it.

Practice is fucking brutal. Coach is running us like the preseason opener is next week instead of in January.

“Miles!” he barks, waving me over to the sidelines. The man doesn’t so much as break a sweat out here, looking cool as a cucumber in the late August heat. I swear he’s not human.

I jog over to him, increasing my pace when his usual scowl deepens even further.

“What is that shit?”

“What is what shit?”

He gestures with his notebook. “You’re practically skipping out there. You get paid to run , Miles. To grab the ball and run. Or kick and run. Or pass and run. Or tackle and then run. Whatever the fuck is going on, solve it.”

I blanch, not used to being on the receiving end of this kind of dressing-down. “Coach, I’m sorry.”

“I don’t want your apologies,” he retorts.

“I want you working. Being an example. You seem to have forgotten that you’re the captain.

I’d like to remind you that we’re out here, in the middle of fucking August, in Georgia, because of you.

” He jabs his finger in my chest for emphasis.

“Get your shit together and do your job.”

I jerk my chin down. “Understood.”

I join the rest of the team where they’re taking a water break, shaking my head at Lennox as he gives me a questioning look. He knows how intense Coach is, so he simply nods in understanding and holds a cup of water up for me.

“Time to decide which of the new kids we’re keeping?” he asks as I take the water and down it.

“Probably, but that’s not what he wanted,” I answer. I need to remember to start delegating. We named captains for the forwards and backs for this exact purpose, so I call over to our co-captains. Woods, our hooker co-captain for the forwards, and Carter, our wing and co-captain for the backs.

Woods hustles over, and Carter, the cocky fucker, practically sashays to where we stand. “Look at that, Woods,” Carter says with a nudge to the other captain. “Ol’ Cap here finally decided to remember we existed.”

I roll my eyes. “Maybe I’ve been waiting for the two of you to come up with some ideas. You know—actually lead instead of waiting to be told?”

Woods appears to consider it, but Carter sucks his teeth, knowing full well that I’m bullshitting. “Nah,” he says. “You forgot.”

“I’ve been studying game tape from this past season,” Woods offers. “I’ve got some specific plays in mind that we need to do better. Hone our ball-passing skills and see which of the potential new players can keep up.”

I gesture at Woods as I look at Carter. “See? No mouthing off. Just ready to work. Take a page from Woods.”

“I just need the forwards to do their job so that I and the rest of the backs can score the tries,” he says with a shrug. “It’s that simple.”

Woods turns a raised brow at me. “Exactly why did you pick him as captain again?”

Lennox laughs. “Because he’s our second-best scorer next to Ansel here. He’s a peacock and an idiot, but he’s talented as hell.”

“Aw, you got a crush on me?” Carter coos to Lennox, who scowls at him.

“I regret coming back early,” Lennox says dryly.

“Miles!” Coach barks. When I turn, he makes a let’s get on with it gesture.

Sighing, I get us all back out on the pitch.

Mom calls on my way home. I punch the speaker to take it while I drive and answer with, “Everything okay?”

“Can’t I call my only child to see how he’s doing without causing alarm?” she responds.

“No,” I state flatly.

She laughs. “Everything is fine. Thought you’d want an update on your father.”

My grip on the steering wheel loosens. “How is the old man?”

“Furious if he heard you call him that—despite falling off a ladder and needing the surgery that kept us from keeping that sweet grandbaby of ours,” she tsks.

“It’s…all worked out,” I say, eyeing the cars in my rearview mirror far more closely than usual.

“Oh?” Her voice rises with interest. “How, exactly, have they worked out?”

I can practically see the heart eyes she’s probably making. “Ease up, Mom.” Even though I, too, have heart eyes at this point. But I shake the thought off, knowing it’s too soon.

“Fine, fine,” she relents. “Your father is being an old coot, and I told him I’d call you and tell on him.”

I laugh, grateful that she’s shifted back to the original topic of conversation. “What’s he done this time? You know I told you to call me if you need me.”

“Ansel, you’re four hours away—” she starts.

“I’d be a lot closer if you’d move here and let me take care of you.”

“First of all, young man, we don’t need taking care of . And secondly, we planned to move here for our retirement. You knew that. And finally,” she says, her voice softening, “we really, truly don’t need you worrying about us. You have too much on your plate as it is.”

“I’m your only son,” I remind her. “It’s my job to worry about you.”

She chuckles. “No, Ansel, it’s not. And the day I manage to convince you of that may well be the happiest day of my life. Well,” she hedges, “second to giving me a daughter-in-law.”

I groan. “I’m ignoring that.”

We talk all the way home, and it almost works: a sense of calm has nearly settled over me.

Until I get out of my Land Rover and see a woman exiting a car parked across the street. She’s in jeans and some kind of strapless shirt, and looks exactly the same as the night we slept together.

Lauren’s here.