Spring Tide (Coastal University Book 1)

The foul smell of sweaty, male athletes and dirty gym socks permeates the air around me. Before last weekend, the weight room used to be a welcome reprieve. I looked forward to tallying reps and tailoring workouts each week, to building skills that would propel me toward my future career.

Now, I’m mildly irritated to be here.

Nate is sprawled across a weight bench on the other side of the room, his bar racked with three plates on each side. He’s pumping his chest and slamming the weights around like some kind of wild animal. And I’m standing here, arms crossed, pretending not to notice him sneak glances in my direction.

I spend nearly two hours skirting around him, distracting myself with other players, and sucking up to my supervisor, Minh. Unfortunately, I can’t escape Nate forever. Once training is over, he lingers around while the rest of his teammates clear out.

This week, I’m supposed to monitor their progress and present an alternative program to my class. As all forty-two players pile out, they leave their workout logs in a haphazard stack near the locker room entrance. Well, everyone except for Nate, who decides to personally hand-deliver his.

He approaches me with that familiar swagger in his step. His expression is guarded, but there’s a tight half-smile that curves his lips.

“Need some help getting these to your car?” he asks, lacking his typical suggestive tone.

“I’m good,” I say softly, preoccupying my hands by tidying the stack. “Thank you, though.”

His eyes narrow. “What’s with the cold shoulder, Harps?”

I tap my fingers against the plastic binders, anxiously debating my response. Nate’s unabashed question caught me off guard. But I guess he’s chosen to take the straightforward route, so it’s only fair that I meet him with the truth.

“I’m just wondering why you asked me out if you were planning on kissing someone else?”

“Seriously?” His expression slides into a frown. “You told me you had to bail. Understandable, sure, shit comes up. But then I find out you’re on a double date with two linebackers?”

I wrinkle my nose. “What?”

“Some girl tagged you in a photo. I saw it before I even showed up at the Lounge.”

“Oh,” I murmur, my false bravado fading as he furrows his brow.

“Yeah.” He jerks his binder forward, tossing it onto the stack I just straightened. “Probably should have told me you were dating Ötzi before I put my tongue in your mouth.”

“We’re not—it’s not . . . I didn’t mention it because we’re not serious or anything.”

“So, what, then?” He waves a dismissive hand, lips twisting into a mocking sneer. “You just wanted to bag football and baseball captains at the same time? Makin’ your way through the NCAA roster?”

I rear back, irritation gnawing at my chest. “You’re not being very nice.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t realize that’s what kind of girl you were.”

I let my shoulders slump. “Then I guess we were both wrong about each other.”

“Yeah.”

My pulse pounds in my throat, aching to bite out a scathing retort. It’s not my fault that Nate’s clearly insecure. He can use that as an excuse to justify his behavior, but it’s a waste of energy to argue with him now. So I flip around instead, gathering up the binders and tossing them into a rolling bin.ConTEent bel0ngs to Nôv(e)lD/rama(.)Org .

“Can you just leave?” I mutter, back turned in his direction.

“Shit, Harper . . . wait.” He grasps ahold of my wrist, gently whirling me back around to face him. “I’m sorry for being a dick. It’s just, the whole Ötzi thing is really throwing me off. If you two have something going on, then I should probably stay out of it.”

“Yeah, I think that’s for the best.”

“Fuck, you must really think I’m an asshole now.” His forehead creases with worry. “Don’t you?”

I lift my shoulder in a half-shrug. Do I think Nate’s a complete and total asshole? No, I can’t make that decision yet. I try not to judge a person’s character based on one anger-fueled encounter, but I still don’t feel like nursing his bruised ego right now.

“Trust me, it’s not about you.” A shadow of doubt creeps over his face. “I’m just not interested in being the other guy. Been there, done that. I really did like you. Or do, I do like you.”

“Okay,” I say, rattled by his sudden attitude shift.

“Maybe if things don’t work out with Ötzi, we could try this again?”

“Um, maybe,” I say softly, even though operation Date Nate™️ has already melted inside my brain, disappearing like an ice cube on a hot summer’s day. “Look, I should probably finish collecting these binders. I have a lot of work to catalog tonight.”

“Sure, okay.” He scrubs one hand across the back of his neck, gaze sheepish as he retreats into the locker room. Before the door swings shut behind him, he shoots one last apologetic smile over his shoulder.

It’s already been over a month since Luca first tore his MCL. Over the last few weeks, we’ve been slowly building his tolerance for resistive exercises. He’s worked his way up to the heaviest black TheraBand that our department carries, and tonight, I’ve moved him on to weighted tubes.

I can tell he’s been consistent with his home program, following through with his nightly stretching and massage routine. The thought makes me unbelievably proud. It’s pretty rewarding to see all our hard work pay off like this.

“You’re doing so well with the added resistance,” I tell him, my smile stretching from ear to ear. “I think you’d be clear to go back to a full weighted routine soon.”

He answers me with a noncommittal grunt. My head cocks to the side as he loops the red tube over his foot, grimacing while he pushes through his heel.

“What?” I ask, eyes playfully narrowed. “Aren’t you excited?”

“Uh, yeah.” With a flick of his wrist, he waves away the question. “That’s great news.”

I plop onto the mattress beside him. “Okay, what’s your deal?”

“What deal?”

“That’s great news,” I mock, lowering my voice to match his gruff cadence. “Please, I can so easily tell when you’re fibbing.”

“I, uh, I may have already been doing my full weighted routine,” he sheepishly admits, shoulders tense.

“You’re joking.”

“I have to, Harper.” He pushes out a harsh breath, tensing as he flexes his ankle. “Coach has like . . . fucking eagle eyes or something. I have to pretend everything’s normal for strength and conditioning days. But I’ve been squatting and deadlifting like half my weight otherwise. I just pick up the pace when he glances over.”

“No wonder you keep tweaking your injury.”

His gaze angles toward me. “You just said that I’m doing better.”

“Yeah, but you could’ve been fully healed by now!” I shoot him a half-assed glare. “It’s been five weeks since your initial injury, and you still haven’t even hit fifty percent functional capacity.”

“I’m functional enough,” he says gruffly.

“Yeah, when you’re not limping around on the pier or numbing yourself to death with ice after a game. I’d still say you need another three weeks of solid recovery training.”

“Great, that’s still a good month before the championship game.” He carries on with his exercise, indifferent to my criticism. “I’ll be back to one hundred percent by then.”

“If you actually manage to listen to me in the meantime.”

He reaches out, the sides of his fingertips brushing against my knee. “I listen to you.”

“Partially,” I murmur, unexpected heat staining my cheeks.

He tosses me a lopsided grin. “Are you . . . do you still have time to do this with me? I know you’ve got baseball training and work and—”

“I have time. Don’t worry about that.”

“It’s just, I wouldn’t rat you out or anything.” His face falls the slightest bit, brows knit into a frown. “To the baseball guys. I’m not . . . I don’t want you to feel like I’m still blackmailing you into helping me.”

“No, I want to help you,” I reassure him. “I like helping you.”

“Okay. And I mean, now that you’re not pursuing things with Nate anymore, there’s not really a secret to tell anyway.”

My eyes squeeze shut. “Yeah, about that . . .”

“You’re not, are you?” His leg stops moving, an awkward stillness saturating the air between us. “Considering him still?”

I worry at my lower lip, unsure of the best way to respond in this situation. Luca barely knows Nate, yet he already despises him. If I spill the full details of our conversation, it might only add unnecessary fuel to the fire.

“Seriously?” He shakes his head, the question dry. “After he ditched you like that on Friday night?”

I pick at a frayed thread on my jeans, swirling the words around on my tongue. “Actually, I ditched him.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I ditched Nate for you, remember?”

“Yeah, but that was—”

“Fake? Well, not from Nate’s perspective,” I say, unsure of why I’m even defending him now. “He saw the two of us in some picture together and wasn’t too happy about it.”

“So what, he kissed someone else to get back at you?”

“I don’t really know what was going through his mind, but maybe?”

“Okay?” He bundles up the weighted cord, tossing it onto the mattress beside us. “So you do want to be with him now?”

“No, I don’t think I do.”

“You don’t think so?”

“He wasn’t too nice when he confronted me. And honestly, I didn’t like how he acted about the whole thing. But, I don’t know, he just thought I was a two-timer or something. He actually said that maybe we could try things later on. You know, if you and I don’t work out in the end.”

He leans back on his hands, lips pursed for a beat too long. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah, Harper.” He leans forward, rubbing a hand across his forehead. “You already know what I think of the guy. But if he’s who you want, then I guess that’s all I can say.”

“Oh no, that’s not—I-I don’t really think I want that anymore.”

He snorts. “That?”

“Nate,” I clarify, nudging him with my thigh.

He nudges back, a flicker of a smile finally passing his lips. “Okay.”

We finish up the rest of our cooldown stretches in relative silence. Luca’s oddly quiet, or at least quieter than usual, for the rest of the hour. Normally, I’d attempt to fill the silence with silly chitchat and small talk, but tonight, it feels more comfortable this way.

It’s probably because I already put my foot in my mouth one too many times.

Once we’re finished, I follow Luca to the front door. He lingers there, longer than usual, one hand curved around the doorknob.

“Everything okay?” I ask.

“Yeah.” He turns to face me, hand dropping back to his side. “You know my sister, Taylor?”

“Of course.”

“She was wondering if you’d want to come back for dinner soon. I wasn’t gonna ask you because, well . . .” He shakes his head, a quick bobble back and forth. “It doesn’t really matter. Taylor said she wanted to make you some risotto, our mom’s recipe.”

The idea of having dinner with Luca’s family, even if it’s only a singular member, has me feeling all sorts of giddy inside. After that disaster of a night with his friends, it’ll be nice to spend some time with a person who loves him right.

“I’d love that.”

“You’d have to pretend again,” he says, expression drawn tight. “That we’re together.”

“That’s fine. It wasn’t so hard last weekend.”

It honestly wasn’t. In fact, it was one of the easiest lies I’ve told since we started this whole charade.

“Friday night, then, after practice?”

“I can make that work. Maybe I could head over early and help her out in the kitchen?”

“I don’t know, Taylor’s kind of a freak about cooking.” His soft chuckle hits me right in the chest. “She’d probably swat your hands out of the way if you tried to help.”

“Okay, nix that plan. Do you think I could at least bring something? What kind of wine do you drink with risotto, anyway?”

“Our mom usually cooks with pinot grigio but drinks half the bottle while she’s at it.” His expression shifts to something lighter, as if he’s replaying the memory in the back of his mind. “I’m guessing that would work.”

“Perfect.”

I bounce on my heels, itching to throw my arms around him. But instead, I simply lay a soft hand on his shoulder, squeezing just once before he’s on his way out the door.