Page 6 of The Rookie's Sister

Before this could escalate any further, the head coach’s phone buzzes. “I have to take this. We’ll reconvene. Thompson has promise, but he needs work.”

I slump back into my seat, energy depleted. Getting Xavier on Jeff’s side would be a huge asset. But after that exchange, I feel like I’ve already blown any chance of cooperation. As the room empties around me, a shadow falls over my notes. I glance up. Speak of the devil.

“No hard feelings, right?” he says, grinning like he just won the lottery.

I look up, my eyes probably as icy as they feel. “You worried I’m mad or something?”

He bursts into laughter, and it’s so, I don’t know, genuine that for a split second I forget I’m annoyed. “Wow, you’ve got spunk. How ‘bout we hash this out over dinner? There’s this swanky place, The Peninsula. Could be fun.”

I shake my head, cutting him off. “Dinner? With you? Yeah, no. You’re, like, the opposite of an ally right now.”

He leans in, coming way too close for comfort. “We’re on the same side, Emma. Both in the game and, you know, in life. Maybe we should figure out how to not kill each other?”

I make a move to leave, but he grabs my wrist. The sensation is weirdly electric, like my skin just woke up. “Think about it,” he whispers, his eyes never leaving mine. “You might actually enjoy it.”

I pull away, my mind a mess of stuff I don’t even want to unpack right now. “Yeah, I’ll put that on my to-do list, right under ‘learn to juggle fire.’”

He steps back, but there’s this spark in his eyes that won’t go away. “You’re something else, Emma Thompson. Take your time, but don’t think too long.” He winks, walking backward toward the exit. “I don’t bite. Much.”

I roll my eyes so hard it’s a miracle they don’t detach. But Xavier only laughs again, shooting me an infuriatingly attractive grin before pivoting out the door, letting it swing shut behind him, leaving me alone with my frustration. And maybe, though I hate to admit it, the tiniest thrill at his attention.

Ugh. Get it together, Emma. I need to focus on Jeff. Not waste mental energy on cocky distractions.

Squaring my shoulders, I pick up my phone and stuff it in my bag, then bolt out of there. I’ve got to whip Jeff into shape, and, oh God—my phone buzzes. It’s the hospital. It’s about Dad. Everything else slips away. Family is the real battle, the one that counts.

I speed out of the parking lot, and while my focus is on the road, a corner of my brain can’t shake off how Xavier’s touch felt, or why his annoyingly confident grin is still lodged in my head. Is it attraction? Annoyance? Or a messed-up mix of both?

I don’t know. And not knowing? That’s the scary part. It’s like playing two games at once and forgetting the rules to both.

My phone buzzes again, lighting up with a second call from the hospital.

Swallowing hard, I answer. This is real life, with its actual high stakes, not some weird emotional roulette with Xavier. But as I weave through LA traffic, a nagging thought pops up: Whatever’s going on between me and Xavier, it’s far from over.

And I have no clue what I’m risking by letting it continue.

FOUR

XAVIER

Empty lockers echo back my brooding silence. It’s just me here, in this dimly lit cave of metal and grime, and I find myself poised on the locker room bench, hands steepled. The entire episode with Emma replays in my mind like some kind of indie film—fast cuts, close-ups, a soundtrack of clashing egos. Who does she even think she is?

There’s a twitch at the edge of my mouth, the unbidden ghost of a smile. I’m kind of amazed by her, not that I’d ever put that on the record. It’s refreshing—a woman with enough steel in her spine to throw my own artillery right back at me. But she’s got another thing coming if she thinks I’m just some pushover.

My phone vibrates—another ESPN alert, no doubt—but I shove it deeper into my bag. Right now, I’ve got a different opponent to think about.

With a sigh that feels heavier than my weights, I grab my towel and furiously rub my damp hair. It’s like I’m trying to physically scrape away the memory of Emma’s gaze, those emerald eyes lit by a fire I didn’t start but might be guilty of fanning.

“Come on, X,” I mutter to myself. “You’re letting some psychologist with a mouth mess with your head. You’re the one everyone looks up to here. Act the part.”

But self-pep talks can only do so much. I stretch my arms, and the pull in my muscles is less about the strain of today’s workout and more a sign of a bigger truth. I’m not as invincible as I once was. My joints snap, crackle, pop like some breakfast cereal jingle—a physical, ridiculous reminder that age, the sneakiest opponent of all, is catching up with me.

Years ago, the adrenaline of the game would’ve obliterated any discomfort. But now? It’s like my body is keeping a tally, reminding me that each hit sticks a little longer, that every sunrise practice is a more brutal wake-up call. The guy in the mirror might look like he’s still got it, but my body keeps whispering, “Not so fast, champ.”

I can’t afford to air that out loud, though. My career, hell, my entire identity is balanced on a knife’s edge, ready to tip at the slightest hint of weakness. I can practically hear the tabloids licking their chops, waiting for me to slip.

Still, I can’t shake the idea of Emma. Damn, she’s under my skin, confusing the hell out of me. Annoying? Hell yes. But intriguing? That too.

Water droplets fly as I shake my head. Enough. There’s zero room for distractions like Emma Thompson, especially not when I’m staring down one of the most important seasons of my career. She and her opinionated self will have to wait in line, taking a number behind all the other things I can’t afford to screw up.

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