Page 7 of The Rookie's Sister

The door creaks, and I don’t need to look up to know who it is. Jeff shuffles in, shoulders hunched as if bracing for a storm. His gaze is glued to the floor, feet dragging. It’s like he’s carrying the weight of the galaxy on his shoulders, not just Emma’s lofty expectations.

For a second, I contemplate continuing my march towards the showers. I could let the water blast away the frustrations of the day, along with whatever is eating at Jeff. But something stops me—maybe it’s the slump of his shoulders, or perhaps the flashbacks of my own rookie anxieties. There’s a familiar vulnerability there, a dread of not being good enough, that takes me back to nights spent staring at the ceiling, wondering if I’d ever make it.

On an impulse, I stand, my legs covering the distance to Jeff’s locker before my mind has time to second-guess. He finally looks up, and the surprise that flashes across his face irks me. What? He thinks I’m such a jerk that I can’t be bothered to chat with a teammate? But as quick as the irritation bubbles up, it dissipates. He doesn’t know me, not beyond the locker room banter and highlight reels.

“Rough practice?” I toss out casually, leaning against the row of lockers.

He shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck like it’s some kind of nervous tick. “Yeah. Could’ve been better.” He pauses, clearly sizing me up. “These new plays are killing me, man. Feel like I’m back to Football 101.”

I arch an eyebrow, then nod. “I get it. Coach’s playbook this season is like reading Dostoevsky—in the original Russian. It’s supposed to be tough.”

A smile flickers on his lips. “You’re telling me. I thought I was gonna have a brain aneurysm just trying to get through those route trees.”

“Listen,” I say, letting a hint of the mentorship role seep into my voice, “it’s all about muscle memory. The steps, the cuts, the breaks—they all become second nature. Trust your feet.”

His eyes finally lock onto mine. “Hearing that from you is like getting tips from a football god. Seriously, man, thanks.”

My phone buzzes in my pocket, a low, insistent hum. “Anytime, rookie,” I say, slapping him on the back as I make my exit. “You’ve got this.”

As he grins, I sense the heavy cloud lifting from him. For some reason, I find that satisfying. Maybe I’m not just the egotistical superstar everyone paints me to be. Maybe there’s room for another dimension—the mentor, the elder statesman of the game.

The hot water beats down on my back, washing away the grime of practice. As I soap up, my thoughts circle back to Emma like water swirling down a drain. I wonder if she knows how hard this has been on Jeff, transitioning from college ball to the big leagues. Probably not, given how hard she’s been pushing him. Though I’ll admit, it’s admirable to see a woman so young holding her own in the manager’s role.

I think back to our argument earlier, the way her eyes flashed like green fire. She’s a spitfire, no question. Never imagined someone so petite could get all up in my face like that, but she held her ground. I chuckle under my breath, remembering her sarcastic jabs she threw right back at me without missing a beat. The girl’s got moxie and I can only imagine what it would be like to get all that fire underneath me. Or on top of me. I’m not picky about position.

She’s not like the other women I know—the groupies and gold-diggers always looking for an angle. No, there’s something more substantial about Emma. A substance I haven’t found in a long time. I scrub a hand over my face beneath the spray.

This is your teammate’s sister. Don’t make it weird.

I shut off the water and roughly towel myself dry, trying to shake off this unsettled feeling. So Emma intrigues me. So what? Doesn’t change anything. I have my goals and my reputation to maintain. No distractions. No matter how hot.

My gym bag vibrates with the intrusive hum of my phone, breaking my brief spell of introspection. I weigh the options: ignore the call and maintain the fragile peace of the moment, or take it and risk opening a Pandora’s box. My hand dives into the bag and pulls out the phone. The screen flashes: Rachel.

Fuck. My lunatic ex-girlfriend.

My thumb hovers over the decline button as if teasing fate.

Against my better judgment, I swipe to answer. “Rachel, you’re gracing me with your voice,” I say, the words laced with a sarcasm I can’t quite suppress.

Her reply is painfully cheerful. “Xavier, it’s been ages! I was hoping we could chat.”

I lean against the cold metal lockers, hearing the water droplets from my wet hair patter onto the floor. “Chat? I remember us covering a lot of ground during our last tête-à-tête.”

She exhales audibly, a tired sigh traveling down the line. “I know it got messy, Xavier, but I’m doing better now. So much better that I’d like to ask for a favor.”

A smirk touches my lips; she can’t see it, but I imagine she can sense it. “You want a favor?”

“Yes,” she responds, her voice dripping with saccharine sweetness that makes my skin itch. “I need closure. Will you meet me at a gala event next week?”

“Closure? I recall us having an entire Shakespearean act of closure.”

“Will you consider it, for old times’ sake? I’ve moved on. I’m seeing someone.”

My curiosity rears its ugly head. “So, who’s the unlucky guy?”

Rachel chuckles, and the sound is like nails on a chalkboard. “You’ll find this amusing. It’s Mark Collins.”

Hearing that name, my old rival from a competing team, is like a gut punch. “This isn’t about closure, is it? You want to parade him around me for the press to see?”

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