Page 1 of Play Along

Prologue

Isaiah

Three years ago

It’s the worst day of the year.

It’s the worst day of every year.

I typically spend this day traveling with my teammates on a preseason bonding trip. I should be in Cancun or Miami, sipping on a cocktail by a pool, entirely distracted by the party surrounding me.

Only this year, I’m not poolside, drunk, or distracted. I’m hiding in the women’s restroom outside of the team’s clubhouse because this season starts early, and unfortunately, the first day of baseball isn’t enough of a distraction for me.

The women’s restroom is immaculate and endlessly cleaner than ours. They’ve got a velvet couch in here and little perfume bottles on the counter. Pretty folded hand towels and dinner mints in a glass bowl. It smells infinitely better than the men’s restroom, and my only hope is that the other boys don’t realize how fucking nice it is in here because this is my secret hiding spot and has been for the past six years—ever since I got drafted to play shortstop for the Windy City Warriors.

There are no women on the staff here, so no one ever uses this bathroom other than me, when I need a moment to myself.

You could say I’m the wild one on the team. The one who is a little bit reckless and a whole lot cocky. The guy who will make himself the butt of the joke as long as it makes everyone around him smile. So, starting the season off by having a breakdown or potentially crying like a little bitch in front of my teammates wouldn’t exactly be on brand for me.

I’m a twenty-eight-year-old man and I’m not ashamed to admit that even after all these years, this day is tough for me. I was only thirteen years old when my brother, two years my senior, had to break the news that our mom’s car wrapped around a tree while she was driving home in a storm, and we’d never get to see her again.

So yeah... it’s the worst fucking day of the year.

With bouncing knees, I sit on the closed toilet lid in one of the stalls, needing to get my shit together. Needing to get back to goofy, everything-rolls-off-his-shoulders Isaiah Rhodes. The one who knows how to make everyone around him happy. The one that everyone here expects to see when I enter the clubhouse.

I like being that guy. Ninety percent of the time, I naturally am that guy. I figured out when I was young that I could make my brother laugh even when he was too stressed to smile, and I thrived off that shit. It was as if I had found my purpose in life—to make those around me happy, so I tend to keep the sad, sappy moments private.

I give myself one last moment of sadness before I leave the stall, splash a bit of water on my face at the sink, and exit the women’s restroom.

But as soon as I open the door, voices sound just outside. This part of the clubhouse is usually empty, so I pause, recognizing Dr. Fredrick’s voice. I keep myself hidden and out of sight, not wanting anyone to know that I just had myself a private cry.

“You lied on your application.”

“I didn’t lie,” I hear a woman say in retort.

Dr. Fredrick lowers his voice in an attempt to keep this conversation between only them, but I can hear him perfectly clear. “You misled, and you know it.”

“Kenny is a nickname for Kennedy.”

At that, I peek around the small partition to see Dr. Fredrick looking down at a woman, annoyance plastered on his face.

I can’t see what she looks like since her back is to me, but standing at full height, she barely makes it to Dr. Fredrick’s chin, and he’s not considered a tall man. Her hair is tied up in a thick ponytail, falling mid-back. I can’t make out the color, though I can tell it’s a different shade than an ordinary blonde or brunette. I’m just not sure what you’d classify it as.

Dr. Fredrick’s eyes flick over his surroundings, ensuring they’re alone, so I quickly duck behind the partition to listen once again.

“This is not the place for you. I suggest you decline the job offer and find a position somewhere more suitable for... someone like you.”

“Someone like me, meaning a woman?”

What the hell?

Dr. Fredrick has never been my favorite. He’s the head of our Health and Wellness Department and the lead doctor for the team. All other doctors, nutritionists, and athletic trainers report to him, and any respect I may have had for the guy flies right out the window at his insinuation.

A moment of silence lingers, as if he’s calculating the right thing to say without getting himself into trouble.

“The job I was originally hiring for is no longer needing to be filled. From what human resources tells me, I cannot rescind the offer, but I can change it. At this point, I’m only looking to hire an athletic trainer.”

“What?” she asks behind a shocked laugh. “But I’m an M.D. You’re expecting me to come on board as an athletic trainer?”

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