Page 18 of Close Knit

There’s the threat I was expecting. The truth behind his nice-guy façade.

If I don’t fit in with the team, he’ll hurt my chances at Lyndhurst.

“Yes.” My arms drop to my sides.

“Well, there’s your answer.” He hands me a white envelope. “Your keys. Last flat in the house, top floor.”

My molars feel like they may crack as I snatch the envelope.

Even though this buddy-buddy fake family of rainbows and pep talks drives me crazy, I can’t risk everything I’ve worked for just because the coach won’t let me keep the distance I need.

“Matos doesn’t live there,” I remind Coach. Neither does half the team.

“Because I have a wife and two sons,” Matos chimes in. “You’re here alone, and so are some of the younger guys. It’ll be good for you to be among players your age.”

Alone.Thanks for the reminder, asshole.

“Until the season ends,” I agree.

Coach smiles. “Wonderful. And while you’re being so agreeable, you also have to start riding the team bus.”

In no universe would I choose the team bus over my SF90 Stradale, which Frankie spent weeks helping me personalize.

“You’re pushing it.”

Coach slaps a hand on my shoulder. “That’s what family does. You’ll get used to it.”

I doubt it.

Brooklyn

Carlyle said you’re moving?

Send me your new address. Miss you!!!

I pocket my phone,ignoring my sister. The Lion’s Lodge is just a fifteen-minute walk from Lyndhurst Stadium. A renovated brick building situated between an old arcade and a bakery that fills the streets with the scent of burnt sugar.

The aroma brings back memories of my mystery woman.

I shake them off.

Enough.

I need to get today’s task over with quickly.

Fifteen of the team’s twenty-five players live here, and I’m about to be the sixteenth. I’ll move my stuff later this week. First, I need to figure out the essentials for the season.

Two hundred and eighty-five days left.

The lobby inside is musty and damp, a stark contrast to the high ceilings and ornate cornices above the concrete floor.

To the right, a propped-open door reveals a large room where members of my team are yelling at a game on TV. The room has sectional sofas and the Lyndhurst Lion emblem on the walls, along with jerseys of retired legends. To the left, a hallway leads to the apartments.

In LA, we had a common room like this. We’d hide beers in the cushions; whoever found one had to chug it. If someone dozed off, we’d stick a dirty sock on their face. Those were harmless pranks. Hilarious at the time. I wish I had appreciated them more.

When my teammates notice me in the hallway, they quiet down, whispering among themselves.

I grit my teeth and glance at my key fob. Apartment 3F. Third floor.

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