Page 35 of Scoring the Player
“Roger that.”
“No disappearing, Denzel,” I insist before clicking over to the other call. “Hello.”
A throat clears. “H-hello? This is, uh, Arnaz.”
Yes. “Hey, you.”
“Your cake put?—”
An ambulance speeds by, drowning out his voice. I turn up the volume on my phone to the highest level, but I still can’t hear him.
“Sorry, Blue, one sec.” As the sirens recede, loosely coiled air skitters in and out of my ear. “You were saying?”
“Your cake put my entire team and coaching staff in a trance.”
“And you?”
Besides the sound of his breathing—nothing.
I push away from the seat cushion. “That bad?”
Maybe the rose water was too much?
Can I at least get points for presentation?
He blows out a breath. “Put it like this. If it were between winning a championship and eating your cake again, I might consider dying ring-less.”
I shake my fist in the air.“Does that mean we have a date?” I ease back into the seat.
“I don’t like you, and I don’t date.”
“Hold up.” My head jerks back. “I think you might have the wrong number.”
“Nope. I don’t.”
“Why don’t you like me?”
He scoffs. “I lost my starting position for the rest of the season because of you. I was suspended for five games and ordered to see a therapist. And what’d you get?”
“A two-game suspension.”
“Right. And that was fair how? You fuck with me every game.”
“You can’t still be mad about that. It was five years ago.”
“Pfft.”
“That can’t amount to a lot of dislike. Like, 10 percent max.”
“You think I like you 90 percent?”
“More like ninety-eight.”
“Fuck off.”
“And I don’tfuckwith you,” I correct. “I attempt to talk to you, and you go ape.”
“Whatever.”
