Page 67 of Delay of Game
“Yeah,” I groaned. “But make sure we pay full price. No free drinks or comps, okay?”
Her perfectly manicured eyebrows lifted in surprise before a cat-like grin formed on her face. “Okay.”
She picked up a menu and gestured for me to follow. “So, does that make you a player?”
“Nope. Ball boy,” I answered tersely, just as a guy in a fitted suit flagged me down.
“Rob Grant, can I get your autograph?”
“No,” I growled.
“Ball boy, huh?” she deadpanned. “This way.”
I kept my eyes on the back of her head, not so much as glancing at the other patrons. I wanted dinner, not to sign a bunch of napkins and hats that would just end up for sale online a week later.
She led me to a table at the back of the restaurant, empty except for one.
“Rob!” Fieste stood up.
I grit my teeth as the hostess placed the menu at the seat next to his. I sat on the other side of the table. “Fieste.”
He sat back down, clearing his throat. “Thanks for giving me this opportunity to talk to you and the other captains. I’m really excited to be on the team and playing with you.”
I picked up the menu, pointedly looking it over. “I wouldn’t get too excited about playing together. Barring some catastrophic event, you’ll be riding the bench this season. Unless you plan on injuring some more defensive players. Maybe then you’ll get a shot at the field.”
Fieste blanched, searching beyond the table for someone to save him from our conversation. Unfortunately for him, Noa and Diego were nowhere to be found, and Trent and Lakeland had gotten distracted at the bar.
“I wouldn’t do anything like that?—”
“Again, anyway. Right?” I interjected with a glare.
“Right. Obviously.” Fieste pulled at his shirt as his cheeks turned red. “I am sorry about that.”
“You’ve said.” Having solidly ended any chance of conversation, I wanted dinner. Now that Noa and Diego had rightly pointed out that I couldn’t bleed the asshole out of his entire sign-on bonus, my interest in fucking around with Fieste vanished.
“So.” He pitched forward, setting his elbows on the table. “What can I do to make up for it?”
“Isn’t that why you’re taking us out to dinner?”
He snorted. “Yeah, Noa already warned me that you wanted to bankrupt me at dinner. And that they’d talked you down. So, I have a feeling that means I’m still not forgiven.”
“Probably not,” I admitted.
“What does it take?”
I groaned, reclining back and raking my hand over my face. “Fuck if I know. Quit the team?”
“Not happening,” he said faster and with more authority than I expected. Enough to earn a little respect. A very little.
“Fair.” I shrugged. “Worth a shot.”
Fieste sighed, the frown on his face surprisingly pathetic. “Well, if you come up with something reasonable, I’m game.”
A pang of guilt hollowed my stomach.
“Rob!” Noa interrupted, with Diego in tow. “Ethan, good to see you. Glad you could join us. Rob, do you mind getting Trent and Lakeland away from the bar? They’ve got practice in the morning, and they just threw back another round of shots.”
I glanced back at the wide receiver and running back. Trent had sat down while Lakeland said something that made the entire group of financiers laugh uproariously.
