Page 22 of Play Me
Unknown: 12:30 – 1:30 p.m.: lunch with the other backs in the café (I’ve reviewed and approved your nutrition plan with the dietitian. A copy is in your email.)
“The fuck?” I swipe through the rest of the texts as they come through. My jaw is on the floor.
Unknown: 2:15 p.m.: meet with the equipment department regarding your uniform, etc.
Unknown: 3:15 p.m.: Communications wants to meet with you to sign tip-in sheets for an upcoming media event (more on that in the email). There’s a chance you’ll need to take these home. The turnaround is quick, so prioritize this
Unknown: 4:45 p.m.: I was able to get a quick strength session scheduled for you
Unknown: Dinner will be boxed for you to take home. I’ll show you tomorrow where to find it.
Unknown: Use your discretion for cardio
“Use my discretion for cardio?” I ask, chuckling in disbelief. “Well, damn. Thanks, Astrid, for trusting me to decide whether I need cardio or not.”Ding! Ding! Ding!Her texts pour in for each day of the week, each with a laundry list of shit for me to do. “Who does this woman think she is?”
By the time I get to Thursday, I’m heated.
If she thinks this is going to fly, she’s out of her damn mind. There’s no reason in hell that she needs to hold my hand through this process like I’ve never done it before. It’s not just unhelpful.It’s damaging.I need to meet my new team on my own terms—and I need to do it without her as a bridge between us.What’s it going to look like when I come in with a fucking chaperone?
“I didn’t come here to have my nuts removed,” I say. “If that’s what Renn thinks he’s gonna do, he can suck my cock.”
A doorbell rings through the apartment. The sound jolts me—I had no idea I had a doorbell—and adds to the tension overwhelming me.Now isn’t the time.
I contemplate grabbing a shirt, but the bell rings again. So I march to the door and yank it open, ready to tell someone to fuck off. Before I can utter a word, I spot a kid who can’t be any older than sixteen standing on the doormat with both hands full of grocery bags.
“I think you’re at the wrong place, kid,” I say, squeezing my phone in my hand so hard I think it might shatter.
“Are you Gray Adler?”
“Yeah.”
He smiles. “Good. I got halfway up the sidewalk and forgot your name and apartment number.”
The kid clearly isn’t into rugby.“I didn’t order any groceries.”
“Well, they’re yours.”
“Not possible,” I say, starting to shut the door.
He shoves his shoe in the doorway so the door can’t entirely shut and sighs as if this is killing him. “Look, I’m a man who doesn’t like to do things twice. So either take these bags or tell me where to put them, and then I’ll check my phone for information. They’re cutting off the blood supply to my fingers.”
“Then take them back to your car. Otherwise, you’ll have to pick them back up. That’s doing things twice.”
He wiggles his nose to reposition the black-framed glasses on his face. “Do you think I made up your name, chose a random apartment in the city, and thought, ‘Let me go buy groceries for this person I just made up and take it to this random apartment’ where someone with that name actually lives? On what planet is that possible?” He tilts his head, lifting a brow like I’m goofy. “Be real.”
There’s nothing I can say to that.And his fingers do look a little blue.
“Here,” I say, holding my hands in front of me. “Give me the bags so you can figure out where to take this shit.”
He slips the bags onto my forearms, over the phone in my right hand, and then digs his phone out of his pocket. It only takes him a few seconds to locate the information.
“Do you know an Astrid?” he asks, looking up at me.
My jaw sets.
Of course, it’s from Astrid.
I glance briefly into the bags. It’s all things I’d typically eat: milk, meat, eggs. There’s fruit, oatmeal, and some peanut butter. The fact that it’s all things I like makes me even madder.
