Page 29 of Play Me
“Have you been added to the group chat yet?” Jory asks, running the towel over his head.
“Group chat?”
“Yeah, the team chat on text messages. It’s currently called The Unemployed because Chase got pissed at Nico and Ridge for posting memes all the time. He told us we were gonna be unemployed if we didn’t take shit seriously, then he changed the group name and left it.”
I chuckle.This is gonna be fun. “Nope. I didn’t know there was a team chat, but it sounds like a good time.”
“I’ll add you,” he says, flipping off one of our hookers as we pass him. “The forwards come in early on Sundays for recovery.” He looks at me and grins. “Whatever the fuck you do, don’t get here before noon. Those motherfuckers come in, arguing about whose bruises are worse. They hog the saunas—and they’re gross. I’ve never heard a group fart as much as those fucks. Don’t stand behind any of them during yoga. You’ll thank me later.”
He gags, his face twisting into a horrified grimace.
I laugh, returning Nico’s nod as he jogs by. “This is all good information.”
“It’s the least I can do since you’re gonna be leading us to a championship this year.”
I look at him out of the corner of my eye to see if he’s joking or poking around for a reaction. Much to my surprise, there’s no humor or nosiness in his expression.Huh.
It takes a second to absorb the words he stated so matter-of-factly. “Since you’re gonna be leading us to a championship this year.”His confidence in me brings a genuine smile to my lips.
“Have you been to Nashville before?” Jory asks, tossing the towel over his shoulder.
“Oh, yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “I grew up about an hour from here in a little place called Sugar Creek. What about you?”
“I’m from the Bay Area. Played in Chicago after college, then spent a couple of years in Hartford before I got the call to come here when Renn Brewer took over.” He laughs. “I about pissed my pants when I got that call.”
“You and me both. I told my agent that I was getting pranked when I got word about the trade.”
“How’d you like playing in Denver?”
There’s a loaded question. I scratch the top of my head, trying to separate playing in Denver from my time living in Denver—two vastly different yet interconnected experiences. It’s hard, nearly impossible, really, to separate them since one affected the other so much.
“It’s a great program,” I say fairly. And leave it at that.
We pause at a gate that separates the player facilities from the practice pitch to allow a large group of our teammates to go first. I spot Breaker entering the locker room ahead of us. With a bald head the size of a bowling ball and the shoulders the width of a barn, he’s hard to miss in any crowd. Everyone seems to like him, and he has a good rapport with the Royals staff. And I want to like him too … I just can’t.
“I’ll get you added to the chat,” Jory says as we step inside the clubhouse. “See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah. See you tomorrow. Thanks for the heads-up about yoga.”
He laughs, heading across the room.
The air’s heavy with sweat and body wash. Rock music plays from a speaker propped up on a shelf above a bench. I head to my locker to get my bag and a box of tip sheets that need to be signed, but end up stopping every few feet to chat with someone new.
Each conversation is smooth and painless—much easier than I anticipated. I can’t help but get caught up in Chase’s retelling of a play from last week’s game, and I chat with Ridge about game play for a full twenty minutes. We share the theory that the game is best played primarily off instinct, and it was a relief to know that I connect with someone here on that level.
By the time Ridge and I are finished, the room has thinned out. I pull my locker open and take out my bag. The back of my hand brushes across the first-aid kit Astrid left me danglingon a hook. The contact—the reminder of yesterday—claws at my insides as our conversation replays through my head.
“The correct response would be thank you.”
“I told you to back off.”
My gaze drifts to the laminated schedule that fell to the bottom of my locker this morning, and I pick it up. It’s heavy in my palm—much heavier than a plastic-coated paper should be.
“This is my job. What part of that is difficult for you to understand? What’s not registering? I mean, God knows I’m not doing this out of the kindness of my heart.”
“That would be hard to do, considering I don’t think you have one.”
The flash of emotion through her green eyes lived with me all night. No matter how hard I try, I can’t quite get it out of my mind. It was so quick, barely noticeable, and too fast to identify. But it was present—a burst of something other than ice-queen vibes. Although I shouldn’t wonder what it was all about or what part of our sparring triggered it, I do.
