Page 28 of Play Me
A perk?My blood boils.
Jory shoves Breaker’s shoulder, knocking him off-balance. Gray starts to speak, but I jump in before he can get anything out. I certainly don’t want him piling on me in front of other people. This is embarrassing enough.
“Oh, Breaker, that’s where you’ve fucked up,” I say, smiling sweetly. “I’m no one’s perk. But if you ever demean me or reduce me toa perkagain, I won’t be your perk. But I will be your fucking problem.” I let my gaze linger on his before ripping it away.
Jory winces. I don’t give Gray the time of day. If he can rearrange his schedule, he can find his way around the complex.
“Have a good day, boys,” I say, walking out the door and not looking back.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Gray
“Shift it wide!” Coach Farrell shouts from across the pitch, watching the backs unit work on attacks for this week’s game. “When that happens, I want you to use the overlap.” He claps twice, motioning for them to regroup. “Let’s run through that again.”
A breeze ripples across the stadium, bringing with it the scent of freshly cut grass and sweat. It delivers a hit of nostalgia, of being young and playing in the spring, not far from here, with my parents in the stands. Brooks would be beside me, and girls would be yelling at us from the bleachers. After the game, we’d go home with a large Piper’s Pizza and Brooks in tow. Mom would always let him come over, as long as Hartley and I still completed our barn chores before bed.
I tuck my hands into the pockets of my hoodie and take in the energy and activity around me. Each unit runs through its job-specific tasks, honing ways to create opportunities during Saturday’s match. The rhythm of the game—the movements, the patterns—restores a beat to my life that’s been missing over the last few days.
“So what do you think, Adler?” Coach Farrell smiles. “Are you ready to get out there, or are you enjoying your break?”
“Hell, no, I’m not enjoying it. Not sure I’ve ever gone six days straight without being on the pitch since I was a kid.”
He clamps a hand on my shoulder and chuckles. “Spoken like a true rugger.”
I shrug, smiling at him.
“Can’t play you this weekend since you’re not eligible until Thursday,” he says, gesturing to Jory to wind the guys down. “I’ll have you out here for Thursday’s practice, though. We’ll throw you right into the fire.”
“Looking forward to it, Coach.”
He steps in front of me, looking me in the eyes. His intensity makes my heart pound, but I don’t look away.
“We have a great team here,” Coach says. “It’s a great group of men. I believe you can find a home here and make a significant contribution to the team’s success if you put your head down and bring your best. This can be the start of something special, if you want it bad enough.”
I lift my chin and boldly meet his gaze. “You can count on it.”
He stares at me for a moment, then two, as if he’s weighing the truth of my statement.As if he’s not sure whether he believes me.I stare right back, choosing not to clear up any misconceptions.
I see the questions in his eyes. The rumors he’s heard and the conversations that have been had behind my back sit on the tip of his tongue, poised to launch my way. I don’t blame him for being curious, and I sure as hell don’t blame him for being concerned. I haven’t played with my heart for two years—and anyone with eyeballs can tell.
But when I left Denver, I promised myself that I’d leave all the baggage that I could behind. I owe it to myself, and Caroline,to start fresh and make the most of this opportunity. For both of us.
If I open the door to questions and start trying to explain myself, then I may as well have stayed in Colorado. Because one inquiry will beget another. And all of the shit I tried to leave in Denver will be firmly lodged in my life here. I can’t do that. I can’t survive it.
I love this game, and now, more than ever,I need it—but I keep that to myself, too.
Satisfied with whatever he sees in my reaction, he pats my shoulder again and joins the forward coach at the touchline.
“So what do you think?” Jory Plath rubs a towel emblazoned with the Royals logo across his heated face as he approaches me. “Think you can work with this?”
He flashes me a wide, toothy smile that matches his personality. He’s easygoing, as far as I could tell yesterday, and welcomed me to the team with no hesitation. Tall, with a body built for the strength and agility of a top winger, he’d be imposing if it wasn’t for that damn grin.
“Abso-fucking-lutely,” I say, bumping his outstretched knuckle with mine.
Practice is adjourned on the pitch below, and players head to the locker room in small groups. Jory and I follow everyone toward the purple double doors.
