Page 26 of Wild Catch
“It’s a free country, a’ight.”
A round of snickers.
“She’s here,” my boss finally responds, pointing at me even though there’s no way Logan can see his hand through the cubicle walls. “But shouldn’t you be in the showers?”
Thank you, I mouth to myself.
“First, I have some business with Mena.” Ugh. Why does Logan Kim sound so much closer?
The traitors start scooting out of my space, casually standing to the same side and giving room to the newcomer. Sighing, I swivel in my chair to meet him.
I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m just as stunned to see our catcher in the threshold of my cubicle. He’s still in his game uniform, smears of red sand down one knee and the opposite hip, so soaking wet that the fabric sticks to his frame like a second skin.
He’s not wearing his mask or pads, but his hair is loose and even though he’s combed it back with his fingers, a strand still escaped and is stuck to the side of his face. A face that is darkened by a perfectly manicured stubble and?—
A glare.
My eyebrows scrunch. What’s his deal?
Taking a deep breath, I try to approach this from a standpoint of maturity. “The air conditioning here is too strong and you could get sick. Let’s step outside.”
He folds his arms, two works of art between tattoos and muscles that bunch beautifully with the motion. I’m not even being a creep—the guy is objectively a perfect male specimen. At least on the outside.
“I wouldn’t get sick from this,” he grouches, offense obviously taken.
“Then let’s go out for my sake then. I’m freezing.” I grab my cardigan from the back of my chair and get up. My four colleagues have the same look on their faces, like they wish they could record this and put it on social media.
I motion at them to stay in the office like they’re puppies I’m trying to train, before following Logan out.
Then I shrug on my cardigan and take the lead. His steps tag along all the way as I meander us through the corridors and out to the cafeteria. It’s still empty safe for the kitchen staff, since the hungry players haven’t yet descended upon it. But it’s only a matter of time, so I whirl around and mimic his earlier stance.
The fact that his eyes fall on the lavender flowers knitted at the front of my cardigan annoys me. I don’t know why. It just does.
“What can I do for you, Logan?”
Huffing, he runs a massive hand through his hair. “Take down the video.”
My knee jerk reaction is to say no. Somehow I temper it down to a “what video?”
“The one about me making the catch that kept the integrity of your pretty little head, and makes me look like a complete simp.”
Iohandahjust as my colleagues did earlier, then add, “No.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Are we done here?”
“No, we are not done here.” He scoffs. Or maybe chokes a laugh. Then he shakes his head. “Fine, if you don’t have the authority to remove that video, I’ll go to your boss.”
“Absolutely not.” I offer him my best pageant smile, the one that almost got me the Miss Florida crown when I was twenty. “It’s one of the most viral videos in the account. You can escalate all the way to Cox if you want, and I’m sure not even he would want to stop the momentum our account is getting from it.”
Now he’s sincerely annoyed, and this is when I learn that there’s a difference between normal-grumpy-Logan and about-to-do-violence-Logan.
A muscle in his jaw jumps from how hard he’s gnashing his teeth, and red hot sparks fly out of his eyes. “There is a clause in my contract that prevents the team from publishing anything defamatory or that devalues my own personal image.”
“Which is why I’m not posting the video I got of you with a wedgie.”
“Mena.” He all but growls my last name, and something terrible happens—horrible, absolutely traumatizing…
