Page 6 of Bad Teammate
The laughter finally died down. I glanced at my watch again.
“Anyway,” I said, “It’s getting late. I need to get going.” I stood and addressed my teammates. “See you in the morning, gents. Don’t stay out too late. And make sure he”—I pointed to the dance floor, where a group of girls were grinding on Niko—“doesn’t stay out too late, either, alright?”
My teammates belted out their goodbyes:
“Sure thing.”
“Au revoir, Reavo.”
“Have a good night, man.”
I slung my suit jacket over my shoulder and made for the exit.
“Wait, wait, wait!” the brunette shouted as she slammed the rest of her drink and scooped up her things. “You’re not seriously leaving without me, are you?”
She caught up to me outside the club, where I stood waiting for a cab.
“Hey, where are you going?” she asked, reaching for my hand.
“Home.” I took my hand away from her. “I wanna be alone tonight.”
“Really?” she teased as she glommed onto my side and cupped her hand over my bulge. “That’s funny, considering you wereallover me earlier.”
I pried her hand away from my crotch. “I’m not interested in you anymore. Can I make it any clearer?”
She guffawed. “Whatever, asshole.” Her heels clomped on the sidewalk as she marched back to the club, her middle finger stretching towards the night sky. “I’msooooosorryI’ve never heard of you. Another jock egomaniac.Ugh!”
Brakes squealed as a cab swerved over to the curb. I climbed in, gave the cabbie my address, and he stomped on the gas. I stared out the window, silently watching the lights of Dallas at night go streaking past.
An emptiness sagged in my heart. I was going home empty-handed.
Why didn’t I just take her home anyway?I wondered.So what if she’s awful? She still wanted to fuck.
I felt stupid, and worse, I didn’t even know why.
The hell’s wrong with me?
3
Katerina
An email arrived in my inbox with a musical chime, interrupting my morning tea. Abig-time client needed 33,000 words translated into Russian before the end of the day.
I pulled up my calendar and frowned. My day was already packed. But as a freelance translator, I’m not in the habit of turning down work. Reject a client just once, and they might not ever seek your services again.
The jobcouldbe done. I’d just have to work all day.
Luckily, I always do my best work under a strict deadline.
I made myself up and changed into my work clothes in a hurry—even if my officeisthe bedroom in my cramped apartment. A few minutes later, my fingers were flying across the keyboard, my eyes darting back and forth between the two glowing monitors on my desk.
Translation is easy, really; you just have to open yourself. Become a conduit—let the language flow right through you. Manypeople like to listen to music while they work, but not me. Music is its own language. Too much emotion, too overpowering—it clouds my mental state and gets in the way.
I create my own music instead. The rapid staccato of my keyboard keeps me going. When the keys stop clicking and the air becomes still, I know I need to get back to work. Make more music to fill the void.
Hours flew by when a faintbuzzing on my desk finally snapped me from my work-trance. I picked up my vibrating phone, my eyebrow skeptically arching at the caller ID: “Aleksander.”
Isn’t it late over there?I wondered. I glanced at the clock and subtracted eight hours. It was two in the morning in America.What in the world is Sasha doing at that hour?
