Page 68 of Top Shelf
My heart thudded in my chest at the immediate reply. I glanced up at the PT, but he was busy wiping down the chairs.
Me: No. You’re easy.
Me: I don’t mean that the way it sounds!
Quinn: LOL even though I AM easy for you?
Me: I just mean that living with you has been the best place besides the frat house. I don’t want to live with someone new. What if they threaten to throw me off the team if I don’t?
Quinn: I don’t mean this in a cruel way, sweetheart, but they don’t care about you that much. All that matters is that you behave for pressers, avoid public controversy on social media, show up for practice, and do your best during games. They won’t care if you want to live alone, or with Cosmo, or your parents…whatever you want.
But not him. He didn’t say him. My throat went tight.
Me: Ok.
I shoved my phone back into my pocket, even as I felt it buzzing, and I ignored it. Two texts came through. Then it began the vibrating pattern telling me he was calling. I couldn’t answer. I felt on the verge of melting down, and I didn’t want to make that worse. The organization knew I was autistic. They knew that I needed things differently than most players did.
But I didn’t ever want them to see how difficult I could be. How bad it could get.
I breathed slowly. Carefully. The buzzing stopped, and I managed something like a smile at the PT guy when he stood up and swiped his hands on his scrubs.
“You ready?”
“Mm.”
He didn’t make much conversation as he led the way out of the training room and down the hall toward the elevators. All the admin offices were on the top floor, and while elevators made me antsy, I managed to keep that in check by toying with a ball of yarn in my pocket.
I saw him glance at me a couple of times, and I knew I was probably being a little weird, but he didn’t say anything.
I took it for the reprieve it was and followed him out and down another hall that smelled like scented wall plugins. My eyes burned from it, and I fought the urge to sneeze as we passed several decorative tables lining the walls.
Above them were framed photos—mostly in black and white—of star players over the decades. Those men were nothing like me. Almost all of them were white. They looked older than I did. They were brave and personable. They weren’t autistic, probably.
They had spouses and families and hopes and dreams that didn’t give them raging anxiety because realizing those hopes and dreams came with huge change.
I turned my gaze away as he stopped in front of an office door with a gold-plated plaque that read Andrea Baker.
Without knocking, he pushed the door open, and from his profile, I could see his cheek lift into a wide grin.
“Oh my god, don’t you have anything better to do than stalk me?” a woman’s voice demanded.
My heart picked up. He was stalking her? Shit. I had to say something, right? I couldn’t just stand by and let her get harassed.
Maybe I should call Quinn back. He’d know how to handle this. He’d know how to?—
Wait. They were…they were kissing? She had her hand on his face. It was chaste but slow and sweet.
Then she saw me out of the corner of her eye and shoved him back. “Jack! What the fuck is wrong with you?”
He burst into laughter but sobered when he saw my face. “Oh, Ferris. Dude, I’m so sorry. She’s my wife. I was just joking before. She’s not mean at all.”
Andrea shoved him to the side, and I saw her properly for the first time. She had dark brown skin and long braids that reached her waist, and she was wearing a flowy yellow shirt with flowers on it that my mom would have loved.
She extended her left hand toward me, and I noticed her long, sharply pointed nails that matched the shade of her outfit, and a big ring with a very shiny diamond on her finger. Her right hand was in a bulky brace, so I adjusted my instincts and reciprocated her gesture.
“Ignore him, honey,” she told me, shoving him—Jack—aside. “He’s always like this.”
Jack gave me a sheepish grin, then stole another quick kiss before hurrying off. Andrea led me into her office and gestured toward a chair. My knees felt wobbly.
