Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106774 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106774 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Reminder: Payment due in 3 days
I clear my throat and dismiss the message. By the time I tune back in to Hartley’s voice, his tone has changed.
“Hey, Gray, I’m sorry but I gotta go. I need to check this ewe. Bobby already took off, so it’s just me here.”
“Yeah, go. Don’t let me keep you.”
“Let me know if you can grab some free time. I’d love to see you.”
I run a hand down my face. “Yeah. For sure. Let me get my feet on the ground and I’ll be there.”
“Good deal. Talk to you later.”
“See ya.”
“Bye, Gray.”
The call ends abruptly as he rushes off to tend to his animals, and I’m left standing in my empty apartment.
There’s a hollowness in the middle of my chest that has nothing to do with hunger pains. I hate acknowledging its presence, not because of the sensation. Because of what it represents.
My life is lonely but admitting that—even to myself—makes me feel like a little bitch. How can I possibly complain about anything when I’m doing exactly what I want? I’m alive and healthy. I’m getting paid very well to play a fucking game for a living. Things could be so much worse.
Maybe I’ll never quite have it all. But maybe I don’t deserve it, either.
I force a swallow and place a hand on my rumbling stomach. Before I can decide whether to grab a shower or order a sandwich to be delivered, my phone buzzes again. I glance down, expecting to see a picture of a baby animal in Hartley’s barn. Instead, I’m accosted by a series of texts hitting the screen in rapid succession.
Unknown: An email has been sent to the address on file with a list of people, phone numbers, addresses, and other pertinent information you need going forward. Please review ASAP.
Unknown: We’ll go over this week’s schedule in full tomorrow. Here’s a breakdown for your convenience.
Unknown: Monday:
Unknown: 10:00 a.m.: meet me at the training facility for a tour and introductions
Unknown: 11:00 a.m.: appointment with strength coaches
Unknown: 12:30 – 1:30 p.m.: lunch with the other backs in the café (I’ve reviewed and approved your nutrition plan with the dietitian. A copy is in your email.)
“The fuck?” I swipe through the rest of the texts as they come through. My jaw is on the floor.
Unknown: 2:15 p.m.: meet with the equipment department regarding your uniform, etc.
Unknown: 3:15 p.m.: Communications wants to meet with you to sign tip-in sheets for an upcoming media event (more on that in the email). There’s a chance you’ll need to take these home. The turnaround is quick, so prioritize this
Unknown: 4:45 p.m.: I was able to get a quick strength session scheduled for you
Unknown: Dinner will be boxed for you to take home. I’ll show you tomorrow where to find it.
Unknown: Use your discretion for cardio
“Use my discretion for cardio?” I ask, chuckling in disbelief. “Well, damn. Thanks, Astrid, for trusting me to decide whether I need cardio or not.” Ding! Ding! Ding! Her texts pour in for each day of the week, each with a laundry list of shit for me to do. “Who does this woman think she is?”
By the time I get to Thursday, I’m heated.
If she thinks this is going to fly, she’s out of her damn mind. There’s no reason in hell that she needs to hold my hand through this process like I’ve never done it before. It’s not just unhelpful. It’s damaging. I need to meet my new team on my own terms—and I need to do it without her as a bridge between us. What’s it going to look like when I come in with a fucking chaperone?
“I didn’t come here to have my nuts removed,” I say. “If that’s what Renn thinks he’s gonna do, he can suck my cock.”
A doorbell rings through the apartment. The sound jolts me—I had no idea I had a doorbell—and adds to the tension overwhelming me. Now isn’t the time.
I contemplate grabbing a shirt, but the bell rings again. So I march to the door and yank it open, ready to tell someone to fuck off. Before I can utter a word, I spot a kid who can’t be any older than sixteen standing on the doormat with both hands full of grocery bags.
“I think you’re at the wrong place, kid,” I say, squeezing my phone in my hand so hard I think it might shatter.
“Are you Gray Adler?”
“Yeah.”
He smiles. “Good. I got halfway up the sidewalk and forgot your name and apartment number.”
The kid clearly isn’t into rugby. “I didn’t order any groceries.”
“Well, they’re yours.”
“Not possible,” I say, starting to shut the door.
He shoves his shoe in the doorway so the door can’t entirely shut and sighs as if this is killing him. “Look, I’m a man who doesn’t like to do things twice. So either take these bags or tell me where to put them, and then I’ll check my phone for information. They’re cutting off the blood supply to my fingers.”