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)
“Have you been to Nashville before?” Jory asks, tossing the towel over his shoulder.
“Oh, yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “I grew up about an hour from here in a little place called Sugar Creek. What about you?”
“I’m from the Bay Area. Played in Chicago after college, then spent a couple of years in Hartford before I got the call to come here when Renn Brewer took over.” He laughs. “I about pissed my pants when I got that call.”
“You and me both. I told my agent that I was getting pranked when I got word about the trade.”
“How’d you like playing in Denver?”
There’s a loaded question. I scratch the top of my head, trying to separate playing in Denver from my time living in Denver—two vastly different yet interconnected experiences. It’s hard, nearly impossible, really, to separate them since one affected the other so much.
“It’s a great program,” I say fairly. And leave it at that.
We pause at a gate that separates the player facilities from the practice pitch to allow a large group of our teammates to go first. I spot Breaker entering the locker room ahead of us. With a bald head the size of a bowling ball and the shoulders the width of a barn, he’s hard to miss in any crowd. Everyone seems to like him, and he has a good rapport with the Royals staff. And I want to like him too … I just can’t.
“I’ll get you added to the chat,” Jory says as we step inside the clubhouse. “See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah. See you tomorrow. Thanks for the heads-up about yoga.”
He laughs, heading across the room.
The air’s heavy with sweat and body wash. Rock music plays from a speaker propped up on a shelf above a bench. I head to my locker to get my bag and a box of tip sheets that need to be signed, but end up stopping every few feet to chat with someone new.
Each conversation is smooth and painless—much easier than I anticipated. I can’t help but get caught up in Chase’s retelling of a play from last week’s game, and I chat with Ridge about game play for a full twenty minutes. We share the theory that the game is best played primarily off instinct, and it was a relief to know that I connect with someone here on that level.
By the time Ridge and I are finished, the room has thinned out. I pull my locker open and take out my bag. The back of my hand brushes across the first-aid kit Astrid left me dangling on a hook. The contact—the reminder of yesterday—claws at my insides as our conversation replays through my head.
“The correct response would be thank you.”
“I told you to back off.”
My gaze drifts to the laminated schedule that fell to the bottom of my locker this morning, and I pick it up. It’s heavy in my palm—much heavier than a plastic-coated paper should be.
“This is my job. What part of that is difficult for you to understand? What’s not registering? I mean, God knows I’m not doing this out of the kindness of my heart.”
“That would be hard to do, considering I don’t think you have one.”
The flash of emotion through her green eyes lived with me all night. No matter how hard I try, I can’t quite get it out of my mind. It was so quick, barely noticeable, and too fast to identify. But it was present—a burst of something other than ice-queen vibes. Although I shouldn’t wonder what it was all about or what part of our sparring triggered it, I do.
I tell myself that I’m only curious because this is the first time she’s shown a human side. And I write off the heat creeping up my neck as leftover fury from her being in my space. But there’s a wobble in my stomach, a dead weight in my sternum, that has me shifting uncomfortably.
“It doesn’t matter what that was all about,” I mutter, glancing at the date on the schedule. “That’s her problem. You have bigger fish to fry, Adler.”
I set my bag on the chair in front of me and dig out my phone.
Me: Hey, I haven’t seen my bonus hit my bank account yet. Is that still happening this week?
I start to slip my phone back in my bag, but my agent surprises me with a quick response for once.
Chuck: I’m 99 percent sure. Let me check on it and get back with you.
Me: I’d appreciate it. I have bills due.
Chuck: Understood.
I force a swallow, the pressure of the moment rising so high inside me that I worry it might spill over—and I don’t know what that would look like. “No, Chuck, I don’t think you do.”
“Hey, Adler,” Ridge says, distracting me. He’s standing across the room with a bag over his shoulder. “A few of us get here an hour early on Wednesdays for extra recovery treatments. You’re welcome to join us, man.”